by Tom Clancy
"They probably can't afford psychiatric care," Hood said.
"Government subsidies are available," Mae said, still reading.
"Maybe I ought to move there," Stoll said.
"Well, I still want to try to get as much information on Dhamballa as possible," Liz said. "If we can come up with a reliable profile, we can make some intelligent guesses as to what his next moves will be. You'll need that, Paul, if this goes on for any length of time."
"I agree," Hood said.
"You know, people, there's also the whole voodoo angle to this thing," Stoll said. "I did some research on the net. It was recognized as the official religion of Benin in 1996. It also has an extremely large following in the Dominican Republic, Ghana, Haiti, Togo, and various places around the United States including New York, New Orleans, and Miami," Stoll said, as he read from the screen. "It's also widely recognized throughout South America, where there are a variety of sects like Umbanda, Quimbanda, and Candomble."
"Impressive," Liz remarked.
"Shows how parochial we are here," Hood said.
"The essence of it seems to be very similar to Catholicism, actually, except that the spiritual figures dwell in the earth instead of in Heaven," Stoll went on. "Both religions worship a supreme being and believe in a spiritual hierarchy. In Vodun the big guns are called loas, and in Catholicism they're saints. The loas and the saints each have attributes that are unique to them. Vodunists and Catholics believe in an afterlife, in the notion of resurrection, in the ritualistic consumption of flesh and blood, in the sanctity of the soul, and in- cleaT^cut forces of good and evil, which they refer to as white and black magic."
"Interesting," Rodgers said. "And it makes sense."
"What does?" Hood asked.
"It helps to explain why Catholicism took hold in nonIslamic sections of Africa back in the seventeenth century," Rodgers said. "In the absence of a national Vodun church, Africans would have found the structure of the Catholic church familiar and comforting."
"The food and wine the missionaries brought probably didn't hurt their cause," Stoll said.
"That would have gotten people to sit down and pay attention," Rodgers said. "But I've seen army recruiters at work. You need more than a buffet to get people to actually commit to something."
"So now Dhamballa wants his people back," Hood said.
"That could well be the limit of Dhamballa's ambition," Rodgers said. "The larger question is what Beaudin wants. And what his associates may have promised Dhamballa."
"What would they want from him that they can't get now?" Liz asked.
"A puppet leader," Hood said.
"Or maybe they don't want anything from him per se," Rodgers suggested. "Maybe it's destabilization of the region that they're after."
"Possibly," Hood agreed.
"There's also the chance that Dhamballa is just doing a job for pay," Viens remarked.
"The voodoo equivalent of a televangelist," Stoll said. He shook his head. "That's pretty sad."
"Yes, but I would not spend too much time looking into that idea," Rodgers said.
"Why not?" Hood asked.
"Let's assume that Beaudin or someone else is underwriting the Vodun movement," Rodgers said. "They aren't likely to have gone out and cast the role of a religious leader. Training someone and convincing others that he's the real thing is tough and time consuming. It's like gathering HUMINT. Infiltration doesn't work as well as finding an individual who is already on the inside and turning him. What's more likely is that someone spotted Burton or Dhamballa, heard him preaching, and saw an opportunity. They found a way to dovetail his beliefs into a project that was already in the works."
"If that's true, then Dhamballa may not know he's being used," Hood said.
"That's right," Rodgers said.
Hood nodded. He looked at Matt and his team. "Thanks, guys. You did a great job."
Stephen Viens smiled, J2 and Mae high-fived each other again across the room, and Matt Stoll unfolded his arms. He went back to the keyboard and began typing. He must have had another thought. Stoll was rarely in the same mental space as everyone else.
Hood turned to Liz. "Do you have some time right now?" he asked.
"Sure."
"I'd like you to stay here and see if there's any other data you can pick up on Dhamballa," Hood said. "His family background, friends, people he may have gone to school with, or stood next to on the diamond line, that sort of thing. Work up a profile."
"Sounds good," she said eagerly. Liz was obviously enjoying the new respect Hood was giving her profession.
Stephen Viens had already started clearing boxes of diskettes and cables from a chair. He stacked them on the floor and rolled the chair next to his workstation. Hood thanked Liz, then left with Rodgers. The men made their way back to Hood's office.
"Profiling Dhamballa is not going to give us the key to defusing this crisis," Rodgers pointed out.
"No," Hood agreed.
"We need to get someone close to him. We need to get his ear somehow," Rodgers said.
'Tell him that the Europeans are using him," Hood said.
"At least plant the idea, make him trust a little less and maybe move a little slower," Rodgers said.
"I agree," Hood said.
"Then we'll definitely have Aideen Marley and David Battat airborne as soon as possible," Rodgers said. "They can be in Maun by tomorrow evening, about six P. M. local time."
"Good," Hood said. "Assuming we can find Dhamballa and get our people close, what do we do about Father Bradbury?"
"I don't think we can do anything right now except try to get close to Dhamballa," Rodgers said.
"Then it's strictly intel gathering," Hood said. "No rescue attempt?"
"Except for Maria, none of the three has had much experience with kidnap situations," Rodgers said. "And she can't go into this alone. Besides, I wouldn't want her tripping over those Spanish soldiers if they have some kind of rescue in the works. Unless you think you can work that out with Edgar Kline. And with Darrell," he added.
"I don't know if Kline will give us the kind of access we'd need to coordinate our movements with the Unidad Especial del Despliegue," Hood said. "As for Darrell, let's not rev him up unless we have to."
"I'm with you on that," Rodgers said.
"I don't suppose we'll be able to count on much cooperation from Gaborone," Hood said. "They haven't seemed to show much interest so far."
"No, and I've been thinking about that," Rodgers said. "If this were just a backwater cult, the government might have taken stronger action. But they have to be very cautious turning against a ten-thousand-year-old religion. Hell, there may even be Vodunists in the Botswana ministries and in parliament. They may want to nudge Gaborone toward embracing the faith the way Rome turned to Christianity in the fourth century A. D."
"The Vatican is definitely not going to like that," Hood said.
"Not a bit, which is why they're probably going to do a full-court press to get Father Bradbury back," Rodgers said. "Or at least force the government to move against Dhamballa."
They reached Hood's office and stopped.
"Mike," Hood said thoughtfully. "We're going to need to get Maria on site, aren't we?"
Rodgers nodded. "If nothing else, Maria speaks Spanish," the general said. "If she manages to hook up with the Unidad Especial, she'll be able to converse with them. That could give us access to information we won't necessarily get through Edgar Kline."
"I wonder if I can sell that to Darrell," Hood said, glancing behind himself to make sure the FBI liaison was not listening.
"You mean, the idea that his wife is going in as a glorified translator instead of as a spy?" Rodgers said.
"Yeah," Hood said.
"I don't think he'll believe that," Rodgers told him.
"I don't think so, either," Hood said. "Okay, Mike. You get Aideen and Battat going. I'll go and talk to Darrell."
Rodgers turned and left. Paul Hood
went into his office. He sat heavily behind his desk.
Hood was tired inside and out. He also felt strange, though he did not know why. He was going to have that chat with Darrell. Then, because he needed to feel grounded, he was going to call home. He would see what kind of a day Harleigh and Alexander had. It would be refreshing to listen to problems that did not threaten to topple a government.
Home, Hood thought. Just thinking the word put tears in the back of his eyes. And he realized that was why he felt strange. This day had begun and now ended with Hood participating in disunions.
Paul Hood still thought of the house in Chevy Chase as home. It was not. He did not live there anymore. He pulled into the driveway on weekends to pick up the kids. Home was now a small apartment a half hour from Op-Center. It was a few bare walls and some furniture. Nothing personal except for a few photos of the kids and some framed letters from heads of state. Mementos from his days as mayor. Nothing with any real emotional history. Here he was, missing that terribly. At the same time, he was trying to stop Dhamballa from reclaiming his home. And he was helping to prevent Darrell McCaskey from starting a new life with ffis new wife.
When Hood was mayor of Los Angeles, when he worked in finance, he built things. He built roads, housing, corporations, portfolios, careers. He started and nurtured his own family. What the hell was he doing now?
Keeping the world safe for other families, he told himself.
Maybe. Maybe that was a party-line crock. Maybe it was true. In any case, Hood had to believe it. Not just think it but be convinced of it. Otherwise, he would not be able to pick up the phone and call Darrell McCaskey. He would not be able to ask for help that would turn up the heat in an African floodplain where McCaskey's wife was already at risk.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Maun, Botswana
Friday, 8:00 A. M.
Leon Seronga and Donald Pavant woke with the sun. By eight, they had been up for nearly three hours and were anxious to catch the bus to Maun. Seronga did not like sitting still.
He also did not enjoy impersonating a deacon. Seronga knew they could not simply assume the identities of Deacons Jones and Canon while they were here. The director of the center had certainly met them. What was more, the director had seen Seronga when he came for Father Bradbury. The man had seen him from a distance, but he still might recognize him. Seronga came up with a cover story in case they needed it. He hoped, instead, that he and Pavant could simply remain out of sight until the bus arrived.
It was not to be.
Nearly a dozen of the tourists went to the church that morning. Though the door was unlocked, no candles had been lit. No clergyman was in attendance. Shortly after eight A. M., the center's director, Tswana Ndebele, went to the deacons' residential quarters. Donald Pavant opened the door. He stepped through the doorway onto the veranda.
The creases of Ndebele's sun-baked skin deepened with surprise. "Who are you?"
"Deacon Tobias Comden of the Cathedral of All Saints," he replied. "And you are-?"
"Tswana Ndebele, the director of the center here," Ndebele replied. He was guarded, suspicious.
"I am happy to make your acquaintance," PavagJ said pleasantly. He bowed slightly. He did not want to offer his hand.
His skin was rough and calloused. They were not the hands of a missionary.
Ndebele pulled on his curly white beard. "The Cathedral of All Saints," he said. "I am not familiar with that church."
"It is a very small church in Zambia," Pavant replied. The soldier did not specify where the mythical church was located. If Ndebele decided to look it up, he would have a lot of ground to cover. "We came in during the night."
"We?" Ndebele asked.
"Deacon Withal and myself," Pavant said. The soldier stepped aside so the tour director could see into the room.
Ndebele leaned forward. He peered into the darkness.
Seronga was curled on the bed. His back was facing the door. Tucked in the waistband of his vestments was a Walther PPK with a silencer. It was there in the event that Tswana Ndebele came over to the bed for a chat and recognized him from the abduction.
Accustomed to the brilliant morning light, the tour director could not make out details inside the quarters. After a moment, he stood back.
"How did you gentlemen get here, Deacon?" Ndebele asked.
"We came by Jeep," Pavant informed him. "Deacon Withal did most of the driving. That's why he is still sleeping. We got in very late."
"I did not see a Jeep," Ndebele said. His mouth twisted suspiciously at one end.
"Deacon Jones and Deacon Canon took it shortly after we arrived," Pavant replied.
Ndebele reacted with open surprise. "They left in the dark to drive to Maun? They know better than that. There are no roads, no lights."
Lying on the bed, Seronga felt his heart speeding up. This was not going well. He hoped that he would have a clear shot at the tour director. The last thing they wanted was for him to go away unconvinced.
"The deacons said they knew the way," Pavant told him. "It was felt that two sets of deacons should go to meet the bishop.
The kidnappers might still be watching. We will take the tour bus."
Seronga waited. He listened closely. Lying there, pretending to sleep, was one of the most difficult things Seronga had ever done. There was nothing so frustrating as having one's fate in the hands of another.
After a long moment, Ndebele nodded. "Well, that is probably a good idea," he said.
Seronga relaxed. There was conviction in the tour director's voice.
"Forgive all of the questions," Ndebele went on. He sounded a little ashamed now. "We have all been as anxious as zebras since Father Bradbury was taken away. We jump at any unfamiliar noise or a change in routine."
"I understand completely," Pavant replied. "Now, was there something you needed?"
"Deacon, I came back here because some of our guests wanted to light candles," Ndebele said. "I wanted to find out if that would be all right."
"Of course," Pavant replied.
"Father Bradbury usually lit the first ones each morning," Ndebele said. "Not being Catholic, I didn't know if that's the way it has to be."
"It will be all right if they do it," Pavant replied. "Unfortunately, I cannot join them. We were instructed to remain as invisible as possible. If the kidnappers are watching, we do not want them to move against us."
"Of course not," Ndebele replied. "Though two of them did ask if they might be able to meet with you privately."
"I don't think that would be a good idea," Pavant replied.
"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 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. M
y 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.
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.
Chapter 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.