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

by Clancy, Tom

  And what Seronga would do if he did.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Washington, D.C. Friday, 1: 08 P.M.

  Darrell McCaskey stepped into Mike Rodgers’s office unannounced and unexpected. McCaskey wanted information. In retrospect, he realized he wanted something else. A fight.

  He got it.

  The FBI liaison was angrier than he had been the day before. He had not slept very much that night. The more he had thought about what happened, the more his rage had built. The people close to him had done what was expedient. They did not do what was right. He was furious at Rodgers for asking Maria to go abroad. He was mad at Maria for having accepted. And he was disgusted with Paul Hood for having allowed her to go. McCaskey and Maria had just gotten married. She had given up intelligence work. What the hell were they all thinking? At what point did the human factor enter into decision making? Where was loyalty to old friends, concern for their well-being?

  McCaskey had come to Rodgers’s office unannounced because he wanted to see the general’s face. Rodgers was not a man who admitted concern. Not to his coworkers, not even to his friends. McCaskey had heard that the only one Rodgers confided in was his childhood friend and fellow officer Colonel Brett August. But Rodgers was also not a man who could disguise what he was feeling. It was always there in his eyes, in the turn of his mouth. McCaskey did not want to see any of that hidden for his benefit.

  Rodgers was sitting at his computer. He glanced over as the FBI liaison walked in. Years with the FBI had taught McCaskey to size up a person in an instant. To read expressions, posture, perspiration levels. The concern in Rodgers’s face was considerable.

  “What’s the latest?” McCaskey asked.

  “I was just reading the confirmation from Matt Stoll,” Rodgers replied. His expression became neutral. Mike Rodgers was back in control. “The download for the OLB has been received in Botswana. Aideen and Battat are en route to meet your wife.”

  “When do they expect to link up?” McCaskey asked.

  “I estimate that should happen in about two hours,” Rodgers told him. “What have you been up to?”

  “Paul showed me the photo Maria took at the airport. He also gave me the AFISS phone data,” McCaskey told him. “I’m looking into the possible involvement of Shigeo Fujima. Paul wants me to find out what the IAB could possibly gain by killing the American bishop. Or at least by implicating Dhamballa in the assassination.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing yet,” McCaskey told him. “The Japanese have zero interest in Africa in general and Botswana in particular. They certainly don’t gain anything by moving in on the diamond industry. The income would be a blip on Japan’s gross national product. My people are looking into other possibilities involving Beaudin and Genet. We’ll see what turns up.”

  “Could the Japanese have made the hit for some other party?” Rodgers asked. “Someone we haven’t considered?”

  “That’s one of the possibilities I’ve been checking,” McCaskey said. “It would help if we knew whether the assassination was aimed at the Vatican, at this bishop in particular, or at Botswana.”

  “It’s easier when you’ve got nations fighting over borders or commerce or thousands of years of enmity,” Rodgers said. “We don’t know what the core issue is here. But I don’t think it’s religion.”

  “So what happens next?” McCaskey asked.

  “In Botswana?” Rodgers asked.

  McCaskey nodded.

  “In about ten minutes, Paul is going to send Edgar Kline the same coordinates Matt gave Aideen,” Rodgers said. “A few minutes after that, the Spanish soldiers will begin heading toward the spot as well.”

  “Have you heard anything from over there?” McCaskey asked.

  “Aideen?”

  McCaskey nodded.

  “Nothing.”

  “Have you given them any additional instructions?” McCaskey pressed.

  “No,” Rodgers said.

  McCaskey gave Rodgers a moment to add to that. He did not, damn that stubborn son of a bitch. Rodgers knew what McCaskey wanted to hear. That Maria could withdraw at that point.

  “Do the Spaniards know that my wife is with this Leon Seronga character?” McCaskey said.

  “Kline has been told,” Rodgers assured him. “He will pass that information along. It’s to the advantage of the Vatican Security Office to have a Spanish-speaking ally on site. Especially one who has been trailing Seronga.”

  “Look, Mike, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” McCaskey said.

  “Shoot.”

  “I assume Maria will make the call whether to terminate, not the greenhorns?” McCaskey asked. The FBI liaison was getting angry again. He could feel it in his shoulders, in his arms and fingers, along the line of his jaw. He wanted to move, to strike out.

  “Aideen decides for the team, but Maria can decide for herself,” Rodgers replied. “And Darrell—I need you to do something for me. I need you to back off David and Aideen.”

  “Why?” McCaskey said. “Last time I looked, I was still drawing pay from Op-Center. I’ve got a voice here.”

  “You do,” Rodgers said. “But it’s an emotional one, and that doesn’t help us. Battat and Aideen are good people.”

  “They’re green,” McCaskey insisted.

  “Darrell—”

  “I’ve read their dossiers,” McCaskey went on. “They haven’t logged enough solo field hours to qualify for a CIA junior recon post.”

  “Battat has,” Rodgers said.

  “Right,” McCaskey said. “The guy the Harpooner clocked in the field.”

  Rodgers did not look happy. McCaskey did not care.

  “Aideen Marley spent a few days in the field with Maria,” McCaskey went on. “A few days. That was less than ninety-six hours in a support capacity. And yeah. Technically, Battat has put in the time. If you count his entire career, which has a big midsection where he sat in an office in New York City. Over the last five years, he spent even less time in the field than Aideen, a total of three days. That was also in a support capacity.”

  “They distinguished themselves in both cases,” Rodgers said.

  “How do you figure that? Maria did most of the work in Spain, and Battat barely survived in Baku,” McCaskey said.

  “Battat’s opponent did not survive,” Rodgers said pointedly. “That’s a win in my book. And Aideen proved she’s a quick study. Maria personally commended her work in Europe.”

  “Then why does having them out there with my wife fill me with very little confidence?” McCaskey asked.

  “I’m not going to answer that,” Rodgers said.

  “I will,” McCaskey said. “Because I know Maria. If you let her stay with this mission, she’s going to watch their asses, not her own!”

  “I don’t agree, but we won’t get anywhere debating any of this,” Rodgers said. He rose. “Darrell, you’ve been looking for a fight on this ever since it started. I’m not going to give you one. Now, I’ve got to go see Paul—”

  “Mike, I need you to do me a favor,” McCaskey said.

  “Darrell, I won’t order her back,” Rodgers said.

  “You have to,” McCaskey said. “Maria’s carried this far enough. I want you to get her out.”

  “I can’t,” Rodgers said emphatically.

  “Why?” McCaskey shot back. He leaned on the desk. “Mike, you don’t need my wife over there. You can have her link up with the Spanish soldiers, and she can brief them. Then you can ask them to ship her the hell out. They can handle this thing with our other two people.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Rodgers said.

  “It can be.”

  “There’s more to this than just manpower,” Rodgers insisted. “We need to buy time. Someone has to get to Dhamballa and convince him to release Father Bradbury. If not, the Spanish may go in there shooting. They need to discourage other attempts on missionaries.”

  “Why can’t Aideen or Battat carry that messag
e?” McCaskey asked.

  “They can,” Rodgers said. “But we also need someone to keep the Spaniards away from the camp.”

  “Then I’m really confused, Mike, because I’m doing the math, and you’re not making sense,” McCaskey said. “Aideen does one job, Battat does the other. You said they’re capable. Maria goes home. It’s easy.”

  “It’s easier with three people than with two,” Rodgers said. “And I owe it to Aideen and Battat to give them all the support I can. They’re the ones at the front line. Besides, Maria is not going to come home before her mission is completed. She just won’t do that.”

  “She might, for me,” McCaskey said. “If not, maybe she’ll do it for you. When the Spanish get to Maria, you can order her back.”

  “I just told you I won’t do that,” Rodgers said. “Not unless I know she’s in danger.”

  “Screw the job for just a minute, Mike!” McCaskey implored. “We’re talking about my wife!”

  “I understand that, Darrell—”

  “Christ, do you know I haven’t even seen her since we got married!” McCaskey said. “She was coming here to be with me, not to go to Africa. You want to talk about owing someone something? You owed me that courtesy.”

  “I owed you?” Rodgers said. “For what?”

  “For friendship,” McCaskey said.

  “Friendship has nothing to do with this,” Rodgers said. “We needed an agent. Maria is a damn fine one. End of story.”

  “No, Mike, the story is just getting started—”

  “Not for me, it isn’t,” Rodgers insisted. “Whether Maria broke a promise to you, I don’t know. Whether you should have ever asked for that kind of promise, I also don’t know. Whether Bob and I should have talked to you first was a judgment call. Unfortunately, we didn’t have a lot of time for back and forth. What I do know is that this matter is between you and your wife. And you can talk to her when she gets back.”

  “That’s your answer?” McCaskey asked.

  “Pretty much,” Rodgers said.

  “ ‘I’m only doing my job’?” McCaskey said.

  “Yeah. And don’t make it sound dirty,” Rodgers warned. “You’re really starting to piss me off.”

  “I’m pissing you off?” McCaskey said. He felt like throwing a punch. “We’ve been through the wars down here for nearly eight years. We’ve gone through crises, personal and professional losses, all kinds of shit. Now I need a friend and a favor, and I can’t get either.”

  “That’s bullshit. Ask me anything else, and I’ll do it,” Rodgers said. “But not this. I need the assets I have.”

  “ ‘Assets,’ ” McCaskey said. “You sound like Joseph Goddamn Stalin throwing peasants against trained German troops.”

  “Darrell, I’m going to let that slide,” Rodgers said. “It’ll be safer for us both.” Rodgers came around the desk. “Excuse me.”

  “Sure,” McCaskey said. He didn’t step aside. “Go to Pope Paul. He’ll absolve you. He’ll give you a shot of that ‘for the cause’ crap. He’ll say the job comes first, and you’re doing the right thing keeping Maria in the field. Me? I care more about the lives of my teammates than the life of a priest who knew the risks of the work he was doing. Who wasn’t even our responsibility in the first place!”

  Rodgers walked around McCaskey. McCaskey grabbed his arm. Rodgers glared at him.

  McCaskey released him, not because he was afraid, but because beating each other bloody was not going to get Maria home.

  “Mike, please,” McCaskey said.

  Rodgers looked at him. His gaze was softer now. “Darrell, you think I don’t care about our people?”

  “I don’t know,” McCaskey said. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Rodgers stepped right up to McCaskey. McCaskey could not remember seeing such a look of betrayal in someone’s eyes.

  “Say it again, Darrell,” Rodgers demanded. “Tell me again that I don’t care about them. That I didn’t care about Bass Moore or Charlie Squires or Sondra DeVonne and Walter Pupshaw and Pat Prementine and the other people I lost in Kashmir. I want to hear it when you’re not yelling. I want to hear it when you’re actually thinking about what’s coming from your mouth.”

  McCaskey said nothing. When he had spoken, he was not thinking about the Striker members who had been killed over the years. He was only thinking about his wife.

  “Say it again!” Rodgers yelled.

  McCaskey could not. He would not. He looked down. All the emotion that had built up in the last day was gone. Unfortunately, he had let it loose on the wrong target. And at that moment, Darrell McCaskey knew who he was really mad at. It was not Mike Rodgers, and it was not Maria. He was mad at himself for the reason Rodgers had said. McCaskey should never have tried to get Maria to agree to give up her work.

  “Mike, I’m sorry you took it that way,” McCaskey told him. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

  Rodgers continued to look at him. The men were silent for a moment longer. Finally, Rodgers looked away. Once again, he turned and headed toward the office door.

  “I’ll be back here after the Kline download,” Rodgers said softly. “Let me know when you’ve got something about the Japanese.”

  “Sure,” McCaskey said. “Mike?”

  Rodgers paused and looked back. “Yeah?”

  “For what it’s worth, that isn’t what I meant,” McCaskey said. “I know how you feel.”

  “I know what’s in your heart, pal,” Rodgers said. “It’s been a tough time for everyone. Right now, we’re both a part of your wife’s support system. Let’s see what we can do to make that work in the best way possible.”

  Rodgers turned away and left the office. He did not look back at McCaskey. It seemed very, very quiet.

  McCaskey made a fist and drove it into his open hand. The slap sounded like lightning. Which was appropriate. He had done what he had really come for. He had let out the pent-up energy. But he had dumped it on an old friendship. One that he feared would never be the same.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Maun, Botswana Friday, 10:09 P.M.

  Except for the occasional bounce, it was silent in the cabin of the truck. Leon Seronga did not complain. The Spanish woman was staring ahead, and Njo Finn was silent. He was gripping the wheel tightly. After the encounter with Maria, the driver seemed glad to be in control of something.

  The windows were open. The night air was not cool, but the strong wind felt good. A half hour before, Pavant had passed a six-pack of warm Cokes from the back of the truck. Seronga had offered one to Maria, but she had declined. Seronga was nursing his second can. Each sip of the warm beverage burned his mouth, but the caffeine was helping him to stay awake. There was an open map on Seronga’s lap. His left hand was resting on the map to keep it from blowing away. Seronga had drawn a circle with a seventy-five-mile radius. The Vodun base camp was located at the center.

  The passage through the dark veldt had given Seronga time to think. And now that he thought about it, this was a very strange place for him to be. Not the plain but the war itself. Until now, Seronga had never felt that he was fighting a religious war. He believed he was fighting a war for Botswana. Yet he was beginning to wonder about that. He was starting to think that Dhamballa might be right, and he could be wrong. It was not a bad feeling, though. To the contrary. It was comforting to think that 10,000 years of spirit might be greater than the African continent and its civilizations.

  Decades before, in the years of the quiet revolution to oust the British, the Brush Vipers did everything that was necessary to free Botswana. Back then, Seronga’s vision was clear. So were his methods. Above all, there was strength of purpose: the desire to be free. It was backed by strength of arms and the patience to use them only when necessary.

  Seronga had felt those same stirrings of purpose when he first heard Dhamballa speak. Religion had not entered into it. The man’s words were about Africa and Africans. The truth was, Leon Seronga had no use for religion.

  S
ince childhood, Africa had been his god. There was nothing to compare to the majesty of this land, the terrible beauty of the predators and the serenity of the prey. Or the moods of the place, which were unfathomable. Some days were epic and clear. They made life joyous. On others, depending upon the mood of the land, weather moved in with force or seductiveness. Sometimes rain and wind came from nowhere. Other times they were announced by gentle breezes and cool drizzle. There were baking droughts that lasted for weeks or horrendous floods that came so suddenly people drowned in their sleep. Then there were the nights. Sometimes, like tonight, the skies were so vast and vivid that a man felt as if he were weightless and airborne. Other nights were so close, so choking, that Seronga felt as if he were the only man on earth. On such nights even the crickets seemed as though they were on another world.

  If the land had been his god, the lives and accomplishments of his people had been his religion. People invented other gods, he believed, because they feared death. For Seronga, death had always been a normal, accepted part of life. Since he was lucky enough to be part of Africa, he had to accept being part of that cycle. He had never resented it. He had never asked for extensions. Too much of life could be wasted on preparing for death.

  Leon Seronga did not doubt the righteousness of what he was doing here. Even if he did not succeed, he would not question what he had done. But for the first time in his life, he wondered if he had been wrong about religion. He wondered if the Vodun gods were behind the spirit of Africa and his people.

  Or maybe it is not wonder, he thought. Maybe it is hope.

  For the first time in his life, Seronga felt a sense that things were out of balance. He felt like an outsider in his own land, in his own battle. There were Spanish soldiers in Maun. Priests from a diocese in South Africa. Observers in Rome. Allies in Belgium, France, and even China. More and more tourists on the roads and in the fields. Africa was no longer that pure physical entity he had once known. It was a park for the rich. A battleground for the ambitious. A source of souls and revenue for Rome. And he thought it had been minimized by the United States, when it became a cause for environmentalists and a laboratory for ethnologists. As if it needed aid and study to stay Africa.