He would soon know if that were true. And if it was, he would know what to do about it.
TWENTY-ONE
Washington, D.C. Thursday, 11:47 A.M.
Darrell McCaskey left Mike Rodgers chatting with David Battat and Aideen Marley at DiMaggio's Joe. Within a half hour, the general had the two operatives revved up and ready to die for him. Rodgers's sense of purpose, and the quiet intensity with which he stated it, made people want to work with him. The genius of Mike Rodgers was that he was standoffish without being cold. He did not welcome new friendships. If others wanted to be with him, service was all they could give him. Colonel Brett August was the only one who had ever gotten close to Rodgers. And that had taken him a lifetime.
Darrell McCaskey was not like that. When he was with the FBI and out in the field, he had been ice. That was the only way to deal with the terrorists and drug dealers and kidnappers. He had to forget they were people with parents and siblings and children. His job was to uphold the law. If that meant arresting a single mother who was pushing heroin to support her kids, he did it.
When he was at the office or went home, McCaskey always did a one eighty. He let himself get close to people. He had to. He needed to keep his armor from becoming permanent. He opened himself up to superiors, subordinates, custodians, neighbors, shopkeepers, women he dated.
Inevitably, with that kind of emotional exposure came trust. Equally as inevitable, with trust came disappointment. And right now, McCaskey was disappointed in a man he had trusted.
Bob Herbert's call to Maria had gnawed at him during the drive from Georgetown to Andrews Air Force Base. Herbert
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knew that this was a sensitive area in the couple's relationship. McCaskey did not believe that Herbert had set out to hurt him. But his coworker, his friend, had not done anything to protect him, either. If Herbert had asked, McCaskey could have put him in touch with any number of Interpol agents in Madrid. They could have done the same job as Maria. McCaskey could not imagine what the hell the guy was thinking.
He tried calling his wife during the drive. Her cell phone voice mail took his call. He asked her to call back as soon as possible. She did not.
By the time McCaskey reached Op-Center, he was in a silent rage. The former G-man went directly to Bob Herbert's office. That was probably a bad idea, and he knew it. But Herbert was not a kid. He could take a dressing down. Hell, he had no choice. It was coming.
The door to Herbert's office was shut. McCaskey knocked. Paul Hood opened it.
"Good morning, Darrell," Hood said.
"Morning," McCaskey said. He entered the office. OpCenter's director shut the door behind him. Herbert was seated behind his desk. Hood remained standing. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up and his tie loosened. Paul Hood was not a casual man. It must have been a tough morning. Or maybe Hood was just expecting it to get tougher.
"Everything okay?" Hood asked.
"Sure," McCaskey replied. He did not attempt to conceal the edge in his voice. But if Hood or Herbert noticed, they said nothing. They apparently had their own problems. meCaskey had spent nearly three decades in law enforcement. When the temperature of a room was off, he knew it.
"I was just bringing Bob up to speed on developments in Africa," Hood said. "You know what happened over there? About the kidnapping of Father Powys Bradbury?"
"I read the briefing on the Op-ED page before I left the house," McCaskey said.
"Bad news and a Danish," Herbert said.
"Something like that," McCaskey replied. Their eyes remained locked a moment longer than ordinary conversation
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required. McCaskey realized just how angry he was at Bob Herbert for having contacted Maria.
The Op-ED page was the Op-Center Executive Dossier page, a twice-daily summary of NCMC activities. Written by the daytime department heads, it was posted on the internal web site. In that way, officials who did not normally interact could stay on top of what was happening in different divisions. It was also a quick way for the night crew to get up to speed. The Op-ED program also cross-referenced names and places with files from other U.S. intelligence agencies. If a company owned by Albert Beaudin were involved in an investigation over at the CIA, FBI, NSA, military intelligence, or some other agency, the respective department heads would be notifed via automated E-mail.
"There are a few things aren't on the Op-ED yet," Hood said. "Have you ever heard of a diamond dealer by the name of Henry Genet?"
"No," McCaskey said.
"Genet has financial ties to Albert Beaudin, the French industrialist," Hood told him.
"The Musketeer," McCaskey said.
"Right," Hood said. "As Bob and I were just discussing, the most compelling reason for Op-Center to be involved in this situation is to track whatever Beaudin might be doing. After what we went through in France with the New Jacobins, we can't afford to underestimate this guy."
"I agree," McCaskey said.
"The big question is whether these people have anything to do with a religious cult leader named Dhamballa," Herbert said.
"Where's the link?" McCaskey asked.
"A man named Leon Seronga," Herbert told him. "Seronga is one of the founders of the Brush Vipers, a paramilitary intelligence group that helped Botswana get its independence from Great Britain. The Vatican suspects Seronga of having kidnapped their priest. He has also been seen at Dhamballa's rallies. The MO of what went down in Maun is reminiscent of how the Brush Vipers used to strike. In and out, surgical,
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usually early in the morning when people were still groggy. We've promised to help Rome try to clear up some of these connections, maybe get some people over there."
"I think we're past the maybe stage," McCaskey said. "I was just with Mike, Aideen Marley, and David Battat. They're ready to go."
Hearing this, Herbert punched in the telephone extension of Barbara Crowe. Crowe ran Op-Center's documents department. This wasn't his operation, but he had never been one to fret over formalities. They would need counterfeit IDs, credit cards, and passports. Crowe could use photographs from their dossiers. Battat had been registered in a hospital in Azerbaijan. Marley had been involved in an assassination in Spain. The new identities would prevent their names from raising flags in any customs or airline databases.
While Herbert told Barbara what Marley and Battat would need, Hood continued the briefing.
"Apart from Beaudin and the missing priest, there is another immediate concern," Hood said. "The Vatican is sending a replacement to run the church in Maun, a bishop from D.C. He arrives tomorrow."
"Have they got resources to protect him?" McCaskey asked.
"Yes, which is what concerns me," Hood said. "He is going to be shadowed by undercover Spanish troops posing as tourists."
"How did Spain get involved?" McCaskey asked.
"They're in this because of the Madrid Accords," Herbert said as he hung up with Barbara Crowe. "That's a fairly recent alliance between the Vatican and the king of Spain. A dozen of the Spanish army's elite troops have gone over to Botswana. We tracked their flight. They're definitely on the ground and probably already on site."
"Paul, why is that a concern?" McCaskey asked.
"Because now you've got five political entities involved," Hood said. "The U.S. through the bishop. The cult. The Botswana government. The Vatican. And the Spanish."
"Ordinarily, coalitions are a good thing," Herbert said. "In this case, though, we feel that the Vatican should be walking
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softly, not hammering what may be a manageable crisis."
"Manageable by us," McCaskey said.
"It's worth a try," Hood said.
"What we should be doing is gathering intel to see if the priest can be rescued," Herbert said. "That should be done before anything else, including sending in a replacement."
"Would Maria be part of this intel gathering group?" McCaskey asked directly.
"Darrell, Bob and I were just discussing that," Hood said.
That was what McCaskey sensed when he entered the room. The chill between the men.
"I had called her to get me some information from the Ministry of Defense," Herbert said. "She got that. She said she wanted to do more."
"You asked her to go to Botswana," McCaskey said.
There was another long look. There was something in the intelligence chief's eyes. Something strong, as if he were braced for an assault.
"No, that isn't it," McCaskey said suddenly. "You already sent her."
"Yes," Herbert said. "She is en route."
"You recruited my wife to spy on the Brush Vipers," McCaskey said. As though saying the words would help him process them. "You sent her to track people who know Botswana better than we know D.C."
"She's not going to be alone for long," Hood said. "And she's been given very strict orders to gather data from secondary sources."
"As if my wife knows the meaning of moderation," meCaskey declared.
"Darrell, let's talk about this," Hood said.
McCaskey shook his head. He did not know what to do or what to think. But talking it out was third on his list of options. Beating the hell out of Herbert and walking out of the office were ahead of it, in that order.
"Darrell, I okayed the call to Maria," Hood said. "If she was going to get to Botswana in time for the bishop's arrival, she had to leave immediately."
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'Traveling under her own name?" McCaskey said.
"No, under her married name," Herbert pointed out. "I made sure that she had already changed her passport. Maria meCaskey won't show up in any foreign databases."
"You still could have run it past me," McCaskey said. "You could have given me the courtesy of that."
"You weren't here," Herbert said.
"I have a cell phone-"
"This is not the kind of thing I wanted to tell you over a telephone, secure or not," Herbert replied. "That's how people cancel dinner reservations and dentist appointments. This needed to be face-to-face."
"Why?" McCaskey demanded. "How do you know I would have fought you on this?"
"Because you fought with Maria about it," Herbert replied. "Hell, you broke up over this a few years ago. I couldn't take the chance that you would hang up on me and call her. I didn't want her distracted or upset."
"Or have someone talking reason to her," McCaskey said.
"That was not an issue," Herbert insisted.
"Anyway, I thought this was Mike's operation," McCaskey snapped. "Mike thinks that, too. I just had breakfast with him."
"It will be," Hood said. "What Bob did was put Maria in a position where she might be able to help us. That's all."
"Look, Darrell," Herbert said. "The Spanish military group has experience in quick military strikes. They have not shown that they can conduct surveillance or work for extended periods undercover. I needed someone who can do that. Someone who was in the right hemisphere. Someone who speaks Spanish and can talk to the soldiers, if necessary."
McCaskey heard Herbert's words. They all made sense. But logic aside, he could not get past having been left out of the loop. This was his wife they were talking about sending into a potential combat situation.
Which was why Herbert did it this way, McCaskey told himself. Herbert had just said so. To avoid involving her in a debate like this. To keep the high emotions away from Maria.
Reason told him that what Herbert had done was*Smart and
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professional. There were human interests, national interests at risk. But there were still conflicting personal and professional stakes. McCaskey could not think of a previous time when he had felt like this.
McCaskey continued to regard Herbert. As he did, something else eased into the equation. Something unexpected. McCaskey found it in Herbert's gaze. Those lively Southern eyes did not reflect the same hard determination McCaskey had seen a moment before. There was something new.
There was pain.
It was then that the realization hit McCaskey. It struck him hard across the chest, almost taking his breath away.
Bob Herbert was reliving his own fears, his own trauma. Everything McCaskey was feeling, Herbert must have felt each day he and his late wife were in Beirut. Yet then as now, Herbert had put his nation first. He had done his duty, despite the cost.
The furnace inside Darrell McCaskey shut down. A minute before, he had felt completely alone. That was no longer the case.
"I don't like this," McCaskey said, his voice low. "But I will say this much. You certainly called on one of the best undercover ops in the business."
Herbert seemed to relax slightly. "That I did," he acknowledged.
McCaskey took a long breath, then looked from Herbert to Hood. "I told Mike I'd do some prep work in case his people went to Africa. I need to find out if there's anyone they might be able to hook up with over there."
"Great," Hood said. "Thanks."
McCaskey turned from Hood to Herbert, then quickly left the office. Though McCaskey's manner was calm, he was far, far from being at peace.
TWENTY-TWO
Maun, Botswana Thursday, 11:01 P.M.
The door of the church living quarters did not have a lock. There was no need for one. As Father Bradbury used to say, "Lions cannot turn knobs, and human guests are always welcome."
Tired from their journeys, Deacons Jones and Canon had retired at ten. Jones had spent over two hours on the telephone discussing his call from Father Bradbury. He had reported it, first, to a priest in Cape Town. Then he recounted the conversation to Archbishop Patrick himself. A few minutes later, he was telephoned by a security officer from the Vatican. After that, the deacon missionary received a call from a man named Kline in New York. Deacon Jones was glad for the many years he had spent memorizing lengthy passages of scripture. He was able to repeat the conversation accurately, word for word, to each man with whom he spoke. Yet except for the first priest in Cape Town, no one seemed to share his delight at having heard from Father Bradbury. The archbishop and especially the two men from the Vatican acted as if he had been phoned by the devil himself. Deacon Jones could not figure out why. Nor would anyone explain it to him. The conversation was brief, and it had seemed innocent enough.
The men from the Vatican both told him not to speak to anyone else about Bishop Max. He agreed.
Jones* did not let the confusion trouble him. Ignorance was determined by how much information one had. It was not a measure of intelligence or character. At peace with himself, he went to the washroom, brushed his teeth, put on his pajamas,
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and returned to the sleeping quarters. He and Deacon Canon took linens from the closet.
There were four twin beds in the long, sparsely furnished room. Two of the beds were situated near windows. The deacons made those and opened the windows. Jones took the bed away from the veranda. Canon was a heavy sleeper. If any of the tourists took a late-night stroll, he would not hear them.
Jones knelt beside the bed and said his prayers. Then he gently parted the fine-mesh mosquito net and slid inside. The window was to Jones's right. The breeze was warm but soothing. It was good to sleep on a mattress with a clean, white sheet. In the field they usually slept on bedrolls, canvas cots, or patches of grass.
Deacon Jones fell asleep quickly.
There was a sharp prick at the top of the clergyman's throat. It felt like the bite of a female deerfly, which slashes the flesh and drinks the blood. Jones did not know if minutes or hours had passed. He did not want to know. He was groggy, and all he wanted to do was get back to sleep. He kept his eyes closed and went to brush the fly away.
His hand struck metal.
Jones opened his eyes with a start. It was not a fly at his throat.
It was a knife. Behind it was a big, dark figure. The mosquito net had been neatly pulled aside, and the intruder was standing holding the tip of the knife firmly under Deacon Jones's chin. From the corner of his eye, Jones could see that the door was slightly ajar. He also saw someone standing over Deacon Canon.
"Have you ever met the American bishop?" the intruder asked in a low, rough voice.
"No," Jones answered. His mind was still fuzzy. Why did the man want to know that?
"What are your names?" the intruder pressed.
"I am Eliot Jones, and he is Samuel Canon," the deacon replied. "We are deacons at this church. What is going on?"
"Where is your cell phone?" the intruder went on.
"Why do you want to know?" Jones asked.
The intruder pushed down slightly on the knife. Jones felt
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his flesh pop as the tip of the blade punched through it. Blood seeped around the metal and trickled down both sides of his neck. He could actually feel the sharp steel against the top of his larynx. Instinctively, the deacon reached for the man's hand to push it back. The intruder twisted the knife blade so that it could cut sideways now. He gave a tug to the side. The pain caused Jones's entire body to tense. His arms pulled back in the same reflex.
"The next thrust sends it all the way through," the intruder said. "Once again. Where is your cell phone?"
"Go ahead, cut my throat!" the deacon said. "I have no fear of death."
"Then I will kill everyone at this facility," the intruder said.
"That sin would be yours, not mine," replied the deacon. "And whatever you do to their bodies, their souls will be with God."
The intruder removed the knife. The next thing the deacon felt was a sharp sting, then a blazing pain in his right thigh. Even as the deacon reflexively sucked down air to scream, the intruder put the blade back at his throat. It took a moment for the deacon's brain to realize that he had been stabbed. His mind shifted from disbelief to shock to defiance.
"Where is your cell phone?" the intruder repeated. 'Tell me, or I'll let your soul out in pieces."
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 09 - Mission of Honor Page 15