by Clancy, Tom
“Is he in good health?” Hood asked.
“Apparently,” Kline informed him.
“You don’t sound happy about that,” Hood said.
“Father Bradbury asked about the parish,” Kline went on. “Unfortunately, Deacon Jones told the father that a temporary replacement was en route from Washington.”
“Shit,” Hood said. Obviously, African missionaries had lost some of their tactical finesse since the closing years of the nineteenth century. In those days, the Boers used clergymen to spy on the location, movements, and strength of Zulu tribesmen. “That means Dhamballa knows about the bishop.”
“One has to assume that,” Kline agreed.
“Are you going to change his travel plans?” Hood asked.
“That would signal to Dhamballa that we are afraid of him,” Kline said. “We will not do that.”
“What about your Spanish undercover operatives? Have they arrived?” Hood asked.
“Yes,” Kline replied. “The leader of the group is going to introduce himself to the deacons in the morning. Several members will shadow them and watch out for the bishop.”
“That’s good,” Hood replied.
“I’d also like to send over our E-file of photographs that were taken at Dhamballa’s rallies,” Kline said. “There are some photographs of Dhamballa. We thought you might be able to search your own databases on the off chance that there’s a match.”
Hood agreed to do so. Then he told Kline about Richard Stiele’s activities. Kline did not seem overly concerned. Nor would he be. Whatever the Europeans were doing probably would not impact the Vatican directly. Hood told Kline that he would keep him abreast of any new developments, whether or not they appeared to relate to Father Bradbury.
“Just to keep you fully in the loop,” Hood said pointedly.
Kline thanked him.
A few minutes after Kline hung up, Hood’s computer beeped. He had received a file containing the address for the secure Vatican Security Organization web site. The download came with a password to access the Dhamballa file. The password was adamas. From four years of high school Latin, Hood remembered that was the word for diamond. Someone in the VSO had a clear sense of the region. Or else they knew more than Kline was letting on.
Hood forwarded the information to Stephen Viens. Until recently, Viens had been the Satellite Imaging supervisor at the National Reconnaissance Office. A college classmate of Matt Stoll, Viens had always given Op-Center’s requirements top priority. For that reason, among others, Viens was scapegoated for two billion dollars in funding that did not reach its targeted black ops programs. Bob Herbert helped to prove the man’s innocence. Op-Center was punished by having their needs given VLP status—very low priority. Fortunately, Viens still had friends at the NRO. He did not go back to his former post. He now worked as Op-Center’s internal security chief. Viens’s duties included setting up a photo analysis program for Hood. Hood also sent the Vatican address to Herbert and Rodgers.
As Hood finished sending the data from the Vatican Security Organization, Emmy called.
“Paul, that was a terrific lead you gave me about Albert Beaudin,” she told him.
“How so?” Hood asked.
“It turns out Mr. Stiele wasn’t the only Beaudin associate who liquidated assets within the last few days,” she said.
“Who else?” Hood asked.
“Gurney de Sylva, who is another Beaudin board member,” Emmy said. “He sold his minority interest in six different diamond mines yesterday.”
“Where are the mines located?” Hood asked.
“Throughout southern Africa,” she replied.
“How much did he net?” Hood asked.
“About ninety million dollars,” Emmy replied. “He turned around and put most of that money into corporations that are invested in oil operations in Russia and Mexico.”
“Maybe he thinks oil is a better long-term investment,” Hood speculated.
“Possibly,” Emmy said. “But some of the profits also went into the corporation that holds Stiele’s land leases in China.”
“So the oil deal could be a smoke screen to keep anyone from looking too closely at China,” Hood said.
“Or he could pull those investments at some point and put them into China,” Emmy pointed out. “He did not indicate his long-term plans in the filing. Then again, he is not the most forthcoming investor we’ve ever tracked. He once avoided capital gains taxes by donating millions of dollars to a charity for the homeless, the Rooftop Angels.”
“Weren’t they shut down in 2001 for money laundering?” Hood asked.
“They were,” Emmy said. “For every hundred dollars they received, the Angels gave back eighty dollars in cash. It was distributed through safe-deposit boxes, traveler’s checks, and other monetary media. We could never prove that Stiele received any of what was doled out. None of his accounts showed any unusual spikes.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Hood said. “The cash could still be sitting somewhere. Hell, he could be using it for groceries.”
“Absolutely,” Emmy said. “But that’s an ongoing investigation, which is why the red flag went up on his latest stock sales. So far, we haven’t been able to find anything that violates international law. However, I did discover a tie between de Sylva and Peter Diffring that goes beyond the Beaudin board. One that has nothing to do with China.”
“Oh?”
“With several local businessmen, Diffring co-owns the construction company that did geologic and environmental site surveys on hotel sites in Botswana,” Emmy said. “The sale required a filing with the Land Valuation division of the Department of Surveys and Mapping.”
“Who did they buy the land from?” Hood asked.
“It was purchased from a tribe, the Limgadi,” Emmy told him.
“Did they indicate what the land was to be used for?” Hood asked.
“The stated purpose is to ‘develop transportation facilities,’ ” she informed him.
“How long ago did Diffring buy into that construction company?” Hood asked.
“Four months ago,” Emmy replied. “The land office in Botswana says that so far, Diffring’s group has put in a small landing strip. Nothing more. All of this could mean absolutely nothing, Paul.”
“I know,” he said. But his gut told him otherwise.
“It’s not exactly uncommon for people to set up synergistic businesses in areas they plan to develop,” she said.
“Of course,” Hood replied.
There was a vast distinction between the kind of conspiracy Hood was envisioning and sound business opportunities Emmy had just described. These activities might have nothing whatsoever to do with Dhamballa and his group. It could all be a trick of timing.
Then again, maybe it was not. Paul Hood and his team were paid to assume that whatever was on the surface was a front. Effective crisis management had to presume guilt, not innocence.
Hood thanked Emmy for her efforts. They made dinner plans for the following week. The woman had gotten married a few months before, and she wanted Hood to meet her husband. Hood was glad for her. At the same time, he felt sad for himself. This was the first time in twenty years that he would be odd man out at a social dinner.
As Hood was finishing up with Emmy, Mike Rodgers came to the door. Hood thanked Emmy. They agreed to talk again later in the day. Rodgers entered and took a seat. The general looked better than he had in weeks. He seemed energized, engaged, focused.
“How’s the team shaping up?” Hood asked.
“Aideen Marley and Dave Battat are ready to go over if we need them,” Rodgers said.
“They got along all right?” Hood asked.
“They got along well enough,” Rodgers replied. “They’re not running off to get married, but they’ll get the job done.”
“Where’s the rub?” Hood asked.
“David knows his stuff and likes to beat you over the head with it,” Rodgers told him. “Aideen has
a solid foundation, somewhat less experience, but a whole lot more tact.”
“Who’d be the better mission leader?” Hood asked.
“In this situation? She would,” Rodgers said. “I already made that call. She will interact with ordinary people better than he will.”
“Battat is okay with that?” Hood asked.
“To get back in the field? Yeah, he’s okay with that,” Rodgers said.
Hood regarded the general. Military people looked at things differently than civilians. Hood liked to have harmony on his staff. Rodgers put the emphasis on efficiency.
“Don’t worry about them, Paul,” Rodgers said. “Battat knows that Aideen will be in charge. They’ll be fine.”
Hood hoped that Rodgers was right. He had not anticipated fielding the new intelligence team this quickly, but Op-Center needed people on site. Given the haste, Hood also hoped that he had been right giving Mike Rodgers this assignment. He respected the hell out of the general. He admired Rodgers’s ability to command. But Rodgers had suffered a heavy blow with the loss of the Strikers. Psychologically, both Hood and Rodgers were in uncharted territory.
Until recently, Paul Hood had not believed in psychiatry. He felt that character came from dealing with your own problems. Then Harleigh was taken hostage at the United Nations. Op-Center’s staff psychologist Liz Gordon and other mental health specialists helped see the girl through her blackest days. They gave Harleigh her life back, and they gave Hood his daughter back.
He changed his thinking about psychiatry.
The change prompted Hood to take an unprecedented step of involving Liz in his own decision-making process. A few days before talking to Rodgers about the new intelligence team, Hood had spoken to the psychologist about it. The question he asked her: Would an officer who lost his squad be overly cautious with the next one or more aggressive? Liz told him that it depended upon the officer, of course. In the case of Mike Rodgers, she thought he might be reluctant to take on a new command. He would not want to risk any more lives. If he did accept the post, she believed he might experience a mild form of substitution hysteria. The need to re-create a failure and make it come out right.
Fortunately, this was not a military operation. The participants did not have to stay until the matter was resolved. They collected intelligence until things became too dangerous. Then they left.
“Since everything seems to be set, it’s probably a good idea to get them over to Botswana,” Hood continued. “I suspect things are going to heat up when Bishop Max arrives tomorrow.”
“We can get Aideen and Battat on a plane today,” Rodgers told him. “Travel documents are being prepared. Right now, I’ve got them in Matt Stoll’s section, reading what we have on the Father Bradbury situation. They’re also going over files about Botswana and Albert Beaudin. Bob told me that he and his people might be involved.”
“It’s possible,” Hood said.
“I also had a chat with Falah Shibli on the drive over,” Rodgers said.
“How is he?” Hood asked. Falah was an extremely capable and humble man. Those were a good combination in any man. In an intelligence operative they were invaluable. They made him invisible.
“Falah’s still working as a police officer in northern Israel, only now he’s running the department,” Rodgers said. “He said he has his hands full keeping peace on the Lebanese border, but he’d be happy to take a short leave of absence to do whatever we need.”
“A Moslem from the Jewish state helping the Church,” Hood mused. “I like that.”
“So does he,” Rodgers told him. “That’s why he offered to drop what he was doing and join the team. I told him I’ll let him know if that’s necessary. I also talked to Zack Bemler in New York and Harold Moore in Tokyo. They’re tied up for the next few days. After that, they said they’d be happy to work with us. But with Maria on the way and the other three ready to go, I feel we have a strong team to field.”
Hood agreed. Those four intelligence operatives had exceptional abilities. Hood had to trust that their collaborative skills would surface when they were required.
When Rodgers was finished, Hood brought the general up to date on his conversations with Edgar Kline and Emmy Feroche. In the middle of that briefing, Stephen Viens called.
“Paul, I think you should come to Matt’s office,” Viens said.
“What have you got?” Hood asked.
Viens replied, “Your missing link, I think.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 12:05 A.M.
According to the beliefs of Dhamballa’s Vodun faith, midnight was the most spiritual part of the day. It was the hour when the body was weakest and the soul the strongest.
More importantly, it was a time of the greatest darkness. The Vodun soul shunned the day. Day was for the flesh so it could be warm and work. So it could be nourished. Then there was early night, a time dominated by firelight. That was the time for group prayer, for singing, drumming, and dancing. A time when animals were sacrificed to honor the loas. Revelers were asking the gods for health, wealth, and happiness in life. Occasionally, the celebrations led to pairings that created new life. It was a holy thing for children to be conceived within the energy and love of a celebration.
Yet all of that, too, were needs of the flesh. And the flesh was a prison for the soul. Daylight was also an inhibiting force. In the dark, the soul could enjoy a sacred, private communion with the earth. It could leave the material world and visit the black places of its forebears. Like the souls of the living, the souls of the dead dwelt beneath the surface.
Each midnight, before retiring, Dhamballa made time for this personal reconnecting with the voices of the past. That was how Dhamballa first became aware of his destiny. A Vodun priest, Don Glutaa, had guided him through a visit to the spirit world. There was not always a revelation, but he always came out of this journey with a reminder of why he was here: to serve as a mortal bridge between the Vodun past and future.
Dhamballa lay on his back on the rough wicker mat. He was dressed only in white shorts. His eyes were shut, but he was not asleep. The hut was dark, save for the very faint glow of a ceremonial candle. The wick was made from rushes that burned like a cigarette. It smouldered rather than flamed, releasing smoke rather than light. The short, squat candle had a slightly rounded bottom. It was not made from wax but from tallow. Dhamballa had created the candle himself before coming to the swamp. He had gone to the ancient cemetery of Machaneng. There, he mixed shavings of belladonna and pinches of dried ergot with the melted fat of a male goat. He had blended them in the eye socket of a human skull, the traditional way to make the Lights of Loa, the light of the possessing spirit. The herbs were necessary to relax his body and open his mind. The tallow was employed to capture the spirits of the dead. Burning the candle released those spirits so they could guide him through the home of the dead.
The candle sat at the top of Dhamballa’s bare chest, just above his breastbone. The tallow pooled below his chin, reinventing the shape of the candle. This act was important to the Vodun faith. It symbolized what was about to occur. The dead were going to give something to the living. The living would use it to make into something new.
The pungent yellowish smoke snaked into Dhamballa’s nostrils with every breath. His breathing grew slow and shallow. As he inhaled the fumes, the young man felt more and more as if he himself were made of smoke. He felt as though he were floating just above the mat. Then, like fire and air, his spirit wafted downward, through the weave of the mat.
Into the earth, he thought, home of the eternal spirit.
Dhamballa began to move, snakelike, through the thickly packed soil of the earth. He descended faster and faster. If and when the spirits wished, they would stir from cracks in the boulders and from places beneath the stones. They would come to him to make their knowledge available.
Almost at once, Dhamballa knew that this night was different than other nights. The spirits came qu
ickly tonight, faster than ever before. That meant they had something important to share with Dhamballa. The Vodun priest stopped his descent so the spirits would not have to pursue him. It was for the living to wait for the honored dead.
Dhamballa did not select those to whom he wished to speak. Rather, the spirits approached Dhamballa. They came to tell him what he needed to know. They did not tell him in words but in images, in symbols.
The spirits began to tell Dhamballa about the future. They showed him a hen become a rooster. Then they brought him a calf, bloodied and torn but not yet dead. One was a mothering force that became a potential rival. The other signified a child that would be tested before it could mature.
The spirits left. Dhamballa moved on.
The holy man drifted farther into the earth. He moved now through larger caves and fissures. Finally, he came to a large pit. He floated past the rim and saw a great horned snake coiled below him. The gods were speaking to him now. This was a rarity. Dhamballa swam toward the huge rust-colored beast. The reptile opened its mouth. Dhamballa floated inside. Save for the serpent’s red tongue, everything was black. Suddenly, the forks of the tongue became white wings. Flocks of sparrows rose from beneath him. Dhamballa watched as the birds soared upward. The first ones to reach the sky became stars. Soon there were thousands of points of light. He watched with delight but only for a moment. As birds were still rising, the stars became sand and rained to earth. The grains pelted the birds, ripping them to pieces. The downpour formed a sprawling, endless desert of sand. Here and there were small oases of dead birds and blood.
Dreams of greatness are going to be tested, the holy man thought. And those who follow the dreams will be tested as well.
Suddenly, a lion with a fiery mane burst from beneath the sand. Dhamballa recognized him immediately. It was Ogu Bodagris, the spirit of war. His fangs and claws raked the empty skies. New stars appeared, blood red and expanding. They formed faces. Familiar faces. Soon everything was red. Dhamballa moved away from the flood. Slowly, the flood grew to a dull orange. Dhamballa’s eyes were open now. He was staring into the flame of the candle.