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

by Clancy, Tom

  That was an alien concept to the young woman. And it created a subtle, unpleasant disconnect. Aideen did not even believe in her own Protestant faith. Not because she did not want to. She had never trusted anything that could not be sensed or measured. She realized that she did not know how to deal with these people. That scared her.

  The gates fed into a narrower corridor that took passengers to customs. As Aideen entered the hallway, a flash of light caused her to turn to her right, to the west. As she walked, she looked out the large, double-pane picture windows. The view was epic. The bottom half of the sun rippled as it neared the absolutely straight horizon. Aideen had never seen the sun so large or so crimson. Ahead, to the north, were sharp-edged mountains. They were blue gray and featureless except where the setting sun struck snow-topped peaks. For just a moment, the amber rays sparked and danced off one cliff, then another. It was like a distant cascade of flame.

  A bloodred sun and a mountain of fire, Aideen thought. If she were spiritual, if she were superstitious, those would be troublesome omens.

  Aideen rounded another corner and found herself in the luggage claim area. Beyond the three crowded carousels was the customs area. It was already jammed with people who had brought only carry-on luggage. Aideen looked for Battat and did not see him.

  Good, she thought. He was able to get through before the crowd hit. They would be on their way to Maun shortly.

  Aideen crossed the baggage area and entered the customs hall. She selected one of the four lines and stood in it. It was a dramatic change from the quiet of the plane and the open terminal.

  Strange languages assaulted her. The sights were both familiar and new. There was American-style clothing from suits to T-shirts as well as bright, traditional African attire. There was movement everywhere. People fanned themselves with ticket folders and open hands. Children ran tight circles around their mothers as if they were maypoles. On the other side of the customs counters, vendors sold newspaper, candy, and beverages from small pushcarts.

  As she waited, Aideen was surprised to find her confidence returning. Then she realized why. Despite the new sights and sounds, she was back in a world she understood, a world like the one she left behind.

  A world of organized chaos.

  FORTY-TWO

  Maun, Botswana Friday, 5:22 P.M.

  The streets were darkening quickly as the rattling taxi arrived in Maun. Leon Seronga was glad it was dark. Only the main road had streetlights. Neither Njo Finn nor his truck would be visible to casual passersby. Finn had said he would park on a narrow side street near the town’s movie theater. The doors did not open until six-thirty. No one would be there now. After six-thirty, Finn would have moved to the soccer field at the north end of the town. Only a few people were out there at night, kicking a ball by flashlight or lantern. There was a small picnic area where Finn could have parked and waited, unseen.

  Seronga had not wanted to go to the soccer field. If he did, others might see what he was going to do.

  The Brush Viper had the taxi driver drop them in the square at the center of town. The shops were winding down their activities. Buses were growling down the main thoroughfare. The newer green buses were carrying tourists back to Gaborone. The older ones, lopsided and rusty with patchwork paint jobs, were bringing villagers back to remote areas of the floodplain.

  The old Maun theater was across the street. Seronga saw Finn’s truck parked in the shadows.

  “Are you certain you will not need me for anything else, Eminences?” the driver asked.

  “I am certain,” Seronga said. The Brush Viper walked around to the window and paid the man. The fare was seventy pulas, the equivalent of twenty-seven American dollars. Seronga gave the driver twenty-five pulas above the amount on the meter.

  The driver looked up. He smiled widely. “Thank you, Eminence. You are very generous.”

  Despite the pressure of the moment, Leon Seronga took a long look at the man’s face. He looked at flesh baked by years of heat. At eyes bloodshot from long hours and a long, hard life. But what a magnificent face it was. The face of a man, a pillar of this nation, of their race. These were the people that the Brush Vipers were fighting for. Hardworking Botswanans.

  “You deserve this and more,” Seronga replied warmly.

  The taxi pulled away. Leon Seronga stepped onto the sidewalk and joined Pavant. The other Brush Viper was standing behind a telephone booth, away from the lights of the taxi. He was scowling as he watched for the taxi with the Spanish passenger.

  “It’s coming,” Pavant said.

  Seronga stood beside him. They looked down the two-lane road. There were a few bicyclists. They were probably local workers on their way home. There were virtually no cars left on the road. The taxi was approaching slowly. Its identification number glowed red in the plastic display on top of the vehicle.

  “I want you to do something,” Seronga said. “Cross the street in front of the taxi. Act as if you’re in a hurry, but make sure they get a good look at you in the headlights.”

  “And then?” Pavant asked.

  “Go to the alley and wait behind the truck with Finn,” Seronga said. “I’ll stay here. If the woman follows you, I’ll come in after. If I don’t think she’s coming in, I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  “Do we want a hostage or a casualty?” Pavant asked.

  The question was asked casually, but it was not a casual question. Seronga considered their options. A woman’s life was at stake. But Seronga also had to consider the future of Botswana.

  “If she enters the alley, do what it takes to silence her and get us out of here,” Seronga told him.

  “What if she decides to stay in the taxi and follow us?” Pavant asked.

  “Then we’ll wait until we’re outside of town and take them,” Seronga said. “I don’t think she’ll do that, though.”

  “Why?” Pavant asked.

  “Right now, the woman does not know that we’re aware of her,” Seronga replied. “She does not know about the truck. She has to try to find out why we’re here.”

  Pavant nodded in agreement. He waited until the taxi was a little closer. Then he walked briskly into the street. The taxi stopped as he crossed. Pavant turned toward the driver. The Brush Viper’s face was clearly illuminated by the headlights as he passed.

  Meanwhile, Seronga had stepped away from the battered old phone booth. He stood in the recessed doorway of a bakery that had closed for the night. The taxi slowed some fifty meters ahead. It pulled to the curb on the same side of the street as the movie theater. A woman got out. She spoke with the driver for a moment. Then she strolled back toward the theater. The taxi left. The woman went past the movie theater for about thirty meters. Then she turned and walked back.

  Seronga was anxious to get going. He lowered himself to his left knee. He withdrew the nine-inch hunting knife from its leather sheath on his right shin. He shielded the exposed blade with his left hand. Seronga did not want to risk it glinting in a streetlamp or passing headlights. He rose slowly and held the knife behind him. He watched to see what the woman did.

  She passed the movie theater again. This time, she looked across the street. Seronga did not care whether she saw that someone was there. What mattered was that she not see him clearly. The woman would have to come to Seronga to find out whether he was a deacon, whether he was with the other man. Fighting a defensive battle was easier than fighting an offensive one. The attacker always led with strength. Once that strength was exposed, weaknesses were also revealed. That was where the defender struck.

  The woman passed below a streetlight. This was the first time Seronga saw her face. She looked to be in her midthirties. She did not appear to be anxious. She also did not appear to have any backup. Perhaps the woman did not expect to find trouble here.

  Or maybe she’s smarter than I gave her credit for, Seronga thought.

  The woman stopped and looked at the handwritten card propped in the box-office window. She
glanced at her watch. She was acting as if she were waiting for someone to show up.

  To take her to a movie, Seronga realized.

  The woman had only seen one deacon. She must have seen both of them in the taxi. Maybe she was waiting for the second to arrive. Or maybe she was going to wait until people began arriving for the film before she went into the alley.

  In either case, Seronga did not have the time to wait for her. Sometimes even a cautious soldier had to take the offensive.

  Keeping the knife concealed behind his back, Seronga stepped from the doorway and strode toward the alley.

  FORTY-THREE

  Maun, Botswana Friday, 5:31 P.M.

  Maria Corneja had been with Interpol long enough to know when she was being set up.

  Back on the highway, Maria had heard the conversation between Paris Lebbard and the other taxi driver. When it was over, Lebbard filled her in on what the other driver had been asking. Maria knew two things then. First, that the two “deacons” were going somewhere and did not want to be followed. And second, that they would be watching her.

  When Maria reached Maun, she became even more convinced that the men had a very specific plan for her. Over the years, Maria had attended dozens of Interpol seminars on profiling. She had started when it was still a nascent science called “psychological evaluation studies.” People who committed crimes, or feared they were suspected of crimes, did not present themselves to potential captors. Not unless they were sociopaths who yearned for a confrontation. Watching them at the airport, these men did not seem to be unusually aggressive or careless, yet the deacon had made a point of staring at her as he crossed the street. That could only mean one thing. The man wanted her to see him. He wanted her to follow him. And that could only mean one thing.

  The deacons wanted her out of the way. The fact that the men did not stay hidden, watching her, suggested that they did not have a lot of time to waste. Their actions told Maria how to react. She would quickly reconnoiter and then kill time. That would force them into the open.

  Obviously, the deacon wanted to see if she would follow him down the street beside the movie theater. A truck was parked well down the road there. Perhaps it was their truck. Or perhaps they were meeting other people inside the theater. The man who had walked in front of the taxi was not Leon Seronga. That was probably the man who was watching from across the street. It was clear to her that these men did not think she was a seasoned intelligence officer.

  Maria decided to wait in front of the theater. That way, she could watch both the alley and the man in the doorway across the street. But there was a time limit. She had checked the schedule in the box office. People would be arriving soon to open the theater. The laws in Maun were strict about women loitering. If nothing happened by six o’clock, she would have to go into the alley and hope she wouldn’t be seen there. She did not want to risk being confronted by police. If the deacons tried to slip away, she would not be able to follow them.

  Fortunately, Maria did not have to wait until six o’clock.

  The man standing in the doorway suddenly came toward her. There was blood on his sleeve. As the man passed under a streetlight, she knew for certain that it was Leon Seronga.

  Seronga walked purposefully, his eyes on her. Maria could tell at once that he had a weapon. The man’s arm was held stiffly at his side instead of swinging. She did not know if it was a gun or knife.

  Maria waited by the movie theater. She pretended to pay the man no attention. If she walked toward him, he might feel challenged. That could provoke him. Perhaps he was not certain she was interested in him at all. Maybe his determined approach was a way of testing her.

  If so, Maria had a surprise for the man. It had nothing to do with the small can of pepper spray she had palmed. If necessary, using the spray would help to protect her. But it would not get Maria what she came for. She had to lead Seronga carefully and precisely to the point she wanted. He had to trust her with the location of Father Bradbury.

  Seronga slowed as a truck clattered by. It was followed by two men on bicycles. The deacon continued forward as the traffic passed.

  Maria looked toward the alley. As far as she could tell, no one was standing there. That was important. She did not want to find herself being approached from two sides. For all she knew, these people had one or more accomplices waiting in another building or down another side street.

  Seronga was about five meters away. Maria waited until he had halved that distance. Now she was going to get him to do what she wanted. She was going to get him to walk her safely into that side street.

  “I know that you did not kill the bishop,” she said.

  Seronga stopped. “Who did?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. She did not want to tell him about the photographs she took. Not yet.

  “Are you one of the Spanish soldiers?” Seronga asked.

  “No,” Maria replied.

  “Then who are you?” he asked. “Why did you follow us?”

  “I want to help you,” she stated.

  “Why?” Seronga demanded. He was growing tense, impatient.

  “Because I believe in what you’re doing,” she lied.

  Seronga hesitated. Maria did not want to say much more. Yet she needed him to be curious enough to take her with him. She needed for him to trust her.

  “I want to help, even though you tried to get me to follow your partner into that dark side street,” she said. “Even though you are holding a weapon behind your back.”

  “Are you unarmed?” he challenged.

  She opened her palm. “A purely defensive tool,” she said. She raised her arms. “Go ahead and check. I have nothing else.”

  Seronga glanced toward the alley. “All right,” he said. “Walk ahead of me, and do as you’re told.”

  Maria acknowledged with a nod. Then she walked toward the alley.

  The nod had not been for Leon Seronga.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Washington, D.C. Friday, 11:18 A.M.

  Maria Corneja had told Mike Rodgers that she would get in touch with him as soon as she knew where Leon Seronga was going. According to the map on Rodgers’s computer, Maria should have reached the city by now. He tried not to worry. She was a professional. Unfortunately, she was still a professional who was pretty much on her own.

  Since Maria had telephoned, Rodgers had conferred with McCaskey and Herbert. Lowell Coffey joined them as well. He wanted to be able to alert them to any possible infractions of international law.

  The men discussed getting help in the area from FBI, Interpol, or CIA sources. The only help available was ELINT from the CIA. The agency could provide electronic intelligence by monitoring wireless communications in the region. Rodgers asked Herbert to request the surveillance. It would be handled by listening posts at the United States embassies in Gaborone and in Cape Town, South Africa. Though these were one-person operations, it was possible that something might turn up.

  Even though Rodgers was in charge of the new HUMINT division at Op-Center, he asked Herbert to make those calls.

  “You’re better at finessing those drop-everything requests than I am,” Rodgers said.

  “It’s easy,” Herbert said. “All you have to do is grovel with a little steel in your voice.”

  “Amazing what is in Bob’s incomparable diplomatic arsenal,” Coffey remarked.

  “Lowell, that is my diplomatic arsenal,” Herbert replied. “That and threatening to go on The Dugout and name the bastards who are looking for votes and appointments instead of looking after their constituents.”

  “The Dugout?” Coffey snickered. “Stuttering Matt Christopher doesn’t let his guests get in more than three words before cutting them off.”

  “Three words are all I need,” Herbert said. “ ‘Barbara Fox, bureaucrat.’ That’s my targeted diplomatic arsenal. Plant the idea and it takes root on its own. It’s like when an attorney says something in a courtroom and the judge tells the jury to i
gnore it. Like they do, right? All people have to do is hear my calm voice before Matt starts blathering.”

  Coffey laughed.

  Rodgers had never considered himself much of a diplomat. He was a tactician and a commander. Right now, he was not feeling competent in those areas, either.

  What concerned Rodgers most was that Maria still had no support on the ground. Aideen Marley and David Battat had landed in Gaborone. But Aideen had called to inform him that they were driving to Maun. The trip would take serveral hours.

  Rodgers also feared that Aideen and Battat would end up being in the wrong place. Everyone was assuming that Leon Seronga was headed to Maun. What if he were not?

  Shortly after the meeting ended, Rodgers finally received a call from Botswana. It came through on Maria’s calling card. The caller had the correct ID number to enter the private Op-Center telephone directory. Once there, the caller was able to input Mike Rodgers’s name and receive the correct extension. Without the ID, the caller had to go through the switchboard. That enabled the electronic operator to trace the call. The system kept crank calls to a very low minimum.

  But the caller was not Maria.

  The man on the phone identified himself as Paris Lebbard. Rodgers did not recognize the name, but the accent sounded almost Egyptian.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Lebbard?” Rodgers asked. The general said nothing more. Maria’s cards had been lost or stolen. If that were the case, Rodgers did not want to let the caller know who he had reached or who she was.

  “I am your friend Maria’s driver,” Lebbard said. “In Botswana. She gave me her calling card and your number.”

  “Is Maria all right?” Rodgers demanded.

  “She nodded to me that she was,” Lebbard replied.