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

by Clancy, Tom

  He bent and looked more closely at the cloth. The smallest bone was lying directly across the heart of the Dhamballa bone. That told him something significant.

  His gravest enemy was also the unlikeliest one. Until now, he would have thought that was Leon Seronga. But if the prince had not betrayed him, it had to be someone else. Genet was gone and would not be present at the mine. Yet he and his partners stood to lose a great deal if Dhamballa failed. They were going to become Botswana’s exclusive diamond merchants on the international market. They would have half of the 500 million dollars the diamonds would generate.

  Dhamballa picked up the bone with his hair. He carefully removed the strand and tossed it aside. In its present form, it was an effigy, a crude doll that could impact his own life. If he broke the bone or shut it in darkness, those afflictions would be visited upon him. After shaking the cornmeal from the cloth, Dhamballa rewrapped the bones and placed them back in the chest. In a moment, he would leave the hut to join his soldiers. First, he knelt on the mat and sought to find his center. He could not allow anger or fear to unbalance him.

  Dhamballa had not expected events to unfold as they had. But one of the fundamental teachings of Vodunism is that nothing is guaranteed. Even prophecy and magic can fail if the practitioner is careless or distracted.

  This is the situation that exists, he thought.

  He would not have the time to build a larger following. To get enough attention so that the media would be watching. To present a strong, unified force to the government. To demand that the people of Botswana not be led to the worship of new gods. To insist on the control of industry by Botswanans, not foreigners. He did not even know if the leader of his soldiers had betrayed him.

  Nothing is guaranteed, but one thing is certain, Dhamballa told himself. He had to go to the mine. He had to preach as he had planned. There was still a chance that he could rally the loyal. Perhaps he could start a fire that would bring others to their side. With luck, they could draw sufficient numbers to hold off the military in a peaceful way. If they failed, Dhamballa would be assassinated. Even if he were not shot, it was Thomas Burton who would be arrested and tried. His words would be stifled by the leaders, his cause twisted by government attorneys. It would be years before the Vodun movement would have another chance to present its case to the people.

  And for Dhamballa, there would be no other chance at all.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Washington, D.C. Friday, 12:00 P.M.

  Matt Stoll had once told Paul Hood about the electron factor. It was knowledge that Hood thought he would never use. Like so many things, however, he was wrong.

  The science lesson had been given two months ago. The senior staff had taken Hood to dinner for his birthday. It was Ann’s idea to have the postmeal celebration at a bar near Ford’s Theater. Bob Herbert, Stephen Viens, and Lowell Coffey joined them at a booth in the empty tavern. Stoll went, even though he was not a drinker. He said he liked watching other people drink.

  “Why?” Ann asked.

  “I like seeing who they become,” Stoll said.

  “That sounds a little condescending,” Ann remarked.

  “Not at all,” Stoll replied. “It’s inevitable. Everyone and everything has two natures.”

  “You mean you, too?” Herbert asked.

  “Sure.”

  “The old Superman, Clark Kent thing?” Herbert asked.

  “There’s the timid or the heroic, the benevolent or the bestial, countless yins and yangs,” Stoll said.

  “Oh yeah?” Herbert remarked. He raised his beer in the direction of the Capitol. “I know some people who are just stinking rotten all the time, thank you very much Senator Barbara Fox, you disloyal, budget-cutting Ms. Hyde.”

  “She was also a loving mother,” Stoll replied.

  “I know,” Herbert said. “We helped her find out what happened to her daughter. Remember?”

  “I remember,” Stoll said.

  “That’s something she seems to have forgotten,” Herbert said.

  “No. It’s the duality that is a fact of life,” Stoll insisted. “It’s the result of physics.”

  “Physics?” Hood asked. “Not biology?”

  “Everything comes down to physics,” Stoll told him. “I call it the ‘electron factor.’ ”

  “Is this your own theory?” Herbert asked.

  “It’s not a theory,” Stoll replied.

  “No. He said it’s a ‘fact of life,’ ” Ann said, grinning and slapping Herbert on the wrist. “Facts are not theoretical.”

  “Sorry,” Herbert replied. “All right, Matthew. Tell us about the electron factor.”

  “It’s simple,” Stoll replied. “When an electron is doing its thing, spinning around the nucleus of an atom, we don’t know it’s there. It’s just a cloud of force. But when we stop an electron to examine it, what we’re studying is no longer an electron.”

  “What is it?” Hood asked.

  “Basically it’s a ‘Hyde’ electron,” Stoll said. “An electron is defined by what it does, not what it looks like or how much it weighs. Remove it from its natural habitat, from its orbit, and it becomes a particle with nothing to do.”

  Stoll went on to say that everything in nature had that double personality. He said that people could be one thing or another at any given time. Loving or angry, awake or asleep, sober or drunk. But not both. He said he enjoyed watching the change. He wanted to see if there would ever be someone who could be two things at the same time.

  “Sure,” Herbert said. “How about annoying and boring?”

  Stoll pointed out that those were not occurring at once. It was obvious that the scientist was annoying Herbert. Therefore, Herbert was not bored. As for Stoll boring someone else, that was purely speculative. And if he were boring them, then he was not annoying them.

  Ann was sorry that she had brought the subject up. She ordered another chocolate martini. Herbert ordered another Bud.

  Hood continued to nurse his light beer. He was fascinated.

  Hood remembered the conversation now because he was that electron. The stationary electron. The one without a purpose.

  Hood stood in the small washroom at the back of his office. The door was shut. Physically, he was as isolated as he felt. He rubbed water on the nape of his neck and looked in the mirror on the small medicine cabinet. Incredibly, there was only one decision he had to make at the moment: whether to go to the local greasy spoon or the pizzeria for lunch. And Hood was not even that hungry. It was simply something to do.

  Isolated and useless, he thought, at forty-five years of age.

  Mike Rodgers was running the field operation. Bob Herbert was handling the intelligence gathering and liaising with Edgar Kline. Matt Stoll was on top of the ELINT. Liz Gordon would be refining her profile of Dhamballa and Leon Seronga.

  Even the former accountant in Hood was restless. Senator Fox had done all the budget slashing for him. He could probably stay in here the rest of the day, and everything would run just fine. Even Bugs Benet, God bless him, was on top of things. Hood’s assistant was dealing with a lot of the operational details, paperwork, and E-mails the director had been handling. Benet even found time to take care of some of the press matters Ann Farris used to handle.

  It was not just here Hood felt a sudden disconnect. Right now, his kids would be eating the lunch their mother had prepared. There was a time when Hood knew what was in those sandwiches. Or in the juice boxes. What kind of snack they were having. What brand of chips. Who they would be sitting with at school. Hell, he did not even know what their class schedules were.

  Some of that was their age. They were not in elementary school anymore. Some of it was circumstance. Hood was not at the house anymore. If he called each morning to ask what the kids were having for lunch, they would not see it as Dad connecting. They would think it was weird.

  Whether or not this was a momentary lull or the shadow of things to come, Hood had to do something. The leaner Op
-Center was still feeling its way. His divided family was still finding its own new personality. Hood had to do the same. If things were quiet here this afternoon, maybe he would drive over to the school and pick up Harleigh and Alexander. Or he could stay and watch Alexander play ball, if that was what he was doing.

  Hood was about to splash water on his eyes when the phone on the washroom wall beeped. Maybe Lowell Coffey was bored and thinking about going to lunch.

  It was Mike Rodgers.

  “Are you free?” Rodgers asked.

  “Yes,” Hood replied.

  “We may have to blow the situation in Botswana to the next level,” Rodgers replied. “We’re meeting in the Tank in two minutes.”

  “I’m on my way,” Hood said. He hung up the phone, wiped his neck, and tightened the knot of his tie. Then he opened the washroom door.

  And, gratefully, Paul Hood began to move again.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Maun, Botswana Friday, 7:00 P.M.

  The lights of Maun vanished, swallowed by the dirt kicked up by the truck. The vehicle bounced and rocked as it made its way over the dirt roads outside the city.

  The cab of the truck was dark. Maria Corneja was crowded between the driver and Leon Seronga. Pavant sat in the back of the truck. He was armed with a rifle and night-vision goggles.

  Soon Leon would contact the base camp. That was when they would reach the fork that took them north to the swamp or west toward the diamond mine. Leon needed to know where Dhamballa wanted to rendezvous. One of the Brush Vipers monitored military and police bands. Seronga was certain the Vodun leader had already heard about the bishop’s murder. Seronga also needed to assure Dhamballa that he had nothing to do with that.

  As the truck pushed through the dark, Seronga turned to the woman seated beside him.

  “Shall I introduce myself?” Seronga asked. “Or do you already know who I am?”

  “You are Leon Seronga, commander of the Brush Vipers,” the woman answered.

  “How do you know all of that?” he asked.

  “I cannot tell you,” she said.

  “You’re not being very helpful,” Seronga said.

  “It’s not my job to be helpful,” she replied. “All you need to know is that I can help.”

  “By revealing who killed the bishop,” Seronga said.

  “I have taken steps to find out who was responsible for the shooting,” Maria told him.

  “Can you tell me what kind of steps?” Seronga asked.

  “I took photographs at the airport,” the woman replied. “I’ve arranged for the pictures to be analyzed. Hopefully, my colleagues will be able to trace the identity of the people involved.”

  “Colleagues in Spain?” Seronga pressed.

  Maria did not answer.

  “But you will use that information to help us?” Seronga asked.

  “I said I would use the information to clear you,” Maria replied, “nothing more.”

  “That will help us,” Seronga pointed out.

  Maria acted as if she had not heard. “But I will do that only if you give me what I want,” she said.

  “Which is?” Seronga asked.

  “You must release your captive, Father Bradbury,” she replied.

  “What if that is not possible?” Seronga asked.

  “Everything is possible,” Maria replied.

  “But your cooperation depends upon that?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” she answered.

  “Unfortunately, I do not have the authority to promise what you say is possible,” Seronga informed her.

  “Then get it,” she said.

  “That isn’t going to be easy,” Seronga said.

  “If political upheaval were easy, everyone would do it,” Maria replied. “Without my help, your movement will die within days.”

  “You’re certain of that,” he said.

  “Yes.” Maria looked at him. “Whoever ordered the death of the bishop wants that. Assassinating an American prelate is a harsh opening move. I can only imagine what will follow if they do not get their way.”

  “And you say you have no idea who they are?” Seronga said.

  “None,” she replied.

  “Would you tell me if you did know?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  Seronga sat back. He gazed out the passenger-side window. A thin coat of pale mud made the moon a featureless blur. That was fitting. Nothing was in clear focus right now. Except the woman. She had the confidence of a cheetah. He turned back to her.

  “What do you know about our movement?” Seronga asked. Maria shrugged. “Not much.”

  “Then let me tell you,” Seronga said.

  “Why?” Maria asked.

  “You may be swayed by the righteousness of what we are doing,” he said. “I was.”

  “Mr. Seronga, I am from Madrid,” Maria said. “I have listened to the arguments of Basque separatists and monarchists from Castile, all of it very passionate and at times persuasive. But when they break the law, I don’t care what they have to say. I take them down.” She looked at him. “I’m here to secure the release of Father Bradbury. That is my righteous cause. I won’t be stopped. If you want my help, that is the price.”

  “What if cooperating with us is the only way you will survive the night?” Seronga asked. He did not like being ordered around by someone he did not yet respect.

  The woman looked ahead. A moment later, she jammed her left foot on top of the driver’s foot. The accelerator was crushed to the floor and the truck sped ahead. Njo Finn’s shouts filled the cab as he struggled to steer. At the same time, Maria thrust her long thumbnail into the small of Seronga’s throat. The nail rested just above the sternum. Seronga tried to push her back, but she used her free arm to brace herself against the driver’s shoulder. That action also pinned Njo Finn against the door. The harder Seronga pushed, the more Finn was pinned. Finn could not interfere with her and steer at the same time.

  Maria pushed harder on Seronga’s throat. He gagged. He could feel her long nail break through his flesh.

  The Brush Viper raised his hands. Maria released both men. She raised her foot from the accelerator.

  “That was madness!” yelled Finn. “I almost ran into a tree!”

  Pavant pounded on the back of the cab. “What happened? Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is under control!” Finn shouted back. He looked at Seronga. “Isn’t it?”

  Seronga nodded.

  Finn looked at Maria. She did not answer.

  “I’ll take that to be a ‘yes’ from the lady,” Finn said.

  The three sat in silence. Seronga raised his right hand slowly. He did not want to alarm her by moving quickly. He touched a finger to his throat. There was blood. He lowered his hand to his side.

  “Mr. Seronga, a killer for a familia in Spain once asked me the same question you did,” Maria said. “He posed a threat veiled as a question. Well, I am here. He is with the devil.”

  The tone of Maria’s voice was unchanged from before. This woman was as cool a warrior as Leon Seronga had ever encountered. But Seronga had been a soldier for a long time. He had nothing to prove to her or to himself. He had underestimated her. She had impulsively, foolishly put him on notice. He would not give her that kind of freedom again.

  The Brush Viper had slid his right hand into the leather pouch on the door. That was where Njo Finn kept an automatic. Seronga wanted to make certain the weapon was there. It was.

  Seronga relaxed and looked ahead. In a few minutes, he would call base camp for instructions.

  He believed that this woman might be able to help them. He did not want to jeopardize that or hurt her. But there was too much at risk to let her determine policy.

  He had already killed in the name of the faith. He had slain the two deacon missionaries.

  If necessary, he would kill again.

  FORTY-NINE

  Washington, D.C. Friday, 12:05 P.M.
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br />   “Edgar, Paul Hood just arrived,” Bob Herbert said.

  Herbert was talking into the speakerphone on the desk of the conference room, which was familiarly known as the Tank. The Tank was surrounded by walls of electronic waves that generated static to anyone trying to listen in with bugs or external dishes.

  “Good afternoon, Paul,” Kline said.

  “Hello,” Hood said. He strode behind Herbert and stopped there. Mike Rodgers, Darrell McCaskey, and Lowell Coffey were also in attendance. The men looked grave.

  There was a thin monitor built into the arm of Herbert’s wheelchair. When he was in the Tank, he jacked his computer and phone into a land line. He angled the monitor toward Hood and pointed toward the screen. There was a photograph of a small airplane. Herbert typed on the keyboard, “Just in from Maun. Assassin’s getaway plane. Tracing number now.”

  Hood patted Herbert’s shoulder.

  “Paul, I was just telling Mike and the others that the Vatican wants to move against the people who are holding Father Bradbury,” Kline said. “We are under a lot of pressure to take action.”

  “Your office or the Vatican?” Hood asked.

  “My office,” Kline replied. “Officially, the Vatican is calling for patience and a peaceful resolution to the crisis. Unofficially, they want the assassins caught, Father Bradbury released or rescued as quickly possible, and his captors apprehended and tried.”

  “I can understand why,” Hood said.

  “We found the driver who took the two ‘deacons’ to Maun,” Kline said. “His description pretty much confirmed what we suspected. They were not affiliated with Father Bradbury’s church. We are looking into the whereabouts of all the deacons who serve or have served in Botswana, though we are relatively certain these men will not be among them. It looks like your agent may have been right. They could very well be Brush Viper imposters.”

  “Could they have stolen vestments from one of the church residences?” Hood asked.