Mission of Honor (32 page)

“What about you, Mike?” McCaskey asked.

“I don’t follow,” Rodgers said.

“What do you want?” McCaskey pressed.

“I want Maria to be safe,” Rodgers replied. “I also want to complete the mission she undertook.”

“In that order?” McCaskey pressed.

There was something accusatory in McCaskey’s tone. Rodgers did not appreciate it.

“Very much in that order, Darrell,” Rodgers replied. “I’ve already lost my allotment of OpCenter personnel for this year.”

McCaskey looked like he’d been hit across the back with a two-by-four. There was an awkward, deadly silence. McCaskey lowered his eyes. Some of the anger seemed to leave him.

Mike Rodgers was still pretty pissed off, himself. But not because McCaskey had raised the subject of Rodgers’s priorities. If he were in McCaskey’s position, he would have asked the same question. And not as diplomatically. He would have done it for two reasons. First, to make sure his wife was not taking reckless chances. And second, to blow off pressure at having been left out of the decision-making process from the start.

No, what bothered Rodgers was one of the same things that bothered McCaskey. Maria was being forced to improvise an entire recon operation. There was no playbook for Maria to follow. And there was no exit strategy. The least they could do was to try to get her some blockers.

“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,” McCaskey 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 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 modem 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 gunfight 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 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 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.

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 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 complain about his.

The priest also took time to read the Vodun booklet several times. He was happy to have 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 to murmur 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 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-“