Clancy, Tom - Op Center 09 - Mission of Honor

by Mission of Honor [lit]

  "Let's get back on track," Rodgers suggested.

  McCaskey nodded weakly.

  "One of the reasons I was going to call you is that we've got an orphan agent in the field," Rodgers said. "Who do you know over there?"

  "No one we can use," McCaskey replied. "I already checked. There's an Interpol office in Johannesburg, but that's a dry well."

  "They don't have anyone free, or they won't help?" Rodgers asked.

  "Interpol South Africa needs authorization from Botswana to operate within their borders," McCaskey said. "That will take days to obtain."

  "They can't go in unofficially?" Rodgers asked.

  "They won't," McCaskey replied. "Unlawful police actions are code-one crimes. Federal crimes that carry a minimum of life imprisonment. South Africans don't get very favorable treatment in Botswana courts. It's a holdover from apartheid."

  "There's no one else we can ask?" Rodgers asked.

  "All of my dealings in that region were with ISA," meCaskey said. "Botswana was never a hub of intelligence activity."

  "Which could be one of the reasons the perpetrators struck there," Rodgers thought out loud.

  "First rule of starting a revolution," McCaskey said. "Always start where the resources are on your side. Speaking of which, Bob told me that the Vatican Security Organization has

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  undercover personnel in the area. Members of the Grupo del Cuartel General."

  "That's true," Rodgers said.

  "Can't we get them to help Maria?"

  "Paul's going to ask Kline about that," Rodgers replied. "We don't know what their mandate was. I'm also not sure how far to trust them. They didn't do a very good job protecting the bishop."

  "No," McCaskey agreed.

  "If it doesn't work out, I need some other options," Rodgers said. "What about newspaper offices over there? Do you know anyone in Maun?"

  "I might be able to find someone who knows someone," McCaskey said. "Why?"

  "Maria took pictures at the airport right after the shooting," Rodgers said. "I want those. We'll need someone in the heart of town who has a computer and Modern that can take Maria's digicam software."

  "I'll look into it," McCaskey said. "In the meantime, you might try the local church. They're probably hooked into the Vatican by PC. I'm sure your friend Kline can get you access."

  "Good idea," Rodgers said. He turned to his computer and immediately sent an instant message to Hood.

  "Thanks, General," McCaskey replied. "You want another really good suggestion?"

  "Sure," Rodgers said.

  "Recall Maria," McCaskey said.

  He was serious.

  "Do you think she would bail if I did?" Rodgers asked. "Or would she know that you put me up to it?"

  "I don't care," McCaskey said. "At least she'd be back here."

  "Maybe not," Rodgers said. "You don't divert a laser gunsight from seven thousand miles away."

  "You do if you're a good gunner," McCaskey said.

  Rodgers didn't like that. But he didn't let it get to him. McCaskey was not thinking. He was reacting. If Rodgers did

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  the same, there would be even angrier words and probably worse.

  "Look, Darrell," Rodgers said. "No one knows that Maria is in Botswana. I'm sure she will not do anything to call attention to herself."

  "I know that," McCaskey said. He was exasperated, and it showed in his expression, his voice, his posture. "But hell, Mike. Maria isn't even armed. She turned in her handgun when she resigned from Interpol. Even if she had a weapon, she wouldn't have risked packing it in her luggage. Not without a license. A scanner might have picked it up at the airport. There would have been questions, she would have had to say who she was, there might have been a leak. She's too professional to have let that happen."

  Mike Rodgers did not know what else to say to his friend. Even if he did, there was not a lot of time to say it. Rodgers did not want to spend any more time on hand-holding. He wanted to check in with Bob Herbert and Stephen Viens. Make sure they were doing everything possible to support Maria.

  "Darrell, we're going to do everything we can to help her," Rodgers said. "But we're in this now, and we have to let it play out."

  "We?" McCaskey said. "She's the one who's out there on her goddamn own." He rose and turned to go.

  "Darrell?" Rodgers said.

  McCaskey turned back.

  "I heard everything you said," Rodgers said. "I'll get her out of there as soon as possible."

  "I know you will," McCaskey said. He thought for a moment. "And I'm sorry if I hit you hard."

  "I can take it," Rodgers said.

  "Yeah," McCaskey said with the hint of a smile. "Anyway, you're in the intel-gathering business now. I needed to tell you what was on my mind."

  "Fair enough," Rodgers said.

  McCaskey left the office, and Rodgers immediately phoned Hood. Bugs Benet told him that the boss was still on the phone with Edgar Kline. Rodgers told Benet to make sure Hood

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  looked at the instant message before ending the call.

  Then he called Matt Stoll. Rodgers wanted to make sure they had conversion software to upload to Botswana. He wanted to be certain Maria's camera would interface with whatever computer they located.

  As Rodgers made the call, he had an unsettling whiff of the future. He had the very strong sense that the next wars would be fought this way. Not by soldiers looking for the correct range for their artillery. Not even by massive armies, financial institutions, and diplomats working in tandem, the way they had in the War on Terrorism. Wars of the future would be fought by people behind desks searching for the right software to fire off. A combination of cyber-hits, intelligence, and microsurgical strikes.

  Mike Rodgers was not sure he was prepared for that future. A future in which, conceivably, any nation could be a superpower.

  Even Botswana.

  r

  FORTY

  Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 4:39 P.M.

  Father Bradbury had spent nearly twenty-four hours in a small hut in the center of the tiny island. The only items in the room were an aluminum-frame cot, a hanging lantern, and a straw mat. The priest's left ankle was cuffed to the frame of the cot. He had been fed stew three times during that period. They left him with a canteen of warm water to keep him from dehydrating. The priest had been taken to the outhouse twice. The shutters were still closed, and the room was ferociously hot, though it was not as stifling as his first prison had been. He had been left with one thing to occupy himself. It was a slender pamphlet containing the reflections of Dhamballa.

  Bradbury lay on his side on the canvas cot. He had sweated so much that the fabric was clammy. His outer clothes were so rank with swamp water and sweat that he had removed them. They were lying on the dirt floor, where he hoped they would dry. The ground was slightly cooler than the air.

  Occasionally, people would pass the hut. It was difficult to hear anything that was said outside. Bradbury wondered if he were the only one being held on this small island. He wondered what was happening in the outside world. How the Church and his deacons had reacted to his abduction. He hoped his friend Tswana Ndebele was all right. Now that Father Bradbury had time to reflect on what had happened, he realized how many people would be worried about him.

  He also had time to reflect on the suffering of Jesus and other Christian saints and martyrs: Saint John the Evangelist beaten, poisoned, and placed in a cauldron of boiling oil; the young convert Felicitas, taken to an arena and trampled by a

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  wild cow; Saint Blaise, raked with iron combs and beheaded; so many others. In John 16:33, Jesus warned that there would be tribulation in this world. Father Bradbury would not cornplain about his.

  The priest also took time to read the Vodun booklet several times. He was happy to hav
e it. Perhaps it would give him a means of communicating with the Vodun leader. When they met, nothing he said had any impact. If the Bible taught him anything about zealots, it was that reason seldom worked on them. Perhaps there was some other way they could communicate. Perhaps if he knew more about the man's faith, he could find something they had in common.

  They came for him again. There were two men, dressed in camouflage fatigues and carrying rifles. Only this time, there was an urgency Father Bradbury had not seen before. While one man unlocked his leg, the other held his arm tightly. Father Bradbury did not resist.

  "Please let me get my clothes," the priest said. He pointed to them as the second man took his other arm.

  The men allowed Father Bradbury to dress. Then they pulled him toward the door.

  "The booklet-" he said. He gestured to the pamphlet, which had fallen on the ground. The men ignored him.

  The priest did not bother to ask where they were going. It was still light enough in the leaf-filtered twilight for him to see their faces. They seemed anxious. As they headed toward the center of the island, the priest became aware of other activity. Men were gathering things up inside huts. On the far side of the island, moss, leaves, branches, and canvas were being removed from motorboats. The vessels had been kept there under heavy camouflage. A small airplane was being stocked beyond them.

  Obviously, the camp was being abandoned. Quickly. The priest had seen films of occupied towns and concentration camps being evacuated. Papers, extra supplies, and evidence of crimes were destroyed. Witnesses and prisoners were executed. Father Bradbury had a sudden, strong sense that the men were taking him out to shoot him. He began "?o murmur

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  through the Eucharistic prayer. He never imagined this was how it would be, administering the last sacraments to himself. So much of his life had been stable and predictable.

  The men led Father Bradbury to Dhamballa's hut. It was dark, lit with just a few candles. It seemed funereal. They brought him in and released his arms. The Vodun priest was standing in the center of the room. His posture was as ramrod straight as before. Another man was with him. A bald man, short and hefty, stood beside him. He was slouching slightly. Both men wore unhappy expressions. The smaller man, a white man, was sweating heavily. The priest could not tell if that was a result of the heat or anxiety. Probably both.

  The soldiers released Father Bradbury's arms. They left the hut and shut the door. Physically and psychologically, Father Bradbury felt stronger than he had the last two times he was here.

  All right, the priest thought with some relief. The soldiers are not going to kill me.

  At least, not yet. Father Bradbury wondered what Dhamballa would want him to do this time. The priest had already recalled his missionaries. He lacked the authority to do anything else.

  Dhamballa stepped closer to the priest. Their faces were only inches apart. There was fierce intensity in the Vodunist's eyes. He pointed toward the telephone on his table.

  "I want you to call your diocese," Dhamballa told him.

  "The archdiocese in Cape Town," Father Bradbury said.

  "Yes," Dhamballa replied.

  Something must have happened. The Vodun leader's voice was tense, angry. He pointed a long finger toward the phone on his table. Then he pointed toward Father Bradbury.

  "What do you want me to say to them?" Bradbury asked.

  "That you are alive," Dhamballa said.

  "Why would they think I am not?" the priest asked.

  The other man jostled the priest. "This is not a negotiation," he complained. "Make the damned call!"

  The man had what sounded like a French accent.

  Father Bradbury looked at him. They had starved and struck

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  him so much that his body seemed to be in pieces. And when there was no body, only one thing remained: spirit. That could not be hurt from the outside.

  "Why?" the priest asked.

  "I will tell you," Dhamballa said. "Your replacement was executed when he landed at the Maun airport."

  "The bishop?" Father Bradbury asked.

  "Yes," Dhamballa replied.

  "Because of my call to the deacon?" he asked.

  "No," Dhamballa said. "We had nothing to do with this."

  The priest felt weak. Martyrs were a part of history. That was fact. But there was nothing inspiring about it. Not when you were living it.

  He pushed Dhamballa away and stepped back. He did not want to hear any more.

  "I want people to know that you are well," Dhamballa said. "And I want you to tell them that we did not do this."

  "Of course you did it," Father Bradbury replied. His statement bordered on accusation.

  "You idiot!" said the other man. He struck the priest.

  "Stop that!" Dhamballa yelled.

  "He makes accusations, but he knows nothing!" the man charged.

  "I know that you started a process of discrimination," the priest went on. "You forced it upon people who love the Church. Perhaps you've given courage to others who do not share the views of the Church-"

  "All I know, priest, is that we killed no one," Dhamballa insisted. His tone was more moderate, yet there was menace in it. "But if we are forced, we will do whatever is necessary to preserve our heritage."

  There was often a very thin line between someone being confident and someone on the verge of being overwhelmed. The priest heard it in the confessional booth time after time. He could tell when an individual was contrite and afraid of damnation. He could also tell when a person was simply feigning atonement. Dhamballa and the other man wer^ desperate. Father Bradbury did not know what their scheme was to ex-

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  tend the influence of Vodunism. In his lucid moments, he hoped it would be done by peaceful means, by what Dhamballa described in his writings as "white magic." But that was no longer the only thing at risk. Their lives might be in jeopardy. Father Bradbury could not ignore that. Nor did he have any reason not to make the phone call and tell the truth. He was alive.

  "If I make the call, they are going to ask me questions," Father Bradbury said. "They will want to know how I am and how I have been treated."

  "You may tell them anything except where we are," Dhamballa replied. "They must understand that while we have our differences, we are men of peace."

  "They will say that men of peace don't take other men by force," the priest pointed out.

  "Men of your sect inflicted the Inquisition on men of peace," Dhamballa said. "What is it that you say? Let he who is without sin judge me."

  The Vodun leader had anticipated the question. This was not the time to debate the point.

  The priest looked over at the cordless phone. He looked at Dhamballa. "I read your pamphlet. There is room for everyone."

  "That is true," Dhamballa said. "But not in Botswana."

  "We don't have time for this," the other man snarled. "Make the damned phone call."

  The priest went over to the small table. As he crossed the cool, damp soil, he looked at the telephone. It was covered with droplets that glistened in the dull daylight. Perspiration, no doubt. This was where the bad news had been received. As Father Bradbury walked toward the phone, he said a short, silent prayer for the murdered bishop.

  "You will have no more than three minutes to deliver the message," Dhamballa cautioned. "I will not give the authorities time to triangulate the call. We will also be listening," he added.

  Dhamballa punched the speakerphone button. A loud, strong dial tone filled the room. Father Bradbury had not noticed

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  before, but the dial tone sounded extremely clear. The camp must have had their own uplink.

  Father Bradbury's ordeal had cost him his focus. It took the priest several moments to remember the phone number of the archdiocese. He began to punch it into the keypad. Perspiration blurr
ed his vision. He entered the number slowly. It hurt to move his fingers. He just now noticed how severely swollen they were. No doubt that was a result of the heat and humidity. Perhaps the salt in the stew had caused it.

  So many things have changed out here, the priest thought. Yet Father Bradbury did have one wondrous realization. His mind, his body, and his emotions had all undergone degrees of metamorphosis. Through the ordeal, however, his faith had remained unaltered.

  "Hurry!" snapped the man who might be from France.

  Father Bradbury glanced over at the European. The man's expression was agitated. He looked at his watch.

  The activity all over the island, the priest thought. The European's urgency. Father Bradbury realized that these people were suddenly on an extremely tight timetable.

  Despite the stiffness in his joints, Father Bradbury entered the numbers more quickly. He finished entering the number. Then he turned and rested against the table. Dhamballa stood directly beside him. The priest's own sweat fell on the black receiver. As he waited for someone to answer, Father Bradbury wondered what the European was doing here. His language and demeanor did not suggest that he was a holy man. His reasons for being in Botswana had to be political or economical. Power and wealth were the only other reasons faithless men embraced religion. Even in his own Church.

  A lay secretary answered the phone. Father Bradbury introduced himself and asked to be put through to the archbishop as quickly as possible.

  "Of course, Father!" the young man practically shouted into the receiver.

  In less than half a minute, the archbishop was on the phone with his heavy, distinctive Afrikaner accent.

  "Powys, is it truly you?" Archbishop Patrick asked.

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  "Yes," Father Bradbury replied.

  "Praise to God," the archbishop sighed. "Are you well?"

  "I am-"

  "Have you been released?" the archbishop pressed.

  "Not yet, Your Eminence," Father Bradbury said. "My captors are with me, in fact," he added. The priest wanted the archbishop to know that they were not free to speak.

  "I see," the archbishop replied. "Gentlemen, if you can hear me, please talk to me. What must we do to secure the release of our beloved brother?"