"I understand. I will tell them," Ndebele said. "They are Spanish and very devout. I will ask them not to bother you on the bus, either. Maybe I will tell them that you only speak Bantu."
"If you like." Pavant smiled. "I appreciate your help."
"I will do anything to help the church of Father Bradbury," Ndebele said. ^
The director left, and Pavant shut the door. Seronga turned
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around. The Brush Viper commander sat on the edge of the bed. Pavant walked toward him. His easy manner and benevolent expression both vanished.
"I'm proud of you," Seronga said. "You handled that situation like a true diplomat."
"How would you know?" Pavant asked.
"I did not have to shoot him," Seronga replied. He removed the gun from his waistband and put it on the bed.
Pavant shook his head. "I hate words. They do not solve things. They only put action off."
"Well, my friend, that was all we needed to do this morning," Seronga pointed out.
"So you say," Pavant said. "All those gentle words about deacons, priests, and the bishop. I made myself sick. We should bring this place down, to finish the threat completely."
"Why spend energy to pull down what will fall on its own?" Seronga asked his partner.
"Because these need to play a role," Pavant said, shaking his fists. "They have been idle while outsiders cut the heart from our people, our nation. My hands need to be active."
"They will be," Seronga said. "To build, not to destroy."
As he spoke, Seronga had gone to his backpack and removed several maps. He unfolded them on the bed. Then he sat down with Pavant to review the route that would take them from Maun back to camp. They had already arranged for one of Dhamballa's followers to meet them at the airstrip.
Donald Pavant was still angry. Seronga could see it in the harsh turn of his partner's brow, in the tense set of his mouth. He could hear it in Pavant's clipped words. Growing up on the floodplain, Seronga had seen all kinds of predators. He had watched insect-eating plants, crocodiles, lions, and hyenas. He had observed aggressors from hounds to bees. None of them had the quality that too many humans possessed: the ability to hate and for that hate to feed the predatory instinct. Even when he had been forced to kill, Seronga had always been motivated by positive forces. The desire to hunt with his father. The hope of seeing Seretse Khama become president. The need to protect his nation's borders.
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Some men are driven by dreams, while others run from their nightmares, Seronga thought.
However, Seronga did have one hope: that when the struggle was over, all Botswanans would be united. He prayed that they would be moved by something that had been missing from their lives for too many years. By something greater than animal needs.
By Dhamballa and perhaps the gods themselves.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Washington, D.C. Thursday, 5:30 P.M.
The conversation with Darrell McCaskey had been flat. Paul Hood had expected that. Darrell did not tend to react to things immediately. He took them in, and then he reacted. As the former G-man sat in his office chair, the only thing that seemed to annoy him was that Hood had come by to tell him about Maria's new objectives in Botswana.
"This is Mike's operation, isn't it?" McCaskey had asked.
"Yes," Hood said.
"Then he should be the one giving me the heads-up," McCaskey said. "I mean. Bob was the one who called her in Madrid. Now you're here. What the hell is Mike doing?"
"He's prepping Aideen Marley and David Battat," Hood said. He was not going to let McCaskey take out his frustration on Mike Rodgers. "We felt it would be okay if I talked to you. Because if you want to be by the numbers official about it, Darrell, you didn't have to be notified at all. This is Maria's gig, not yours. I'm telling you because we're friends, and I think you should be involved."
That had taken some of the steam from McCaskey's engine. He settled down a bit, thanked Hood for the information, and got back to work researching Beaudin's operations.
Hood went back to his office. He called home. The children's line was busy. One of them was probably on the computer. Most likely Alexander. Hood called the house phone. Sharon answered. His former wife said that Harleigh was online, and Alexander was at a night soccer game. She told him to phone back after ten. The kids would be up late because there was no school the next day. Teachers' conference. Hood
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said he would call. He asked Sharon how she was. She was not in a mood to talk. Hood knew her well enough to know when she was measuring her words. He suspected that she had a gentleman caller.
Well, why not? he thought. No one should be alone.
Before leaving for the evening to be alone in his own apartment, Paul Hood visited with Aideen Marley and David Battat. They were in Ron Plummer's office. The international political expert had assembled files on Botswana for them to read. Aideen was obviously a little uncomfortable being there. Plummer had replaced Aideen's former boss, Martha Mackall. Aideen had been with Martha when she was assassinated.
Bob Herbert and Lowell Coffey III were also present. Coffey had already briefed the two agents on the laws and political structure of Botswana. When Hood arrived, Bob Herbert was providing an overview of the Vatican's activities in the search for Father Bradbury. Battat and Aideen were told to watch out for the Spanish "tourists." They were told not to make contact unless the soldiers initiated such contact.
"We don't want you getting in the way of any military operation they might undertake," Herbert said.
"Or be blamed for it, either," Coffey added.
"Or have us caught in the crossfire," Battat pointed out.
Barbara Crowe arrived to give the two their passports and told them about their new identities. They were Frank and Anne Butler, a Washington, D.C.-based couple on their honeymoon. Customs officials, police, service providers such as hotel clerks and waiters, and even ordinary citizens tended to be more tolerant of newlyweds. Barbara had an engagement ring and wedding bands for them both. Annie was a homemaker, and Frank was a movie critic. Battat had wanted to be a government employee or law enforcement agent of some kind. That was closer to what he really did. He said he would feel more comfortable if fellow travelers asked about it. But those jobs might raise flags at customs. Especially if some clown in line joked with the agent, "Hey, you better just let this guy through! He carries a badge." Botswana^was proud
r
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of its stability and extremely reluctant to allow potential subversives or troublemakers into the country.
"Besides, everyone wants to know about American movie stars," Barbara pointed out. "Just say that you've met Julia Roberts, and she's very nice. Everyone goes away happy."
Except for David Battat. He had not been to a movie or rented a video in over a year. Battat said that he had hoped he could read about Botswana on the plane and then take a nap. Instead, he would be reading about Botswana and then reading People magazine and watching movies. He said he could think of nothing less exciting.
Neither could Hood. But that was irrelevant.
Hood ignored Battat's crankiness. The former CIA operative was a professional. He had accepted the assignment. Whether Battat liked it or not, he would do whatever was necessary to complete it.
Aideen was a delight, as always. She was eager to be involved in something important. At one point she half jokingly referred to herself and Battat as "paladins for religious freedom." Hood liked the name. Paladins became the code name for Rodgers's new team.
After the short but intense briefings, Battat and Aideen returned to New York. There, they caught an early evening South African Airways 747 bound for Gaborone via Johannesburg.
Hood headed to his apartment. He wanted to be in bed relatively early so he could get back to
Op-Center by six-thirty. That was when Bishop Max was due to arrive in Gaborone, Washington time. Hood walked in and opened the window. The night air was refreshing. Then he opened a can of pasta with tiny meatballs and dumped it on a plate. While it warmed in the microwave, Hood went to the small desk near the window. He decided not to call the kids. Instead, Hood booted his laptop and made a web-cam call to the house. That was one of the advantages of working with Matt Stoll. Op-Center's computer genius could wire anyone to anyone else.
The line was free, and twelve-year-old Alexander got on. Hood was surprised to see the first signs of what looked like
facial hair. Maybe the lighting was throwing shadows under his nose and along his cheekbones. Or it could be dirt. Alexander was still wearing his soccer clothes. Whatever it was, Hood suddenly missed him very much. He wanted to hug the boy's neck, which did not look as scrawny as he remembered it.
They talked about the soccer game the school had played. Alexander's team had won. He had not scored any goals, but he had assisted in a key one. Sometimes, Hood said, that was all you got. They talked about school and about a new video game system that Alexander had seen. But they did not talk about girls. Maybe the boy had not grown up that much.
Not yet.
As usual, fourteen-year-old Harleigh was much less talkative than her younger brother. She seemed to have put on a little weight over the last week or so, which was good. Her long blond hair had a few fashionable green streaks in it. That was her mother's doing, no doubt. The idea of streaking it might have come from Harleigh, but not the color. Green was also the opposite of the blood red that other kids were using to streak their hair. But Harleigh had trouble making eye contact. Liz had said that this was typical of people who had been in hostage situations. By not looking at the people who were holding them prisoner, hostages somehow felt invisible and safe. Because the trauma leaves victims feeling impotent and extremely vulnerable, they avoid eye contact even after being rescued.
Hood and his daughter exchanged a few terse words of greeting.
"Hey, I like your hair, hon," Hood said at last.
"You do?" she asked, without looking up.
"Very much," he replied.
"Mom thought green was a good color," said the girl.
"What do you think?" Hood asked.
"It reminds me of that hill I used to roll down when I was little," Harleigh replied.
"The one near Grandma's house in Silver Spring?" Hood said. • "*
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Harleigh nodded.
"I remember that place," Hood said. "Didn't we put Alexander in a cardboard box and roll him down that hill?"
"I think so," Harleigh said.
"You did!" Alexander yelled from offscreen. "You traumatized me. I can't go in small places now!"
"Alex, shut up," Harleigh snapped. "You didn't even know what a trauma was before Ms. Gordon told you."
"That doesn't mean I couldn't be traumatized, Harleigh," Alexander barked back.
"All right, kids. Stop," Hood said. He did not want his daughter pursuing this topic of conversation. "Harl, what's been happening at school?"
Harleigh returned to her one-word answers.
Classes were "fine." Other kids were "okay." Even the novel she was reading for English class had a one-word title: Emma. But Hood was grateful his daughter was talking at all. In the first few weeks after the UN crisis, Harleigh had barely said a word.
"How about Mom?" Hood asked. "How is she?" He was not sure he wanted to know. But Liz Gordon had told him it was important the kids think he was still interested in the family members.
"She's okay," Harleigh said.
The teenager was hiding something. He could hear the catch in her voice. Probably the fact that she had a boyfriend. But that was all right. If that were the case, it would come out when it was time.
Hood told Harleigh to take care of herself. He kissed his index finger and blew it toward her. He made certain he put his fingertip close to the tiny fiber-optic lens. That got a flash of eye contact from the girl and a tiny smile. The master screen returned as Harleigh clicked off.
Sharon had not come to the computer talk. Nor had Hood asked to chat with his estranged wife. They had gone from being emotionally and intellectually involved in whatever the other was doing to a state of aggressive neutrality. It felt strange and unnatural. What's more, Hood still had to deal
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with the guilt of not spending time with his kids. Only now it had been formalized. It was not, "Daddy is working late." It was, "Daddy does not live at home anymore."
Over the past few weeks, there was one thing Hood had learned. He could not dwell on what went wrong with his marriage. That only caused him to beat himself up. He had to look ahead.
Hood propped his two pillows against the headboard. He set the alarm clock for five A.M. and took off his shoes. Then he lay on the bed with his pasta. A thirteen-inch TV sat on the night table to his right. He punched it on. The Discovery Channel was showing a documentary about mummies. The Discovery Channel was always showing documentaries about mummies. Hood did not bother to change the channel. At least these were Aztec mummies instead of Egyptian mummies.
Hood was exhausted. After a few minutes, his eyes began to close. He put his half-eaten meal on the night table and turned off the TV. His brain told him to get out of his clothes. To turn off the light. To shut the window in case it got too cold.
His body did not want to move.
His body won, and in a few minutes, Hood was asleep.
TWENTY-NINE
Maun, Botswana Friday, 8:21 AM.
The bus to Maun would be arriving in a little over a half hour. Seronga and Pavant found peanut butter and bread in the pantry. They made two sandwiches each to eat on the veranda. They also made four more sandwiches to take with them. Once they met up with trucker Njo Finn and left with the bishop, they would not be able to stop for food.
At least they would not be returning to the belly of the swamp. Seronga was happy about that. Even though they were a few months short of the fall malaria season, the Okavango region was ground zero for the disease. When he had left for the tourist center, Seronga saw what he thought were a few of the distinctive, humpbacked anopheles mosquitoes that carried the disease. He was not so much concerned about his own health or that of the Brush Vipers. He was worried about Dhamballa. They could not afford for him to become ill and seem infirm.
The men would be joining Dhamballa at the southern edge of the swamp. They would hold a rally at the diamond mine where Dhamballa once worked. Then they would move their camp to Ghanzi, a town just north of the Kalahari Desert. The prisoners would remain behind on the island with a unit to watch over them. There, they would be relatively safe from detection. The tree cover protected them from the air. From the water, motorboats would be heard and a defense mounted. The Brush Vipers were prepared to take their own lives rather than be captured. There would be nothing to connect those men to Dhamballa. No uniforms. No documents. No religious artifacts.
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And no witnesses. If the island were taken, Seronga had left orders that the priests would have to die. Like the killing of the deacons, that was one of the difficult choices a military leader had to make. Unlike Dhamballa, he could not afford to adhere exclusively to white magic.
Dhamballa had selected Ghanzi because it was close to the airstrip Albert Beaudin's people used when they visited Botswana. Supplies could be brought directly to them. If necessary, personnel could also be quickly evacuated. The town of
400 was where the priest would establish the first hounfour, a Vodun temple. There would be no permanent physical structure in Ghanzi. A portable poteau-mitan would be erected, the pole through which the gods and spirits communicate with the worshipers. Symbolically, however, the pole-raising ceremony would be significant. It was to be the first public Vodun sanctification of Afri
can ground in hundreds of years. If local houngans and mambos, male and female priests, had done their job, thousands of faithful would be in attendance. With that one act, Dhamballa would become a figure of national stature. A day after thousands had proclaimed their devotion, tens or even hundreds of thousands would be emboldened to join the movement.
As the men were finishing their sandwiches, two young men walked over to the veranda. They were dressed in wide khaki shorts, short-sleeve shirts, sunglasses, and Nikes. They wore big, white, Australian outback shade hats. They looked like any members of a photo safari.
They were not.
One man stood a little over six feet tall. The other was a much broader five foot seven or eight. They both had extremely swarthy skin and ramrod-straight posture. They stopped just short of the veranda. The taller man removed his hat and took a step forward.
"Buenas dias, didconos," he said in a strong voice.
Seronga smiled pleasantly at the speaker. He assumed the man had said "good morning," but he was not sure. When you weren't sure what had been said, it was best not to* answer.
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"^Puedo hablar con usted por un momenta, didconos honrados?" the man went on.
Seronga had no choice now but to answer. "I'm sorry, my friend, but I do not understand," the Brush Viper informed him. "Do you happen to speak English or Setswana?"
The shorter man stepped forward and removed his own hat. "I speak English," he replied in a gentler voice. "I'm very sorry. We thought missionaries were required to speak many languages."
"It is helpful but not a requirement," Seronga replied. He had no idea if what he had just said were true. But he said it with authority. For most people, that was usually enough to make something true.
"I see," the man said. "May we speak with you both for a moment, honored deacons?"
"For a moment, yes," Seronga told him. "We have to prepare for our trip to Maun."
"That is what we wish to talk to you about," the man told him.
The small of Seronga's back began to tingle.
"I am Sergeant Vicente Diamante, and this is Captain Antonio Abreo," the man went on.
Captain Abreo bowed slightly at the mention of his name.
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 09 - Mission of Honor Page 19
