by Clancy, Tom
But Maria felt good about what she and her colleagues had done. She enjoyed being in action, in a new environment. Yet there was also something disturbing about it. A familiar loneliness. A familiar weight. The responsibility of leadership, of getting friends and adversaries to do what you needed them to do. Maria wondered the same thing she had wondered when Darrell proposed this second time. Whether it was a good idea to continue carrying that load. The challenge was invigorating, exciting. Yet when that responsibility became too much, and it was time to put it down, she did not want to be alone.
That puts you right where you were when you said yes to Darrell, she realized.
They sat there in silence for forty minutes. There were no sounds other than the blasts from the geyser. There were no more lights moving in the sky. Their eyes were accustomed to the dark, and the stars were breathtaking. It was good to have this short stretch of peace.
And then there were two lights on the horizon. They were far away, moving toward them on the ground. If Maria was correct, they were lights that signified help, not danger. A few minutes later, there was sound.
“I don’t believe it,” Aideen said. She started to rise.
“Stay down,” Battat said. “We don’t know who it is.”
“David is right,” Maria said. But she rose anyway. She brushed off the dirt of the mound as she walked slowly toward the oncoming lights. Maria did not think it was a military vehicle. They would most likely be traveling in pairs for protection. It could be a ranger on patrol for poachers. Or it could be a tour group out on a real safari, not one of those luxury trips. They might be heading for a site to watch the sunrise.
But it was none of those. It was a taxicab.
It was Paris Lebbard.
The taxi bounced forward and pulled to a stop near the geyser. Maria walked over as Lebbard rolled down the window. She could see his face in the wide glow of the headlights. He was smiling broadly.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You are very welcome.” Lebbard beamed. “This is going to cost you a great deal.”
“Doesn’t it fall under the day rate I paid you?” she asked. The Botswanan shook his head. “This is a new day, my friend.”
“True enough,” Maria replied. “I will pay, and I thank you anyway, Paris. You saved our lives.”
“Several times today,” Lebbard pointed out. It was a proud statement not a boast.
The others had walked over. Maria introduced them by first name. Lebbard invited them to get in the back.
“You smell of petrol,” Lebbard said as Maria got in beside him.
“Animal repellant,” she replied. “It’s probably a good thing I gave up smoking.”
Lebbard swung the taxi around, and Maria slumped in her seat. She was spent. Her mind immediately lost the focus to which it had clung for so many hours. She found herself feeling detached from the others. They were not the familiar faces from Interpol. And what was this place? The salt pan, even Maun, were not the well-known streets of Madrid or the outlying cities and towns and mountain roads. And she had never smelled like this.
It was all very disorienting. Maria had never worked set hours. It was always on a case-by-case basis. But maybe she needed structure more than she had ever imagined.
There will be time enough to consider all that, Maria told herself. To think about the past and the future. Right now, she needed to rest.
She did not close her eyes, but she closed her mind. And for the moment, that was enough.
SIXTY-FOUR
Gaborone, Botswana Saturday, 6:09 A.M.
Henry Genet watched the sun rise.
The Belgian diamond merchant was sitting in a comfortable armchair in his room at the Gaborone Sun Hotel and Casino on Julius Nyerere Drive. He was drinking coffee he had made in the in-room coffeemaker. His chair was angled so that he could see both the sun and the imposing National Stadium, which was located to the southeast.
There were no swarming or biting insects. There were no birds or amphibians vocalizing. Just the hum of the air conditioner, which was turned on high. This was far, far better than the hut and canvas cot he had been forced to endure in the swamp.
If only things had worked out differently.
Genet had flown back to the city in his small plane. Then he had come here to wait for a flight to London on Monday. He had left the camp harboring doubts about whether Dhamballa would be able to reach the mine for his rally. Upon reaching the hotel, he turned on the radio. There was news about a showdown on the salt pan. It claimed that the abducted Catholic priest had been rescued. The report also quoted the military commander in Gaborone as declaring that the Brush Vipers had been dispersed and their leader slain. He concluded by saying that the “minor cult leader” Dhamballa had disappeared. Officials presumed that he was in hiding and would probably attempt to flee the country. The government wanted to reassure everyone that order had been restored.
Of course they did, Genet thought.
But they were wrong.
Genet took a sip of coffee from the white ceramic cup. He contemplated the things that he and his partners would be doing over the next few months. These things would have been quicker and easier with a revolution in Botswana. A revolt that would have spread to South Africa and the rest of the African nations. A war that would have required countless weapons and ammunition provided to both sides by Albert Beaudin. A war that would have given Genet and his partners the diamond mines as well as access to countless ore-producing sites.
A war that would have given them the money to ramp up for the bigger war they hoped would come. That war would have left them poised to become one of the most powerful military-industrial consortiums in world history.
Now Beaudin and his people would have to settle for something else or find another way.
Genet was tired, but he could not go to sleep. He had to call his partners in Paris. They had to be informed, before they heard it on the news, that they had failed to put a puppet in a place of power. Genet was bracing himself to make that call. This operation was under his direct supervision. Beaudin and the others would not be pleased.
Beyond the failure to elevate Dhamballa, what bothered Genet most was what did happen here. The Brush Vipers had not assassinated the American bishop. His own people had not killed him. Theoretically, the Vatican could have shot him to rally support. But apart from being against God’s law, a move like that would be politically insane. If it were ever revealed that the Church had acted, they would be crippled for decades. Perhaps the Chinese had some idea who had done it. Beaudin would have to ask his contacts there. If they would speak with him. For they, too, lost with the failure of the Vodun movement. They were going to share in the growth of Beaudin’s industries. Many of the new factories would have been located in China. Beijing would not only have earned profits, they would have benefited from the development of new weapons.
Genet looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was nearly six-thirty. He would place the call at seven. Beaudin would just be waking up then to check the stock markets in Asia.
The diamond merchant took another swallow of coffee. He glanced at the package he had made it from. Ironically, it was a French blend.
Henry Genet’s world seemed strangely inverted. He had no idea how the Group would proceed. Yet he still knew one thing.
He knew how the matter would end.
SIXTY-FIVE
Washington, D.C. Saturday, 12:52 A.M.
After Rodgers had placed the call to Aideen, the ventilator died in Hood’s office.
“Overworked from all that musk and testosterone we’ve been pumping out,” Herbert deadpanned.
More likely it was something that hadn’t been updated when the former Cold War command center was renovated for Op-Center. Hood, Rodgers, Herbert, McCaskey, and Coffey moved into the Tank. The conference room had more space and more phones. Also, it had been renovated. Hood should have shifted there in the first place. But they had all been too caught
up in the moment to move. They grabbed sandwiches from the vending machine down the hall and talked about anything else while they waited to hear from one of the three members of the group. Some of them checked E-mail. Knowing that Aideen no longer had the cell phone made it worse. At best, they would hear nothing until the operatives reached Maun. With luck, that would happen around two-thirty.
Hood had received E-mails from his son Alexander. That was how the boy communicated when his father was tied up. They had a separate life together on-line. Different topics and a different language. Even a different relationship than they had when they were together physically. Alexander was more serious on-line, and Hood more flip. It was strange. Hood knocked out some quick responses so the boy would have them in the morning.
The first call that came through to the Tank was from Edgar Kline. Hood put the VSO officer on speakerphone. The Vatican Security officer was calling to inform them that Father Bradbury was located by a Botswana military helicopter. He was safe.
“I wanted to thank you all,” Kline said. “Especially you, Bob and Paul. I know we had some disagreements along the way, but I hope that won’t stand in the way of future cooperation.”
“Every family has its disputes,” Hood replied. “The point is, we are still family.”
Herbert made a face. He moved both of his fists up and down. He was right. But this was how the game was played, and Herbert knew it. And in the end, the results were what mattered.
“Against the odds, your people secured Powys Bradbury’s freedom,” Kline went on. “You probably saved his life.”
“Thank you, but we don’t know that Father Bradbury’s life was in danger,” Hood cautioned.
“Perhaps he would not have been murdered as the bishop was,” Kline acknowledged. “But I am informed that he had been tortured and looked deathlike. We cannot be certain he would have died without you. But we are certain, now, that he will live.”
“I’ll grant you that,” Hood said. “I’ll also pass your thanks along to the others.”
“I also want you to know that a Botswana patrol has found Leon Seronga,” Kline reported. “He is dead.”
“By whose hand?” Hood asked.
“He took his own life.”
“Are they sure?” Herbert asked.
“They’re very certain,” Kline replied. “He took a single gunshot wound to the temple. He must have known it was over. Or maybe he was trying to keep the government from interrogating and trying him.”
Hood looked at Herbert and Rodgers. Obviously, they were all thinking the same thing. Leon Seronga did that and more. He fell on his sword for Dhamballa. He had given the government of Botswana a fall guy. They could blame this on him and present his death as the end of the threat. There could be an immediate return to normalcy.
Kline had nothing else to say. He asked to speak with the three field operatives as soon as possible. The Vatican wanted to convey their thanks to them personally. He was sure Father Bradbury would like to do that as well. Hood promised to make that happen.
“What about you?” Kline asked. “Do you have any further information on the murder of Bishop Max or about Dhamballa?”
“No,” Hood replied. “Not a thing.”
There was a short silence. Hood had learned to read the silences of foreign officials. It meant that they did not believe the last thing you had said, but they were too diplomatic to tell you so.
Having made his point, Kline thanked them all again and hung up.
“Yeah, friend. We’re gonna tell you that we let Dhamballa walk off into the sunset,” Herbert muttered.
“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure we did the right thing there,” McCaskey said.
“We established our mission parameters, and we stuck to them. Our people are safe, and they’re coming home. We did the right thing,” Rodgers declared with finality.
“We also lost an opportunity to establish close ties with the Botswana government,” McCaskey pointed out. “In the end, that kind of relationship can prove extremely useful.”
“Especially if it turns out that something else is going on in that region,” Herbert said.
“Then we would have had to tell them why we were there and how we got in,” Hood reminded them.
“That would not be a basis for establishing trust,” Rodgers said.
“Trust is not a factor in this, Mike,” McCaskey said. “Need is a factor. If they need us, the rest is irrelevant.”
“We can go to the Botswanans when this done, make fresh overtures,” Hood said. He winked at McCaskey. Things had gotten tense again between the former G-man and Rodgers. Hood wanted to take the edge off. “You can do that when you go to collect Maria. Make it a belated honeymoon.”
“That would be nice,” McCaskey admitted.
“What would be nice is figuring out where the Japanese fit in all this,” Herbert said.
“We also have to get that information out somehow,” Coffey said. “Let people know that the Brush Vipers did not kill the bishop. I don’t know if I sympathize with Dhamballa and Leon Seronga. I certainly don’t like what they did. But they should not take the rap for something they did not do.”
“I agree with you one hundred percent,” Hood said. “We have to try to clear them and at the same time gather evidence about how and why the Japanese are tied to this.”
“What a time to not have a press department,” Herbert remarked. “Ann would have come up with some good ways to leak this.”
“My staff can handle whatever needs to be presented to the media,” Coffey remarked.
“Yeah, but Ann Farris had panache,” Herbert said. “She presented things to the media from ten different directions. From here, through the newspapers, on radio talk shows. It was a coordinated assault.”
“Bob, we’ll figure out how to do it,” Hood said.
“Maybe Ann will consult,” Herbert suggested.
“We’ll get it done,” Hood assured him. He looked away. He did not want to think about Ann Farris. That was both a personal and a professional issue. He had no time for it right now.
The phone beeped. Hood grabbed it. “This is Hood,” he said.
“Paul, it’s Aideen.”
“Talk to me, Aideen!” Hood said.
“We made it,” she told him. “We are in Maun.”
Hood did not realize how tense his shoulders were until they relaxed. The others in the room cheered.
“Did you hear that?” Hood asked.
“I did,” she said.
“How are you?” Hood asked. “Where are you?”
“Paris dropped us at a hotel—the Sun and Casino. There are rooms. We’re taking one.”
“Be our guest,” Hood said.
“We will be,” Aideen replied.
“Everyone come through all right?” Hood asked.
“We’re tired, but that’s it,” she said. “Hold on. Maria would like to talk to her husband.”
Hood punched off the speaker. He transferred the call to McCaskey’s station. The other men rose. They left the Tank to give McCaskey some privacy.
Coffey and Herbert left to go home. Rodgers turned to go. Hood lay an arm on his shoulder.
“You did a great job, Mike,” Hood said. “Thank you.”
“They did it,” he said, pointing to the Tank. “The people overseas.”
“You picked them, you sold them on it, you ran it,” Hood said. “You did a helluva job. This is going to work. The human intelligence team is going to knock some heads together out there.”
“I believe you’re right about that, anyway,” Rodgers replied.
“Go home,” Hood told him. “Get some rest. We’ll need it for the wrap-up tomorrow.”
Rodgers nodded and left. Hood noticed that, tired as Rodgers was, his shoulders were strong and straight, just as they must have been when he was a recruit at the age of nineteen.
As Hood was about to leave, McCaskey emerged. He looked like a kid on the night before Christmas.
“Good talk?” Hood asked.
“Yeah,” McCaskey said. “Real good. Maria sounds absolutely drained but satisfied.”
“She should be,” Hood said. “They did an amazing job over there.”
“She wants to come home as soon as possible,” McCaskey went on. “I’m going to fly to London and collect my wife.”
“Great,” Hood said. He felt a stab of sadness. He was going to go home to an empty apartment.
McCaskey’s eyes became wistful. “Listen, I’m sorry about the way I’ve been acting since this started. It hit a primo sore spot—”
“Don’t apologize,” Hood said. “I’ve got ’em, too. We all do.” He smiled. “The important thing, Darrell, is that we learned something very important.”
“What’s that?” McCaskey asked.
“How not to engage HUMINT operatives in the future,” Hood replied.
McCaskey smiled and left. Hood went back to his warm office. He took an old fan from the closet, set it on the floor beside his chair, angled it up, and turned it on. It felt good. If he shut his eyes, he could imagine he was on the beach in Carlsbad, California, where he used to go with young Harleigh and Alexander. They would stroll along the miles-long concrete seawall, occasionally going down to the beach to sit, drink, or watch for dolphins.
Where did those breezy, innocent days go? How did he end up alone? How did he land in the windowless basement of an old military building, leading a team of military officials, diplomats, and intelligence officers, trying to put out fires around the world?
You wanted to get out of politics but still do something important, he reminded himself.
Well, Paul Hood got that. He also got the pressures and demands that came with that challenge.
Yet there is also deep, deep satisfaction, he had to admit. And this moment was one of them.
But now it was time to get back to work. Before Hood left for the night, he wanted to send Emmy Feroche an E-mail to thank her for her help and tell her not to worry about Stiele, for now. Then, after a long night’s sleep, there was a conversation he had to try to have. A chat with the man who probably knew much more about this situation than he had let on: Shigeo Fujima. Hood suspected that, at best, the conversation would go something like the talk with Edgar Kline. On topic without being particularly illuminating.
