by Clancy, Tom
The other operatives were living in different parts of the world. Twenty-eight-year-old Falah Shibli was still working as a police officer in Kiryat Shmona in northern Israel. A veteran of seven years in the Sayeret Ha’Druzim—Israel’s elite Druze Reconnaissance unit—the Lebanon-born Israeli had assisted Op-Center in their Bekaa Valley operation.
Forty-nine-year-old Harold Moore divided his time between London and Tokyo. Moore was a former G-man who had been recruited by McCaskey to help Op-Center with its first crisis, finding and defusing a terrorist bomb on board the space shuttle Atlantis. Feeling underappreciated, Moore had elected to take early retirement. He was now working as a consultant to both Scotland Yard’s Specialist Operations Anti-Terrorist Branch and the Intelligence and Analysis Bureau of Japan’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
Twenty-nine-year-old Zack Bemler was based in New York. Bemler was a magna cum laude Ph.D. graduate in international security from Princeton University’s Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs. The young man had been courted by the CIA and the FBI but ended up working for World Financial Consultants, an international investment group. After rogue generals were prevented from overthrowing the legitimate government in Russia, then–political liaison Martha Mackall contacted Bemler. Bemler had dated Martha’s kid sister Christine at Princeton. Together, Martha and Bemler worked to clean out the generals’ bank accounts in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands. The twenty-five million dollars was used to fund joint intelligence ventures between Paul Hood and Sergei Orlov’s Russian Op-Center.
Rodgers knew how to contact the personnel he wanted. He had the money to hire them. But numerous questions remained. Should he mix veterans with new personnel, combine new ideas with the old? Would these people consider working for Op-Center full-time, if at all? If so, where would they be based? Would it be practical to run an entirely freelance operation? Then there were logistic issues. They could not travel as a unit in a military transport, since those aircraft were routinely watched by satellite and on the ground. Upon arriving at an air base, they might be spotted and followed. But it was also unwise to put them on a single commercial flight. If one were identified, they might all be exposed.
Rodgers also had to figure out how to run the unit. Covert operatives were more like artists than soldiers. They were creative individuals. They did not enjoy working in groups or doing things by the book.
The general wanted input from Herbert. He also wanted to talk to the spy chief about the way the team had come about. After the meeting with Hood, Mike Rodgers could think of nothing but the new team. It did not occur to him until hours later that it probably upset Herbert to be excluded from this process. As a former spy himself, Herbert had a great poker face. He might not have let his displeasure show to Rodgers. Herbert was also a team player. He would not want to dull Rodgers’s enthusiasm.
Unfortunately, Herbert had been busy for most of the day. Rodgers busied himself with the personnel files and other Op-Center business. That included daily military reports from around the world. Rodgers liked to keep track of former allies as well as potential enemies. A crisis management officer never knew when he would have to call on one group for assistance or fight the other.
The night team came on at six P.M. That left Rodgers free to concentrate on the team and possible sites for a shakedown operation. He did not want to talk to any potential agents until he had something concrete to propose to them.
It was shortly before ten P.M. when Bob Herbert finally returned Rodgers’s call.
“You were right,” Herbert said.
“Glad to hear it,” Rodgers said. “About what?”
“Something is going on in Botswana,” Herbert said.
It felt like it had been ages since Rodgers gave Herbert the newspaper. This had been a long day.
Rodgers listened as Herbert told him about the meeting with Edgar Kline. It sounded like a regional scuffle until he mentioned the name Albert Beaudin. In intelligence circles, Beaudin was known as the Musketeer.
“What does he have to do with this?” Rodgers asked.
“I’m not sure he does,” Herbert said. “But there is a connection between him and the Brush Vipers of thirty-odd years ago.”
Rodgers was concerned about that. He was also intrigued. Beaudin was a powerful but elusive figure. Since the early 1960s, the industrialist was suspected of using a worldwide network to provide arms to rebels, rogue nations, and both sides of Third World conflicts. His agents at customs checkpoints, in police stations, in shipping offices, and in factories enabled him to sidestep embargoes and arms bans. He provided arms to Central and South American rebels, to African warlords, and to Middle Eastern nations. His willingness to sell low-priced weapons to both Iran and Iraq was one of the reasons their war lasted for eight years in the 1980s. Even if he just broke even on the initial gun sales, Beaudin made money on the steady demand for ammunition and spare parts. Because rebel factions and smaller countries needed his weapons, they were never willing to help the United Nations, Interpol, or other international organizations investigate his activities. Because of Beaudin’s influence among French politicians and military officials, they were also unwilling to cooperate. Op-Center had always suspected that Beaudin was one of the financial forces behind the New Jacobins, xenophobic terrorists they had fought in Toulouse several years before.
“If Beaudin is involved, chances are we’re probably not looking at a small event,” Herbert said.
“Or a short one,” Rodgers added. “Whoever is behind this had to know the Vatican would get involved.”
“They were obviously counting on that,” Herbert said. “The Church won’t surrender its ministries. Kline is afraid that if this isn’t an isolated attack, someone may be trying to create a schism.”
“Between?”
“Catholics and people of indigenous faiths,” Herbert said. “If someone pits religion against religion, you have a hot-button issue that can blow up throughout the western world. It could fuel arms consumption all over Africa, the Middle East, Central Asia—”
“Giving Beaudin a damn near bottomless market for his product,” Rodgers said.
“Right,” Herbert said. “That’s assuming Beaudin’s involved in this, of course. There could be other people behind the abduction, international players we haven’t even considered.”
“I’m also not ready to make the leap from the abduction of Father Bradbury to a regional war,” Rodgers said. “These things take time to develop.”
“True.”
“And a short-term conflict would be chump change to a guy like Beaudin,” Rodgers said.
“That said, all the war simulations in the regions show the potential for widespread pocket conflagrations,” Herbert reminded him. “We might not see a pattern until local governments start falling. A religious war in Botswana would be the perfect trigger to start uprisings of all kinds among the disenfranchised.”
“The war sims also show the major powers being forced to contain those struggles, the way we did in Kashmir,” Rodgers noted. “Too many nations have big, blow-down-the-door weapons. None of us can afford to let those come into play.”
“The good thing is, if Beaudin is involved, he can’t afford that, either,” Herbert said. “There’s no profit for him. That’s why we have to see if there are some major pieces still missing.”
“What does Kline want to do?” Rodgers asked.
“I spoke to him again, told him there was no point trying to check up on Beaudin’s activities through France,” Herbert said. “They shut me down when I tried to link him to those nutcases in Toulouse.”
“The Church might find a few more allies than we did,” Rodgers pointed out. “There are more Roman Catholics in France than any other denomination. About ninety percent, I think.”
“You’re right, but they’re also fiercely nationalistic,” Herbert said. “Kline doesn’t want to suggest that a Frenchman committed an anti-Catholic act.”
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��Even if he may have,” Rodgers said.
“If he did, we’ll have to find out through other means,” Herbert said. “If that ever got out and we were wrong, the Vatican would have forty-five million very unhappy worshipers.”
While Herbert was speaking, Rodgers reaccessed Patricia Arroyo’s personnel database. He entered the name Ballon, Colonel Bernard Benjamin. The forty-something Colonel Ballon was a tough veteran officer with France’s Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale. The Frenchman’s anti–hate crime unit had worked with Op-Center to stop the New Jacobins from murdering Algerian and Moroccan immigrants in France. If they could bring in Ballon, maybe this would not have to become a national hot potato.
“My feeling is we’re going to have to try to kite-tail Beaudin from the other end,” Herbert went on. “We or the Vatican Security Organization should get someone close to the religion or cult or whatever it is as soon as possible. While we’re watching them, we can also look for signs of Beaudin.”
“Do you think Paul will go along with that?” Rodgers asked. “Not the idea but the haste.”
“I think so,” Herbert said. “If not for humanitarian reasons, then for simple intel. No one else is onto this yet, and it could be explosive.”
“Paul may not want to take that heat,” Rodgers said. “Not with the shit we’re getting from the CIOC and Senator Fox.”
“We may not have a choice,” Herbert replied. “It’s happening, and we’ve been asked to help. The VSO may not want the CIA or National Security Council involved. Our government doesn’t like religious wars. Minority wars. Paul’s answer has to be yes or no.”
Given that choice, Rodgers knew what Pope Paul would say. He always put people ahead of politics. But Rodgers had been in this game long enough to know that even a successful mission could hurt. Instead of proving how invaluable Op-Center was, they could piss off all the intelligence units that did not have a Vatican contact, or had missed the significance of the Washington Post article, or who just didn’t want Op-Center to succeed at any damn thing they did.
“If nothing else,” Herbert said, “getting involved with the kidnapping will let your new team hit the ground running.”
“That’s true,” Rodgers said. “Bob, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about the team—”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Herbert interrupted.
“I think there is,” Rodgers shot back. “Paul sprang the HUMINT idea on me this morning, and I ran with it.”
“That’s what you were supposed to do,” Herbert assured him.
“Not over your still-breathing body,” Rodgers said.
Herbert laughed. “Mike, I don’t have the time, temperament, or experience to run a field force,” the intelligence chief assured him. “You do. Now we’ve got more important things to deal with than protocol between coworkers who also happen to be good friends.”
Rodgers did not believe that Herbert was as indifferent as he made it sound. But Rodgers thanked him just the same.
Herbert was about to call Hood and update him when the file on Colonel Ballon opened.
“Hold on,” Rodgers said. “I just brought up the file of someone I thought might be able to help us.”
“Who?”
“Colonel Ballon,” Rodgers told him.
“Good idea,” Herbert observed. “He’s a tough nut.”
“That’s why I wanted to call on him,” Rodgers said. “Unfortunately, he’s MIA.”
“You mean Patricia lost him?” Herbert asked.
“No,” Rodgers said. He was sickened as he read the file. “I mean Ballon is gone. According to the GIGN payroll files, he stopped showing up for work nearly two years ago. There’s been no trace of him since.”
“He may have gone undercover,” Herbert suggested.
“Possibly,” Rodgers agreed.
It was also possible that Colonel Ballon ran afoul of someone he had crossed. The officer’s disappearance occurred not long after the struggle with the New Jacobins. Rodgers was not ready to make that leap, either. But he could not ignore the possibility.
“I’ll have Darrell check on this,” Rodgers said as he composed an E-mail for the former FBI agent. “Maybe he can get an update from some of his European contacts.”
Herbert said he would let Rodgers know what Hood had to say. Then he hung up. Rodgers returned to his list of operatives. He did not imagine that Hood would keep Op-Center out of this. American officials did not turn down requests from the Vatican. Not even unofficial requests. That meant that Rodgers might have to field a team sooner than he expected.
Rodgers had a sudden flashback to the moment he learned he had to take his green Striker team out to save the space shuttle Atlantis. The general had been sitting at this same desk, at about the same time, when the call came from Hood.
“Can you be ready to go at twenty-three hundred hours?”
Of course he could, he had replied. And Striker performed brilliantly that night.
They always performed brilliantly.
His eyes moistened, not with sorrow but with pride. Smiling for the first time in weeks, Rodgers went back to his files and to the job at hand.
THIRTEEN
Okavango Swamp, Botswana Wednesday, 5:58 A.M.
For the first few hours, Father Bradbury had fought temptation. He refused to lick the damp interior of his hood.
During the trek to the islet, the priest’s hair, hood, and clothing had become saturated with the swamp water. The temperature dropped during the night, causing the thicker grime to separate from the water. The remaining paste hardened, and the water dribbled down the inside of the hood.
At first, the priest refused to taste the water. But as thirst and exhaustion worked on him, his head grew light. It became difficult to focus on prayer or anything but his aching legs and his thirst. Reason was nudged aside. Finally, he used his tongue and lips to work the hood into the side of his mouth. He bit on the fabric and sucked out the water. The liquid was greasy and tart. Most of it was probably his own perspiration. It did not satisfy his thirst, but it made his body happy to swallow something.
The effort probably cost him more energy than it was worth. But he began to understand the desperation that drove shipwrecked men to drink seawater. Though it did more damage than good, the body gave you no choice. It craved something, anything. The need to survive transcended logic.
Because there was no room for Father Bradbury to sit, he leaned against the side of his prison all night. Sometimes he kept his cheek against the wall, sometimes his forehead. His tired eyes burned, and he kept them shut. He tried to imagine that he was somewhere else. His legs began to hurt, and he realized that he really did not walk enough. One had to drive on the floodplain to get anywhere. He would have to change that if he returned. Maybe he would get a bicycle instead of the motor scooter he used to go to shops in Maun. He thought about the multidenominational church in Maun and how nice it would be to talk to the priests who came in to conduct services. To discuss the Bible and faith and dogma.
For a moment, the priest smiled. Then he began to sob. He wanted to return to his parish. Thinking back on his life, he was not certain he had done everything he could to show his loyalty to God. He had never shirked a task, that he could remember, or doubted his faith. But was that enough? Were there ways in which he could have pushed himself harder?
Even in this matter, the recalling of deacon missionaries, Father Bradbury did not know what was the right thing to do. Protect the spreading of the word, or protect the bearers of the word?
Father Bradbury decided that this was not the time to contemplate his shortcomings. That would undermine whatever strength and resolve he had left. Obviously, that was the point of his being locked up here. They wanted him to make those calls to the deacon missionaries.
Now and then, the priest tried to work his hands free. Because they were behind him, he did not have much room to move in any direction. When the rope began to rub the flesh of his wris
ts raw, he stopped. He prayed in silence. The proximity of the walls prevented Father Bradbury from sinking to the floor, and he was not able to sleep. Irregular streams of perspiration tickled him with annoying regularity. After what felt like several hours, his legs began to cramp. The lack of air in the cell, inside the hood, also prevented him from relaxing.
His mind grew increasingly tired, and the anxiety returned. He could not help but think of cool water, fruit, food, sleep. The more he thought about it, the more he missed it. When he managed to pray it distracted him less and less.
By morning, when people came to get him, Father Bradbury was dizzy. He felt as if someone had stuffed cotton in his ears, in his cheeks, and behind his eyelids. He also had to be ripped from the wall of his prison. The muck from the swamp had solidified. The priest’s hair stuck to the hood. Along with his clothes, the hood stuck to the wall. As he was led outside, the priest tried to stand, but his knees felt as if someone had hammered nails into the sides. The pain was intense when they tried to support his full weight. His legs folded, and Father Bradbury had to be held up by four hands. Two held him around the waist and two gripped his upper arms. He was pulled to wherever it was they wanted him. The hint of rich sunlight and sweet air that came through the hood was a tease. The priest inhaled deeply but got only a frustrating taste of morning.
Once again, Father Bradbury was brought to a structure of some kind. Maybe it was the same one he had been in the night before. He had no way of knowing. When they arrived, he was not permitted to sit. The men who had brought him here continued to hold him. One of them grabbed his bound wrists and pulled upward. Father Bradbury felt the tug in his upper back. It reminded the priest of reading he had done about strappado, a form of torture used during the Inquisition. The victim was bound in this fashion, lifted by rope, then dropped partway with a jerk. The action would dislocate the prisoner’s shoulders.