Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  “Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” Hood said.

  “That or Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle,” Liz agreed. “You get an emancipation movement or a sweeping overhaul in the meat industry. Incited by one thing or another, people come together with a common goal, their collective efforts producing seemingly impossible results.”

  “The whole is greater than the sum of the parts,” Hood said.

  “Exactly,” Liz replied. “I think we’re looking at something that is being positioned very much like that.”

  “Let’s back up a second,” Hood said to her. “I assume this is based on a profile you worked up on Dhamballa?”

  “Yes,” Liz said. “He is definitely not a stereotypical cult leader. That’s why I’m looking at this as a social phenomenon instead of an aberration.”

  “You’re that sure?” Hood said.

  “Absolutely,” Liz told him. “J2 and Mae were able to get into the computers at Morningside Mines Ltd. and access his personal records.”

  “Morningside Mines?” Hood said. “Where are they based?”

  “Antwerp,” J2 said. “So are about a million other diamond companies that I found.”

  That information might or might not tie Burton to Henry Genet.

  “Our man Thomas Burton is thirty-three,” Liz said. “He has no history of mental illness. To the contrary. He is remarkably focused. Over the course of nine years as a mine worker, he was promoted quickly and regularly. He went from working the hoses that wash the mine walls for drillmen to drilling to running the line itself.”

  “The line?” Hood asked.

  “That’s where the diamonds are sorted and cleaned,” Mae said.

  “So he was competent and hardworking,” Hood said. “Where’s the jump to religious leader?”

  “We don’t have that link yet,” Liz went on. “It could be from someone he knows, something he read, or even a holy revelation.”

  “Like God talking to Moses,” Hood said.

  “It almost doesn’t matter what it was,” Liz replied. “Burton is committed to this.”

  “Could it be a sham of some sort?” Hood asked.

  “Unlikely,” Liz replied. “Someone could be using him, for sure, but Burton himself is honest. His employee file contains quarterly performance reviews. They decribe him as intelligent, conscientious, and absolutely trustworthy. The mine owners routinely send out private investigators to watch people who work on the line. They want to make sure the workers are not pocketing diamonds and selling them privately. The investigators actually do things like paying clerks in shops or restaurants to give the subject too much change.”

  “Just to see what they do,” Hood speculated.

  “Right,” Liz said. “Our man gave it back. Every time. There is a philosophical consistency about an honest man who eventually turns to preaching. One is a statement to a single individual. The other is a statement to a group.” She shrugged. “But both are about truth. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t pushed into this or encouraged by someone else,” Liz added. “But he, himself, believes in what he is doing. I am sure of that.”

  “What about family?” Hood asked. “Any crises or vendettas that might have motivated him?”

  “Burton’s father is dead, and his mother lives in a nursing home in Gaborone,” Liz said.

  “Paid for by her son?” Hood asked.

  “Yes sir,” J2 said. “I checked his bank records.”

  “Do we know how the father died?” Hood asked.

  “Malaria,” Liz replied. She added, “The elder Burton died in a state-run hospital, not in a missionary hospital. Thomas Burton is not acting out against the Church.”

  “Are there any siblings?”

  “No brothers or sisters,” Liz said. “And no wife.”

  “Is that unusual in Botswana?” Hood asked.

  “Being unwed? Very,” J2 said. “I looked it up.” He leaned forward in his seat and looked at the monitor. “Only four percent of males over eighteen are single. Those stats are pretty much spread one percent each over the military, the clergy, widowers, and miscellaneous.”

  “But Vodun clergy are permitted to marry,” Mae added. “I put together the file on the religion.”

  “There are other reasons Burton might not have married,” Hood said. “Having his mother to support could be one of them. Mae, what are the qualifications for Vodun priesthood?” Hood asked.

  “A male priest is called a houngan,” Mae said, “and in order to become one, a man must communicate with spirits in the presence of another houngan. Sort of a religious conference call. Women priests or mambos have to do the same thing with a senior mambo.”

  “I suspect that’s a way of proving both men are hearing the same things,” Liz suggested. “Either that, or it’s a way of ensuring that the ranks or priests are joined only by those whom the priests approve.”

  “Everything is political,” Hood observed.

  “That’s true, but we don’t know whether Burton ever became a houngan,” Liz went on.

  “How could he not?” Hood asked.

  “Burton is claiming to be the embodiment of the powerful snake deity Dhamballa,” Liz said. “We don’t know if the usual rules of ascension to the priesthood apply.”

  Hood stared at her. “Are you saying that Thomas Burton thinks he’s a snake god?” he said flatly.

  “That’s right,” Liz replied.

  Hood shook his head. “Liz, I just don’t know about this. Do you think that Burton could be playing the part of Dhamballa? Faking it? He was a poor mine worker. Perhaps he’s being paid to serve the political needs of Albert Beaudin and his partners.”

  “He didn’t take money from people in the market,” Liz said. “Why would he take it from Beaudin?”

  “Mothers in nursing homes can become expensive,” Hood said.

  “I did the math,” J2 said. “His salary was enough to cover that.”

  “Beaudin and his people may be using Burton,” Liz agreed. “But I don’t think he’s acting.”

  “Why?” Hood asked.

  “Two things,” Liz told him. “First, Thomas Burton’s epiphany would not have taken place in a vacuum. Even if he had no religious training, he would have gone to someone who did. Someone who could explain what he was thinking, feeling. The experience was obviously so powerful that any houngan or mambo Burton might have visited was convinced that he had been blessed. At least, no one questioned him or stood in his way.”

  “Do we know that for sure?” Hood asked.

  “We’re surmising it,” Liz said. “Only a few weeks passed between Burton quitting his job at the mines and Dhamballa holding his first small rally. If there had been any serious resistance from Vodun priests, it would have taken months or even years to sort out. And it probably would have resulted in the use of black magic against him.”

  “Black magic,” Hood said. “Are you talking zombies now?”

  “Mae?” Liz said.

  The young woman nodded. “We are. Only the word is really nzumbie, which means ‘ghost.’ ”

  Once again, Hood had to fight a sense of condescension. The fact that this was not his world or set of beliefs should not make it invalid. He had a flashback to when he was mayor of Los Angeles. He was hosting a movie industry dinner and was seated between two powerful studio heads. They were earnestly debating which of their studios was on top of the next big trend: talking animal movies or films about the post-apocalyptic era. Hood had brought the executives together to discuss internship programs for underprivileged city youths. He could not get worked up over the subject of Babe vs. Waterworld . But to the producers, with hundreds of millions of dollars at risk, it mattered.

  To the Vodunists, this mattered.

  “The zombies we’re talking about are not the stiff, vacanteyed killers we’ve seen in the movies,” Mae went on. “From everything I’ve read, they are conversant, very active beings. No blood drinking, no flesh eating, no mindless mayhem.”

  “
But are they still, like, slaves to masters?” J2 asked.

  “No one is sure whether they’re slaves or just willing subjects,” Mae replied. “Either way, they are extremely devoted to the houngan or mambo who created them.”

  “These zombies may also be victims of sleeping potions and mind control drugs,” Liz said. “Over the last fifteen or twenty years, there has been a fair amount of scientific debate about the subject in the psychiatric and medical journals. The consensus is that they do not die but are artificially placed in a deep narcosis and then revived.”

  “Mind control drugs,” Hood said. He was glad that there was finally something he could hook into. “Could the Brush Vipers be victims of chemical brainwashing?”

  “It’s possible but unlikely,” Liz replied. “Working as a soldier in the field requires the ability to act independently in a crisis. That brings me back to exactly what black magic is. To a Vodunist, it is not necessarily the supernatural. It is simply bloodshed.”

  “Which is why we don’t think this Dhamballa man believes in it,” J2 pointed out. “If the Brush Vipers had used violence to set him up, it would definitely have shown up as a blip on some of the South African intelligence reports from the region. I checked those. All the fights and arguments our people noted were about boundaries and trade and that sort of thing. Nothing about religion.”

  “Maybe the Brush Vipers kept people in line for him,” Hood suggested.

  “They didn’t start showing up until after Dhamballa held his first rally,” J2 said.

  “All right,” Hood said. “So Burton had this revelation and started his ministry with a core of people who believed in what he was doing, probably in his home village and possibly at the mine.”

  “Correct,” Liz replied.

  “At which point the mine owners and Genet might have become aware of him,” Hood went on.

  “Yes,” Liz said. “We’re not sure whether Burton was still working for them when he adopted the Dhamballa personality or whether they watched him after he left. Whenever anyone quits suddenly, the PIs watch them for a while. Make sure they did not sneak some diamonds out.”

  “I see,” Hood replied. “Liz, you said there was a second reason you did not think that Burton was acting.”

  “Right,” Liz said. “It ties in with the sanity issue. A man who is unbalanced, a man who has a god complex, has a very specific need. He wants to be the absolute ruler. He wants to be Jesus Christ or Napoleon or—Mae, who’s the supreme god in Vodun?”

  “Olorun,” Mae replied as she consulted the monitor. “He is ‘the remote and unknowable one.’ His emissary god on earth is Obatala. He’s the god who reports on human activities.”

  “From what we’ve been told and what little we’ve read, Burton is not making claims of that sort,” she said.

  “No,” Hood replied. “Dhamballa is just saying that he’s the incarnation of a snake god.”

  “We have to be more precise about that,” Liz said. “Vodun priests do not claim to be an embodiment of gods so much as a representation. A spokesperson, if you will.”

  “He’s still hearing voices in some fashion,” Hood said. “You consider that sane?”

  “You mentioned Moses a minute ago,” the woman replied. “What makes you think that Thomas Burton is any less rational? How do you know he is not what he says?”

  Hood wanted to answer, Common sense. But something in Liz’s voice made him hesitate. Her tone was not critical of Hood but respectful of Thomas Burton. In that moment, Hood realized he would never have said either of those things to Edgar Kline.

  Hood felt a flush of shame. Liz had been right to ask that question. It was not the right of Paul Hood or anyone else to make qualitative judgments about the Vodunists or people of any faith.

  “Let me ask you this, then,” Hood said. “If Burton believes he is a god in some form, why does he need the Brush Vipers? Wouldn’t Olorun come to his aid if he needed it?”

  “Doubt is common to prophets and messianic figures, especially in the early stages of a ministry,” Liz replied. “And a support system is helpful. Moses had Aaron, Jesus the apostles.”

  “But Moses and Jesus did not need to kidnap priests,” Hood said.

  “It makes sense if you don’t think of it as an aggressive act but as a policy statement, so to speak,” Liz said. “What the Brush Vipers did, almost certainly with Burton’s approval, was merely an expedience. It was a way to announce his arrival and his target.”

  Hood felt that Liz was making several leaps where she did not have facts as a bridge. But that was all right. He did not have to agree with her, but this is what she was paid to do. Explore possibilities.

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Hood said. “And the bottom line is we’re dealing with a committed but probably nonviolent man. What we do not know is the extent to which Dhamballa controls the Brush Vipers and to what extent they are interested in religion or simply in power.”

  “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.”

  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 t
he 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 short-sleeve 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.