Mission of Honor (35 page)

Since Maria had telephoned, Rodgers had conferred with McCaskey and Herbert. Lowell Coffey joined them as well. He wanted to be able to alert them to any possible infractions of international law.

The men discussed getting help in the area from FBI, Interpol, or CIA sources. The only help available was ELINT from the CIA. The agency could provide electronic intelligence by monitoring wireless communications in the region. Rodgers asked Herbert to request the surveillance. It would be handled by listening posts at the United States embassies in Gaborone and in Cape Town, South Africa. Though these were one-person operations, it was possible that something might turn up.

Even though Rodgers was in charge of the new HUMINT division at OpCenter, he asked Herbert to make those calls.

“You’re better at finessing those drop-everything requests than I am,” Rodgers said.

“It’s easy,” Herbert said. “All you have to do is grovel with a little steel in your voice.”

“Amazing what is in Bob’s incomparable diplomatic arsenal,” Coffey remarked.

“Lowell, that is my diplomatic arsenal,” Herbert replied.

 “That and threatening to go on The Dugout and name the bastards who are looking for votes and appointments instead of looking after their constituents.”

“The Dugout?” Coffey snickered. “Stuttering Matt Christopher doesn’t let his guests get in more than three words before cutting them off.”

“Three words are all I need,” Herbert said. ” ‘Barbara Fox, bureaucrat.’ That’s my targeted diplomatic arsenal. Plant the idea and it takes root on its own. It’s like when an attorney says something in a courtroom and the judge tells the jury to ignore it. Like they do, right? All people have to do is hear my calm voice before Matt starts blathering.”

Coffey laughed.

Rodgers had never considered himself much of a diplomat. He was a tactician and a commander. Right now, he was not feeling competent in those areas, either.

What concerned Rodgers most was that Maria still had no support on the ground. Aideen Marley and David Battat had landed in Gaborone. But Aideen had called to inform him that they were driving to Maun. The trip would take several hours.

Rodgers also feared that Aideen and Battat would end up being in the wrong place. Everyone was assuming that Leon Seronga was headed to Maun. What if he were not?

Shortly after the meeting ended, Rodgers finally received a call from Botswana. It came through on Maria’s calling card. The caller had the correct ID number to enter the private OpCenter telephone directory. Once there, the caller was able to input Mike Rodgers’s name and receive the correct extension. Without the ID, the caller had to go through the switchboard. That enabled the electronic operator to trace the call. The system kept crank calls to a very low minimum.

But the caller was not Maria.

The man on the phone identified himself as Paris Lebbard. Rodgers did not recognize the name, but the accent sounded almost Egyptian.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Lebbard?” Rodgers asked. The general said nothing more. Maria’s cards had been lost or stolen. If that were the case, Rodgers did not want to let the caller know who he had reached or who she was.

“I am your friend Maria’s driver,” Lebbard said. “In Botswana. She gave me her calling card and your number.”

“Is Maria all right?” Rodgers demanded.

“She nodded to me that she was,” Lebbard replied.

“She nodded? I don’t understand,” Rodgers said.

“That was our signal,” Lebbard said. “I dropped her off to meet the man from the airport. Then I parked around the corner and sneaked back. I watched as she spoke with the man. If she had not nodded, I would have gone to the police station to report a kidnapping.”

“I see,” Rodgers said. The general experienced the same gut-burning fire he had felt in Kashmir. The one that told him he may have acted recklessly. The desire to get Maria on-site backup had gone from necessary to desperate.

“She told me you would be concerned, sir,” Lebbard added. “But I like her very much. And I know she has a husband who loves her. I also know she is trying to keep peace in Botswana. If I had any doubt about her safety, I would have gone for assistance at once.”

Rodgers was not entirely convinced. But the general had to take his cue from the people in the field. And right now, Paris Lebbard was the only person in contact from the field.

“Thank you, Mr. Lebbard,” Rodgers said. He swung toward his keyboard and prepared to type. “Can you tell me what the man looked like?”

“It was dark, and I was too far to see his face,” Lebbard said. “But he was dressed like a Christian clergyman.”

“Where did they go?” Rodgers asked.

“They walked to his truck, which was parked on Bath Street,” Lebbard said. “Then they drove away.”

“When did Maria leave with the man?” Rodgers asked.

“Less than five minutes ago,” Lebbard said.

“Can you describe the truck?” Rodgers asked.

“Yes,” the driver reported. “They drove right past me. It was a Chevrolet. Maybe ten years old. The cab looked olive green. It was dented, with a lot of rust. It had a canvas back and no markings on the side.”

“Were you able to get the license number?” Rodgers asked as he typed up the description.

“No,” Lebbard said. “It was covered with mud.”

“Do you have any idea where they went?” Rodgers asked.

“That is difficult to say,” Lebbard replied. “The truck did not get on the highway but took local roads.”

“Meaning?” Rodgers asked.

“The driver does not want to be followed,” Lebbard said. “At night, on the dirt roads, he will pass only villages. He will know if anyone is tailing him.”

“Which direction was the truck headed?” Rodgers asked.

“North,” Lebbard replied. “Though there is one thing.”

“What’s that?” Rodgers asked.

“It has not rained here for over a week,” the driver said. “There was not only mud on the license plate of the truck. It was also on the fender, tires, sides, and flaps. It was dark mud. That’s the kind of mud you find in and around the swamps to the north.”

Rodgers made a note of that. He immediately Emailed the description of the truck, its location, its heading, and its possible destination to Stephen Viens at the National Reconnaissance Office. There was a chance the NRO might pick the truck up by satellite. He also sent a copy of the E-mail to Aideen Marley.

“This is very helpful,” Rodgers told him. “Was there anything else, Mr. Lebbard?”

“Yes,” the driver went on. “Maria gave me other instructions.”

That took Rodgers by surprise. He smiled slightly. The driver was very well organized. Rodgers also felt a flash of vindication. He had been right to select Maria for this assignment. She had obviously made a big impression on this man.

“Go ahead,” Rodgers said.

“She left me with a camera and a computer diskette,” the man said. “She said I should send you the photographs she took. She also said you might know where to find a computer.”

 “I do,” Rodgers informed him. “Where are you now?”

“I am at a pay telephone at Nhabe, two blocks from the eastern bank of the Thamalakane River.”

Rodgers brought up the map of Maun. “That’s perfect,” Rodgers said. “Do you know the multi-faith chapel in the center of Maun?”

“Of course,” Lebbard replied. “It’s to the west of the Mall. The Chapel of Grace.”

“Right,” Rodgers said. “Go there. I’m going to call someone who will get you access to a computer. Do you know how to use the software?”

“Maria told me to insert the diskette,” Lebbard said. “She said there would be instructions telling me what to do next. I have read maps for years. I am very good at following directions.”

“I’m sure you are,” Rodgers said. “Go there, Mr. Lebbard, while I make a few calls.”

“I will,” Lebbard replied. “Sir, Maria did not tell me who she works with. She is Spanish, but you sound American. Are you with the United Nations?”

Rodgers did not want to respond without knowing how his answer would be received. “What if we were?” Rodgers asked. “Would that make you happy?”

“It would make me very happy, sir,” Lebbard replied. “When I was a young child, nurses from the United Nations came to my village. They gave us injections against smallpox and polio. They gave us food. They gave me the first chocolate I ever tasted.”

Rodgers thought for a moment. He wanted Paris Lebbard to be happy. But he did not want to lie to an ally.

“We are not the United Nations, Mr. Lebbard. But we have worked with them,” Rodgers said.

That seemed to please the Botswanan. Rodgers was glad.

Maybe he had the makings of a diplomat after all.

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 6:20 P.M.

Father Bradbury had not bothered to turn on the lantern when the soldiers returned him to the room. The priest knelt by the foot of the cot and prayed. When he was done, he sat on the edge of the cot. He peered into the darkness. He let his mind move through the rich past and the uncertain future. Whichever way he looked, however, he came to the same place.

Life was about choices.

Years before, Father Bradbury had decided that the most dangerous thing in the world was to have a choice. When he was an altar boy, thirteen-year-old Powys Bradbury had found himself in a rectory fire. A spark had jumped from the fireplace while he was stoking it. An open Bible caught fire, a burning page fell on the rug, and within seconds, the room was ablaze. The youth looked around. There was no time for guilt or self-reproach. He tried to decide what Father Sleep would want saved.

Photographs? Books? Earthenware that had been dug up from Bethlehem? Black smoke began to cloud around the boy. Young Bradbury’s throat began to thicken. After a few strained breaths, it was nearly impossible to inhale. His eyes teared, and he could not see. That was when he found it easy to prioritize. Bradbury needed to get out.

Forty-nine years ago, Powys Bradbury had a choice whether to risk his life or not. Now he did not have that luxury. Yet there were still choices to make. In a way, they were more important than deciding what to take from a burning rectory.

These choices were not about whether to escape. They were about how to accept his fate.

Neither Dhamballa nor the European had indicated that Bradbury’s life was in jeopardy, but the soldiers and their leaders were breaking camp. The priest had already seen people rushing about. Now they were shouting and hurrying about. The departure was going to be hasty.

He was excess baggage.

The shadows around Father Bradbury seemed especially deep. At a time when he should be contemplating spiritual matters, he found himself thinking about physical things. He would have all eternity to contemplate the spiritual. This was the time to savor the shell that God had given to him, to enjoy the wonder of the senses: the simple act of breathing, a gift passed from the nostrils of God Himself through Adam; the beauty of the heart working at its steady, dependable pace; all of it functioning in miraculous unison. It was, on reflection, a masterpiece of the Creator’s art. One that no man had the right to destroy.

Yet men kill and torture each other every day, he thought. That was why people such as Father Bradbury were needed. Only the peace of God could stop violence.

The priest began to pity the cultists who might be ordered to kill him. They were indirectly causing the suffering of others the priest might have saved. Father Bradbury also forgave the soldiers. The men would not understand what they were doing. And not understanding, they could never sincerely repent. They could not be saved.

The priest moved from reflection to the world around him. As he contemplated what might be his last minutes, Father Bradbury had no trouble admitting that he did not want to die. He drank in the beauty of even these dismal surroundings and the wisdom God demonstrated by letting men grow old. God had designed humans so that their senses and bodies dimmed over time. The world became more and more selectively available to them. Aging, people could only savor what their dimming senses could see, hear, taste, smell, or feel. God made the choice for them. He showed people how to enjoy, even cherish the things close to them. But God did not intend for life to end all at once. That was why He had put in His commandments that it was wrong to murder. Father Bradbury wanted to experience God’s choices over time.

The door of the hut flew open. The two soldiers had returned. He could only see their silhouettes framed by distant lantern light. Their posture was different than before. Their knees were bent slightly. Their shoulders were hunched. They were more aggressive.

They were holding their handguns.

One of the men came in. He released the priest’s ankle from its metal cuff. Then he poked Father Bradbury in the side with his gun. That was the only order the soldier gave.

The priest rose. His legs were unsteady, due to exhaustion and fear. He fell on the shoulder of the soldier. The man did not pull away.

“Thank you,” the priest said.

It took a moment for Father Bradbury to regain his footing. His knees were trembling, and his thighs felt weak, but he remained standing.

Choices, he thought. He could not think about the future. He thought about the moment. His heart was racing. The back of his neck was clammy. And his legs were like harp strings. But he was suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of God’s gift to humankind. As he walked from the hut, the soldier put a hand on his shoulder. He forced the priest to his knees. He stepped behind him.

Father Bradbury felt cold. He was aware of nothing else but his heart hammering high in his chest and the sudden flow of tears. He looked up at the early evening stars. He was grateful for his life, thankful for all life. If it were possible to have an out-of-body experience without leaving his body, the priest was experiencing one now. He felt entirely at peace. Perhaps this was God’s way of easing men into death.

“No!”

The shout broke the moment. Father Bradbury looked across the small island. Dhamballa was striding toward them. He had to have found out about the phone.