"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."
"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, Colo-
nel Bernard Benjamin. The forty-something Colonel Ballon was a tough veteran officer with France's Groupe d'Intervention de la Gendarmerie Rationale. 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 HU-
r~
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MINT 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
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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 rnouth. 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
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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 w
as 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 wrists 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
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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.
Though he was warm and perspiring again, Father Bradbury began to tremble.
The idea of having his body broken was frightening. But the idea that he would be tortured for the wrong ideal was even more terrifying. He did not have the certainty of a martyr.
"Bring him closer," someone said from in front of him. It was the man who had spoken to him the night before. The man with the gentle voice. It sounded even calmer now. The priest wondered if it were the voice of a man who had just finished morning prayer.
Father Bradbury was urged forward. He tried hard to keep his legs under him. At the very least, he wanted to be standing on his own when he faced his own inquisitor. He failed. Sweat was collecting in the bottom of the hood. It was pooling faster than the fabric could absorb it. The priest wished they would at least take the hood off.
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"Have you changed your mind?" the voice asked.
Father Bradbury stopped thinking. He answered from the gut. "No," the priest replied. His voice was a rough whisper.
There were sounds from ahead. Someone was coming toward him. Father Bradbury did not know whether to expect words or blows. Once again, he prayed silently for strength.
"You may relax," the speaker said. "I am not going to let anyone strike you. Not today. There must be a balance. Wrath and mercy. Otherwise, neither has any meaning."
"Thank you," the priest said.
"Besides, some men refuse anything they art forced to do," the voice said. "Even when these are things they would do willingly at another time."
The speaker was very close to him now. Even more than the previous night, his voice had a soothing, oddly comforting quality. It also sounded young. For the first time, he heard a hint of innocence.
"I would never recall missionaries who are doing God's work," Father Bradbury rasped.
"Never?" the voice asked.
Father Bradbury was too tired, too distracted to think back. Had he ever done that? He did not think so. Would he ever do it? He did not know. He could not answer the question.
"I am certain you would warn your people of an impending flood or hurricane," said the voice.
"Yes," Father Bradbury agreed. "But so they could help others, not save themselves."
"But you would not want them to stay and perish," said the man.
"No."
"You would tell the missionaries to leave because life is dear," said the speaker. "Well, your people are in danger. The gods want this land restored to them and their people returned to the olden temples. I am going to give the gods what they want."
"What about the wishes of the people?" Bradbury asked.
"You hear their confessions," said the speaker. "You know what many wish. They wish to sin. They wish to have an easy
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life. It is for the heralds of the gods to teach them a better way."
"Not everyone wants those things," the priest wheezed.
"You are in no position to say that," the speaker said.
"I know my parish-"
"You do not know my parish," the man shot back. "It is also for you to decide only whether you and your missionaries will be alive to preach elsewhere. Do not act from pride but with wisdom. But act quickly."
Father Bradbury could not help but think of Proverbs 16:
18. "Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall."
Perhaps it was the speaker's intention to remind Father Bradbury of that passage from the Bible. To make him doubt himself. Since the priest had been abducted, everything seemed designed to disorient him. But knowing that did not make it any less effective. Nor did it change the truth of what the man was saying. Father Bradbury did not have the right to keep anyone in danger's way. And what of his own soul, let alone his life? The priest asked himself the same question he had asked the night before. What would God think of a man who knew that others were at risk and did nothing to save them? The answer seemed clearer now. Or maybe his resistance had diminished. But he was not being asked to disavow his faith. He was being asked to help save lives.
A sudden sense of outrage flooded the priest. Who were these people to insist that he and the other clergymen leave their adopted home? Who were they to demand that the word of God Almighty be silenced? But the indignation faded quickly as the priest asked himself whether he had the right to make these decisions for the missionaries or for God.
He needed time that he did not have. Father Bradbury wished he could remove the hood and have a drink. Taste clean air. He yearned to sit down, to lie down, to sleep. He wanted the time to think this through. He wondered if he should ask for these things.
"I can't think," he muttered.
"You're not being asked to think," the speaker replied
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coldly. "Make the telephone calls, and then you will be fed and permitted to rest. When you are refreshed, you will understand that you acted wisely. You will save lives."
"My job is to save souls," the priest replied.
"Then live, and save them-somewhere else," the man replied.
Even if Father Bradbury had the will to figh
t, he was not sure exactly what he was fighting for. Or against. Or if he was even fighting for the right cause. It was all too confusing. The man was right about one thing. He needed a clearer head. He needed time. And there was only one way to get that.
"All right," Father Bradbury said. "I will do as you ask. I will make your calls."
The priest felt hands working around his neck. He eagerly anticipated the removal of the hood. It only came up partway. The men tugged the front only as high as the top of his mouth. They lifted the right side above his ear. The cool air felt like a breath from Heaven. He was walked forward and gently lowered to his knees. It was a little kindness that he appreciated. He was given a short sip of warm water from a canteen. That, too, was a gift from God.
"The first call is to Deacon Jones," another man told him. Father Bradbury recognized the voice. It was the gruff-throated man who had brought him to this room the previous night.
Strong hands continued to hold his shoulders as numbers were punched. The clergyman remembered someone saying the night before that there was a speakerphone.
The priest was told to say that he was being well cared for. Then he was to give the deacon missionaries their instructions. He was to tell each missionary that he would join them soon at the diocese in Cape Town. He was to reveal absolutely nothing more.
Deacon Jones answered the phone. The young man was excited and relieved to hear from the priest. In as clear and firm a voice as he could generate, Father Bradbury instructed the missionary to return immediately to the compound, pack, and go to Cape Town. **>
"What is it?" Deacon Jones asked. "What is happening?"
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"I will explain when I see you," the priest replied. He felt a reassuring squeeze on his shoulders.
"As you wish," Jones replied.
The deacon had never disputed the priest's judgment. Nor did Deacon March. Nor did any of the other deacon missionaries.
When Father Bradbury was finished making the calls, he was taken to a wicker chair. His legs were stiff, and his lower back was tight. It was difficult to sit. He jumped as the edge of the seat scraped behind his knees. That was where he had been struck the day before. The priest waited for the mask to be removed and his hands to be untied. Instead, he heard another chair moved beside him.
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 09 - Mission of Honor Page 9