"The soul cannot be harmed," the deacon whimpered. " 'Though I walk through the valley of death-' "
The knife pierced his forearm. The deacon screamed. The blade was worked around in a circle, digging into bone. This pain was not like the other. This one did not stop but kept going deeper into his body, as though molten lead had entered his veins. His head shook violently. His feet kicked on the bed. He could not control his body. Or his mind. Or his will.
"The phone!" the intruder said. "We don't have time-"
"It's inside my jacket!" the man screamed. "Behind the door! Oh God, stop! Take the phone! Take it!"
The intruder did not remove the knife. He continued to drive it down. Jones could feel his blood seeping into the sheets, along his leg.
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"What time are you meeting the bishop from America?" the intruder demanded.
Deacon Jones told him. He would have told him anything he asked. How did the Savior bear it? It was incomprehensible.
The intruder removed the knife from the deacon's wrist. The deepest pain abated instantly, like waves pulling back from the shore.
A moment later, the intruder put the blade to his throat and pushed down hard. Deacon Jones heard a scream from somewhere in the distance. It was not his own voice. He knew that because he could not move his mouth. He felt an electric pain in the base of his tongue. He lurched. An instant later, the pain struck the roof of his mouth. That one hurt worse as the hard palate offered resistance to the blade. Jones was still trying to speak, but all that came from his mouth were guttural grunts and gagging. Then the man reversed his hold on the hilt so that his thumb was on top. He pushed the knife to the left, as though it were a paper cutter. The deacon's carotid artery was severed. Then he tore the blade back to the right. The internal and external jugular veins were cut.
The pain was intensely warm and cold at the same time. Jones heard gurgling from somewhere. It took a moment for him to realize that the sounds were his. He was trying to breathe. The deacon reached for his throat, but his hands were weak, his fingers tingling. He let his arms drop to his sides. His eyes sought his attacker. But by then he was unable to see anything. His vision swirled black and red. His head felt extremely light.
An instant later, Deacon Jones saw nothing at all. The heat and chill blended into a dreamy neutrality.
He went back to sleep.
TWENTY-THREE
Maun, Botswana Thursday, 11:30 P.M.
Leon Seronga looked down at the bloody shape on the bed. To his right, Donald Pavant finished cutting the throat of Deacon Canon. The Brush Viper had placed a strong hand across his mouth. The man had died with a single, muffled scream.
"It is done," Pavant said to him with defiance. "You had no choice. We did what was necessary."
Seronga continued to stare.
"Prince, this is the way you used to do it, the way that things must sometimes be done," Pavant said.
"I promised Dhamballa this would be different," Seronga said. "No killing. No black magic."
"That man would have bled to death," Pavant replied. He was cleaning his own blade on the blanket of the other cot. "You showed mercy. And if you had not pushed him, he would not have told us what we needed to know."
"What we needed to know," Seronga said.
"Yes. We cannot allow the bishop to come here. It would undo everything," Pavant said. "Dhamballa would have been seen as small, petty, ineffective. Besides, no one need know about these two."
"They mustn't," Seronga said.
The leader of the Brush Vipers felt sick. He had been pushed to this extreme by this man's stubborn resistance. It would have been so much easier if the clergyman had cooperated. Instead, his words were his own epitaph. He had said that if Seronga killed, it would be on his own conscience. If that was true, these two deaths were on the deacon's^oul. Had he answered Seronga's questions, they would have tied the
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men up. They would have hidden them here or in the field, in a cave, away from predators. When the kidnapping of the American bishop had been accomplished, they would have instructed authorities where to find these two.
The stupid, stupid man.
"I have the cell phone," Pavant said from behind the door.
"See if there are fresh bedsheets anywhere," Seronga said.
"I will," Pavant said. "But I won't listen to you blame yourself. We are lions. These men were prey. This is the way it had to be. This is the way you did it when you liberated the country the first time."
"That was different," Seronga said.
"No, it wasn't," Pavant insisted. "You were fighting an empire then. We are fighting an empire now."
"It was different," Seronga repeated. "We were fighting soldiers."
"These are soldiers," Pavant replied. "They fight with resistance instead of arms."
Seronga was in no mood to debate. He removed his own knife from the throat of his victim and wiped the blade on the pillow. Then he put the knife back in his hip sheath. He waited as Donald Pavant felt his way around the dark room. The only light came from the half-moon shining through the partly opened door. They had not shut the door for that reason.
"I have the sheets," Pavant said. He was standing by a closet in the back of the room.
The younger man hurried over. He set the sheets down on the floor. Then, together, the men prepared the bodies in turn. They removed the pillowcases and stuffed them in the wounds. That would help stem the leaking of blood. Then they wrapped the bodies tightly inside the bloodstained sheets on the bed. The blood was already soaking through, so they took blankets from the closet and lay them on the floor. The bound bodies were placed upon these. Then the beds were made.
Seronga decided that the bodies would be carried out into the floodplain. The sheets would be removed. They would be wrapped around stones and dropped in Lake Mitali. By dawn, there would not be much of the deacons. The authorities would
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suspect murder. But they would not be able to prove it. The soft tissue the knife had penetrated would have been eaten. And there were footprints everywhere. Those of Seronga and Pavant would not stand out. As far as anyone could prove, the deacons went for a walk and were attacked by predators. The Vatican would have doubts, but they would not have proof. Most importantly, they would not have martyrs. And as long as the other clergymen were held captive, there was a chance for a negotiated withdrawal. First of the Church, and then of all foreigners. The Botswanans would be able to profit from their own rich resources.
There was one last thing the two Brush Vipers would need: the vestments these men had worn. But Seronga did not want to carry them with the bodies. They must not be splattered with blood. He would come back for the garments when the deacons' remains had been disposed of.
While Seronga wiped up stray streaks of blood, Pavant checked the veranda. There was no one outside. The men slung the bodies over their shoulders. Even with the loss of blood, the corpses were lighter than Seronga expected. Obviously, Deacon missionaries did not eat very well. The dead men were also still very warm. Eager to get his mind off the killings, Seronga wondered if Dhamballa's ancient magic would be potent enough to rouse two such as these. Not just men who had died of natural causes but men who had been murdered. Seronga wished he could spend more time with their leader. He wanted to learn more about the few phenomena he had witnessed. About the ancient religion he had embraced on faith.
In time, he told himself.
For now, Seronga would continue doing things he did not enjoy. That was how Botswana had become free once before. Whether he liked it or not, that was how Botswana would become free again.
TWENTY-FOUR
Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:35 P.M.
It was a busy afternoon for Paul Hood, the kind of afternoon* when information flowed so quickly that questions provided their own answers. And each answer generated two or three new questions.
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br /> Unfortunately, none of those answers provided the key the Op-Center director was searching for.
Still, Hood was happy to get out of the morning alive. For the first time in over a week, Senator Fox's office did not call and ask to see Op-Center's daily work sheet. That was the duty roster Congress used to apportion budgets. Evidently, Fox was satisfied with the cutbacks Hood had already made. Nor did any other members of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee contact him. That meant Mike Rodgers had been able to keep his new intelligence operation under wraps for over a day. In Washington time, that was equivalent to a year.
Even the tension between Darrell McCaskey and Bob Herbert had been defused, at least for the moment. The only lingering problem was not Op-Center's. At least, not directly. That was the tension between Darrell McCaskey and his wife. The way Herbert described it, Maria Corneja took the assignment "like a pit bull at a rib roast." She was not going to give up fieldwork. They had all suspected that would be the case. Now they knew it. The fact that Maria had made this decision without consulting her husband made it even worse. It was ironic. McCaskey was a great listener in interrogations or conferences. He was without equal when it came to sifting answers for truths or following voice inflections to fertile new
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lines of questioning. But when it came to his personal life, McCaskey tended to do most of the talking and none of the hearing. That was going to have to change.
Look who's giving advice, Hood thought. He himself was a man who had listened to everything his wife had said. And meant to do most of it. He just never found the time.
But there had not been time to dwell on small triumphs or major shortcomings. Not long after returning to his office, Hood received a call from Edgar Kline. The Vatican security officer reported that Deacon Jones had heard from Father Bradbury. According to Jones, the priest was still a prisoner.
"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
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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 Albeit 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,"
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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?"
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"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 cornpany?" 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
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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.
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 09 - Mission of Honor Page 16