by Tom Clancy
"Exactly," Liz said. "But you may find that out relatively soon. At some point early in any ministry of this type, the miraculous must occur. Moses and the plagues, Jesus healing the sick. Burton knows he has to produce something significant. Barring divine intervention, he is probably counting on a ground swell of support. By taking on the Church, he may be hoping to fire some long-dormant sense of religious zeal in his fellow Botswanans."
Hood was silent for a long moment. "Well," he said, "this has been quite an education."
"For all of us," Liz said.
Hood nodded. "You all did a very good night's work. Thank you."
Hood turned to go. Liz called after him. He looked back.
"Just remember something, Paul," she said. "These people are proud of their heritage. And as the Jews in the Diaspora and the early Christians under Rome showed, the Vodunists have one great advantage."
"What's that?" Hood asked.
Liz replied, "Faith can never be defeated by threats and force of arms. It has to be beaten by a better idea."
"Or from within," Hood said. "That's a much easier thing to do."
Chapter Thirty-One
Maun, Botswana
Friday, 1:30 P. M.
She had given up smoking cigarettes for her husband. She had agreed to relocate to the United States for him. She loved him, and she was willing to give up a great deal to be with him. But Maria Corneja knew now that she could not give this up for him.
The field.
The woman had flown from Madrid to Gaborone. Within ten minutes of landing, she and a handful of fellow tourists were headed to Maun on board a two-prop British plane, a Saab 340. The trip took a half hour. The single landing strip was located outside of Maun. It was nestled in a flat region of short grasses. There was a modern, three-story control tower as well as a separate wooden tower on the opposite side of the runway. This was for sharpshooters. The marksman watched for herds as well as solitary animals that might wander onto the tarmac. If a herd were spotted, the man in the tower would fire until they left. Usually it took just one shot for the lead animal to turn and run. The rest of the animals invariably followed. If it were a single animal, it could be sick or old. If it did not leave, the sentry would shoot it with a tranquilizer dart. Then it was netted by a tractor that was parked behind the tower. The animal was hauled off the strip and taken to a local refuge for evaluation.
Tourists who came to the region by air were not bused to the heart of Maun.
They had to take individual taxis. The Ministry of Works, Transport, and Communications had given this route to the family that owned the land on which the airstrip was built. The family decided to open a taxi service. This gave the drivers ten minutes or so to talk to the new arrivals. They took pictures of the foreigners as they stepped off the plane, sold them mementos, and offered their services as personal tour guides.
Maria had intended to rent a car at the airport. Instead, she ended up with a driver named Paris Lebbard. The airport taxi stand was located near the airport car rental. Lebbard had stepped in front of Maria as she approached. He introduced himself with a smile and a bow. He said that he would charge her less than a rental car. He also told her that he would guarantee the safety of a woman traveling alone and could point out things that the tour books missed.
Maria looked him over. Paris was a very dark-skinned wisp of a man in his early twenties. He was dressed in a white shortsleeve shirt, tan shorts, and sandals. He wore a black kerchief and sunglasses. He spoke impeccable English, French, and Spanish. Maria had an idea. She decided to give him a short trial. She asked him to drive her to Maun. If she were impressed, she said, she would hire him. If not, he would have to drive her back to the car rental, free of charge.
He accepted the offer enthusiastically.
"You will hire me," he said. "I will make this trip even more special for you. Plus," he added, "I can take pictures with you in them. They will not just be scenery and animals."
On the way to town, Maria learned that Lebbard had been educated by missionaries. He was a boyhood friend of the grandson of the man who owned the taxi company. She was a good judge of character. He seemed sincere, hardworking, and honest. When they neared Maun Center, Maria told him that she would be delighted to take him up on his offer to drive her around.
Paris was elated. He told her that the minimum engagement was five hours for a total of fifty American dollars. She accepted. He told her that for an extra fifty dollars, she could have him for the entire following day. She said she would think about it.
The shiny black cab reached the busy heart of the village. It pulled up to a crowded taxi stand on the side of the market.
Maria got out. So did Lebbard, who stood beside the cab on his cell phone. The young man was eager to relay the news to his dispatcher, that he would be staying with his fare for the rest of the day, possibly for the following day.
While he called, the driver reassured the woman that she would learn a lot and that she would also be very safe with him.
"No wild animals and no wild Botswana men will bother you," the young man had insisted with a back and forth wave of his index finger. He told her he carried a.38 in the glove compartment and a rifle in the trunk.
While Lebbard made his call, Maria was eager to get to work. She began walking around the market. The plane carrying the American bishop was not due for another ninety minutes. Right now, she wanted to familiarize herself with the area. See for herself what the police presence was like. What the streets were like. Whether it would be easy to get in and out of here in a cab or on foot. Whether back doors were locked and how many children there were. Where they played, in case there was gunfire. Whether the kids had bicycles. Whether there were adult bicycles in case she needed one.
Maria Corneja moved with the litheness and power of a natural athlete. She stood slightly under five foot seven inches but seemed taller because of the way she held her head. It was set high and confident, her square jaw forward ever so slightly. She looked like a Spanish princess surveying her realm. Her brown eyes were clear and steady, her nose straight, and her thin-lipped mouth set. Her long brown hair hung down her dark neck. Wearing jeans, a black blouse, and a green windbreaker, Maria did not stand out among the more exotically dressed mix of international tourists.
The bazaar was a tourist attraction, with renovated cobble streets and stalls made of handmade fabrics. It was nicknamed Old Maun, and it was set in the heart of a small but modern city. It was approximately 300 feet wide and 700 or 800 feet long. Hundreds of years ago, this had probably been a caravan stop on a trade route. A convenient stop on an L-shaped bend in the Thamalakane River. The town simply grew up around it and remained. Today, the bazaar was crowded with visitors and locals, including a few roaming beggars. They reminded Maria of the homeless people she had seen in places like Calcutta and Mexico City. They were not just poor and unkempt, they looked sickly and broken. She put money in the paper bag of one woman who passed.
The market was also a curious blend of the traditional and the new. It offered everything from fresh produce to the latest electronic devices. There were wooden stands with canvas canopies. They stood on asphalt covered with windblown sand and dead grasses. All around was the quiet clack of laptop computers. The merchants used these to keep track of their sales and inventory. Beyond the market were new, white brick apartments and municipal offices. Stuck between them, in alleys and odd angles, were shanties with warped, discolored shingles. Several of them had small satellite dishes on their sloping roofs. She could see the glow of color televisions through the windows.
At the far end of the market was a building that served as a multidenominational chapel. It was empty. Maria wondered if that had anything to do with the attack on the church at the tourist center. On the opposite end of the market was a bar. It appeared relatively empty as well. Perhaps it was too early in the day for Maunans to drink.
The town was very different from Madrid. The air was diff
erent. It was clean and dry. The sunshine felt different, too. There was no smog to filter the heat and brilliance. Maria loved it. She simultaneously felt free and plugged in. And plugged in was not simply a figure of speech. There was electricity under her skin. It was in her fingertips, along the back of her neck, at the peaks of her high cheekbones. Some of the excitement came from being part of a great intelligence machine like Op-Center. But most of it arose from something else. It was something the woman had enjoyed ever since she was four years old, the day when she was seated on her first horse.
Risk.
In her thirty-eight years, Maria had learned that two things made any moment particularly sweet. One was sharing it alone and uninterrupted with your loved one. That had happened once far too many times in her life. With Darrell McCaskey it had happened repeatedly, becoming richer and more textured each time. Maria had grown tired of once. That was why she had made the commitment to her new husband.
But the other most precious times in life were knowing that any given moment could be your last. Every part of one's being came to life in those instants. You could feel it begin to build days before. A sharpening of the senses, memory, intellect, every physical and emotional resource at your command. When Bob Herbert called her the day before, Maria made a decision. She decided there was no reason she could not have a life with both intimacy and danger. Darrell would have to learn to live with that. After all, he was asking her to do the same.
Maybe, she thought, the risk was what made those other moments so wonderful. Once before they went after a militant group of Basque Separatists, a fellow Interpol agent had said to her, "Tonight we make love, for tomorrow we may die." She was not in love with the man, but it was a very intense night.
Even if nothing exciting happened in Maun, Maria was thrilled to be here. Just being involved in a major, evolving operation was exciting. Before leaving Spain, Maria had pulled the Interpol files on Botswana. The history and leadership profiles brought her up to speed on the nation. In a region beset by ethnic squabbles and hungry warlords, Botswana was the self-declared "Gem of Africa." It was a stable, democratic region of economic growth. Pertinent to her own trip, she noticed the laws against women loitering. They were extremely strict. According to a file from the Botswana Directorate on Corruption and Economic Crime, murder, drug dealing, and prostitution were zero-tolerance crimes. Firstoffense prostitution carried a mandatory prison sentence of not less than two years. Nor were the laws against prostitution and drugs based solely on the local ethic. Eighteen percent of the nation's adult population was infected with HIV. The laws were an effort to keep the disease from spreading.
Maria did not intend to linger anywhere. She had been sent to keep a surreptitious eye on the American bishop. But before leaving Spain, she had been informed that a dozen elite soldiers with the Grupo del Cuartel General, Unidad Especial del Despliegue had come over on the previous flight. The Spanish military could look out for the well-being of the bishop. Maria had another goal. She wanted to try to find Father Bradbury. When David Battat and Aideen Marley arrived, she wanted to have leads.
When Paris was finished with his call, he came after Maria. He found her standing beside a stand that sold handmade scarves. He asked Maria what she would like to do.
"The first thing I want to do is go to my hotel and wash up," she informed him.
"Naturally," Paris said. "I assume you are staying at the Maun Oasis."
"Yes."
"I knew that," he told her, snapping his fingers as if to say that had been an easy one. "Otherwise, you would be staying at the tourist center. In which case you would have been part of a group. So that I may make plans, what is the second thing you wish to do?" he asked.
She looked at him and smiled. He smiled back. But only for a moment. Her request both surprised and confused him.
"I'd like to go back to the airport," she said.
Chapter Thirty-Two
South African Airways Flight 7003
Friday, 12:03 P. M.
Something was bothering David Battat, something he could not pin down nor put from his mind.
Battat and Aideen Marley were sitting in the wide, soft seats of the 747 first-class cabin. They were in the first row along the port-side bulkhead. Battat had the aisle seat. There was nothing in front of them but upholstered wall. There was nothing to Battat's right but a permanent serving table. The flight deck was located one flight up. They did not fly first class for comfort. It was a matter of security. They were reviewing sensitive material on their laptops. The seats were far apart in first class, and Battat kept the back upright. It would be difficult for anyone to see what they were doing. He kept the overhead fan turned off so he would hear if anyone approached from behind. If they did, he had to make sure he closed the file in a slow, natural manner. He would not want to alarm a flight attendant with sudden, suspicious gestures.
The jet engines created a pleasant white noise, making it easy for Battat to concentrate on the files. He went through the 400 pages of material in just over three hours. Battat reviewed the thin case files on Father Bradbury, Edgar Kline, and the Madrid Accords. He was surprised. Not so much by the pact between the Vatican and Spain but by the fact that other nations had not joined. Or perhaps, wisely, the Church did not want other allies. That might tweak the temptation to build an international coalition. The world community might not react favorably to the prospect of another Crusade.
Battat had also studied the general intelligence files on Botswana as well as the personal dossiers of Maria Corneja and Aideen Marley. Maria was a top Interpol agent. She had been involved in everything from surveillance to infiltration. He was glad to have her on the team. As for Aideen, he was encouraged to read that she had not been trained in field work. Aideen had been thrust into it by the assassination of Martha Mackall, when the two of them were on a mission in Madrid. The fact that a junior political officer had helped to stop a civil war showed that she had superb instincts.
When Battat was finished with the other files, he came to a diskette labeled IP. That stood for Information Pool. It was provided to everyone who was working on a particular operation. The file consisted of odds and ends that might pertain to the operation at hand. It was updated twice a day and was filled with names, places, and institutions that had been mentioned in passing or details that had come up in background searches. Opening the file one looked for possible connections, coincidences, or anomalies to follow up on. Often, a seemingly incidental fact might trigger a link in the operative's mindsomething others had missed.
That had happened when Battat opened the IP file. And now it was bothering him. What frustrated the former Central Intelligence Agency operative was that he knew what was wrong. He just did not know why.
Unlike most of the personnel who worked at Op-Center, David Battat had not spent most of his career on a military base, at an embassy, in a think tank, or in a government office. He had been "on his feet," as it was euphemistically referred to. He had been in the field. Battat knew people. And, more importantly, he knew how people of different nationalities behaved.
Before being stationed in the CIA's New York field office, Battat had been all over the world. He had spent time in Afghanistan, Venezuela, Laos, and Russia. Because he spoke Russian, he had even done a four-month tour in Antarctica, from the beginning of spring to the middle of the summer. There, he was responsible for listening to Russianr^spies who were posing as scientists. The Russians were there to make sure the Americans were not using their own research stations as military bases.
Battat liked the Antarctic work because, ironically, it was the most comfortable place he had ever worked. It was called a "listening post," but it was really a "listening folding chair." Several radio consoles hung from hooks on the cinder block walls. He sat on a metal bridge chair beside the speakers. He spent his days listening for any activity picked up by wireless microphones planted in the ice. Mostly, he just heard the wind. When the Russians did come out, he
heard a lot of complaining. That was the real value of the experience. Battat realized that for the Russians, working in the South Pole was a somewhat humiliating experience. Antarctica was perceived as a surrogate Siberia. It was exile, a comedown. Men did not do their best work when they felt like prisoners.
Human nature was fundamentally the same around the world. But Battat was aware of how cultural influences affected people. They brought out different traits in different people to different degrees. And he was bothered by something he had read in Paul Hood's log. It was a passing reference, something that seemed to be off of everyone else's radar.
The entry had to do with Shigeo Fujima, the Japanese Foreign Affairs intelligence chief. As far as the Japanese knew, they had a mole in the CIA. She was Tamara Simsbury, a young American. She had been approached by the Japanese Defense Intelligence Office, Jouhou Honbu, when she was a student at the University of Tokyo Graduate School of Law and Politics. They offered her a rich yearly stipend if she would go to work for the CIA and slip a DIO liaison officer information they requested pertaining to China and Korea. The woman went to the CIA and told them what the DIO wanted. The Agency hired her. Unknown to her Japanese colleagues, she told her superiors everything Tokyo wanted to know. If Fujima needed information from American intelligence, he could have gotten it without asking Paul Hood.
No, Battat thought. Shigeo Fujima had contacted Op-Center for another reason. The Japanese intelligence officer had wanted to establish a personal connection with Paul Hood.
Something he could use later. That meant Fujima knew more than he was saying. He knew there would be a "later," something that would involve Japan.
And, most likely, the United States.