Clancy, Tom - Op Center 09 - Mission of Honor

by Mission of Honor [lit]

  "You are vacationing soldiers?" Seronga asked.

  "Not vacationing, sir," Diamante replied. "We and our cornrades are special forces soldiers with the Grupo del Cuartel General, Vnidad Especial del Despliegue, out of Madrid."

  Pavant sneaked a glance at Seronga. Seronga did not have to look back to know what was in his eyes. The same fire that was there when he urged Seronga to kill the two deacons.

  "Special forces soldiers," Seronga said. He tried his best to sound impressed, even honored. He wanted to get the man to talk. "Are you expecting a military assault?"

  "We do not know," Diamante admitted. "Our unit has been sent to safeguard the bishop who is coming from America. We will do whatever is necessary to support that mission. What we wanted to tell you is that we consider the tour bus to be a potential target."

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  "Thank you," Seronga replied.

  "But do not worry," Diamante went on. "Two of us will be in the tour bus with you. If anything happens, all we ask is that you do your best to keep out of the way."

  "We will," Seronga replied. "Tell me. Do you have any special reason to expect that something will happen on the bus or anywhere else?"

  "We have no knowledge of a plot against the bishop," Diamante told him. "But after what happened to Father Bradbury, we are taking nothing for granted. We will be armed and watching for any unusual activity."

  "Armed," Seronga said with a shudder. "We put our trust in the lord. In what do you put your trust? Machine guns? Knives?" Seronga had to know what he might be up against.

  The sergeant lightly patted a bulge under his left arm. "Our M-82s will help the lord to protect you."

  "That is gratifying. How many of you are there?" Seronga asked.

  "Twelve," Diamante replied. "We've arranged with Senor Ndebele to borrow one of the safari cars. Four soldiers will follow the bus in that. The other four will remain here to make sure this area stays secure."

  Seronga put his hand on his chest. He lowered his head gratefully. "Although I hope these precautions will not prove to be necessary, Sergeant Diamante, they are appreciated."

  The sergeant nodded back. "We will not acknowledge you on the bus except in passing, as fellow travelers. I hope you are correct, Deacon. That the journey will be a safe one."

  The two men left. When they had disappeared around the corner of the church, Pavant got out of his wicker chair.

  "None of these bloody devils understands!" Pavant said angrily.

  "I know," Seronga answered calmly. Part of his mind was here, dealing with Pavant's rage. The rest of it was looking ahead three hours, trying to figure out what to do.

  "They think they can call in even more foreigners and swat us down. They don't understand that this is our country," he

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  struck his chest with his fist, "that this is our faith we are fighting for. Our history, our birthright."

  "They're wrong," Seronga assured him. "They will find that out."

  "We have to alert Njo," Pavant said.

  "I agree," Seronga replied. But that was all Seronga knew for certain. He looked down.

  "What is it?" Pavant asked. "What's wrong?"

  "The question is, what do we tell Njo?" Seronga said. "It is one thing to defend the island from an attack that probably will not come. This is different. We have to decide how far to escalate this conflict militarily."

  "Do we have a choice?" Pavant asked. It was more of a statement than a question. "As soon as we take the bishop toward Njo's truck, they're going to realize that something is wrong."

  "I know that," Seronga said.

  "Either we need backup to cover our retreat from Maun, or we must make a preemptive strike against the Spaniards," Pavant decided.

  "A retreat would not work," Seronga said. "Even with the bishop as a hostage, they would follow us to camp."

  "Then we must attack," Pavant said forcefully.

  "Lower your voice," Seronga cautioned, looking around. He gestured toward the church. For all they knew, the Spanish soldiers were standing there, having a smoke.

  "I'm sorry," Pavant said. The Brush Viper bent closer. "We must make sure that they do not leave the bus station. They must not trace us to Dhamballa. They must be killed."

  "Or eluded," Seronga said.

  "Why?" Pavant asked. "Dhamballa will have to understand-"

  "It isn't just Dhamballa that I'm worried about," Seronga said. "If we attack these men, the Spanish government will insist that it was unprovoked. They will say the soldiers were tourists. They will brand Dhamballa and his followers as terrorists. Our own government will be forced to hunt us in ear-

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  nest to protect international relations, business investments, and the tourist trade."

  Pavant stared at Seronga. His dark eyes lost some of their fire. "Then what do we do?" he asked. "We can't bring the bishop here. That will invigorate this parish. The Church will win."

  "They will also find out that we are not real deacons," Seronga added. "We will be hunted relentlessly."

  "So we cannot come back to the church, and we cannot let the Spanish soldiers follow us to Dhamballa's camp," Pavant said. There was renewed anger in his voice and frustration in his dark eyes. "That does not appear to leave us very many options."

  "No," Seronga agreed.

  In fact, there was only one thing to do. Regardless of the consequences, they would have to fight. Seronga would not let Dhamballa know now. He had already decided that sooner rather than later, the Brush Vipers would have to separate themselves from Dhamballa. The Vodun leader wanted to be known as a man of white magic. His credibility would suffer if the death of the deacons were tied to the Brush Vipers. Seronga could still help him, but from a distance. He thought of the Middle East, where leaders publicly denounced radical military organizations while benefiting from their violent activities. That separation could occur within weeks when, hopefully, Dhamballa would have enough bodies around to protect him from government interference. There would be followers who moved around with him as well as foreign journalists who covered his rallies. The Europeans had promised to bring in reporters as soon as the Vodun movement had its first major rally.

  The leader of the Brush Vipers rose. Everything old eventually returns, he thought. During his decades of service to the government, Seronga had engaged in various small-scale engagements, from border skirmishes to ambushes. Most of those times, the Brush Vipers had been the perpetrators. Occasionally, they had been the targets. So it would be agayi.

  Seronga knew the small-unit offensive and defensive drills

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  by heart. He also knew the area where the bus would be bringing them. If it came down to self-defense, he would have to have a plan.

  Seronga entered the living quarters. While Pavant stood by the door to make sure no one entered, Seronga went to the bed. He opened his backpack and withdrew his cell phone. He called Njo Finn. The truck driver was about sixty miles northwest of Maun. The signal was not very strong, and Seronga made the message as succinct as possible. Seronga told the man exactly where to meet him. Using code words that were known to all the Brush Vipers, Seronga also told Njo what to have ready when the tour bus arrived.

  It might not be the cleanest or best-planned operation the Brush Vipers had ever undertaken, but that did not matter to Seronga. He only had one concern: that it worked.

  THIRTY

  Washington, D.C. Friday, 5:03 AM.

  It was not a restful night for Paul Hood.

  He dreamed that he was trying to prop up the Hollywood sign. It was an endless task. One of the big white letters would begin to tilt forward, and he would rush over to it. He would push it back up, and another would immediately start to drop over. The rate of fall did not change, but the order did. There was no respite, nothing that could be done by rote. Hood woke aro
und three-thirty A.M., wired and perspiring. Is that how he viewed his life? Constantly propping the same things up, minute after minute after minute? Was it all superficial, like Hollywood? Or was that his own past as the mayor of Los Angeles coming back to nag at him, to tell him that this was all he was good for? Bureaucratic management.

  Hood flicked the television on and turned on the History Channel. The subject was World War II, the European Theater. The subject was always World War II, the European Theater. Hood watched for a while, then decided there was no point. He was not going to get back to sleep. He showered, dressed, and headed for Op-Center.

  The night team was not surprised to see him. Since the separation, he had been there late at night and early in the morning. And Hood was not surprised to find Liz Gordon still in her office. She was there with J2 and Mae Won. Those two had the energy of the young. They were sitting around her desk, working on networked laptops. The smell of coffee hung in the open door like a scrim. ^

  Hood rapped on the jamb. "Good morning."

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  J2 and Mae both returned the greeting. Liz did not look away from her monitor.

  "Paul, I'm beginning to think you've got a very serious problem in Botswana," Liz said.

  "More than just a Vatican problem?" he asked.

  "Very much so," she said.

  "Talk to me," Hood said. He walked toward her.

  Liz's shoulders were slumped. She rubbed her eyes and looked over. "There are events in history mat trigger what we call 'mass movements.' Examples are the American Revolution. The Communist Revolution. The French Resistance during the Second World War. Even the Rennaissance, though that was less clearly defined. It's the result of a collection of people whose imaginations are stirred to action by a person or an event or even an idea."

  "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.

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  "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 oj^vendettas that might have motivated him?"

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  "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."

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  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 questione
d 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

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  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 postapocalyptic 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?"