Mission of Honor (7 page)

“Do you need me to repeat the instructions?” the man asked.

Father Bradbury shook his head vigorously. Shaking it helped him to work through the aftershocks of the blow.

“I am going to punch in the number,” the man went on. “If you do not speak to the deacon, then we will have no choice but to go after him and kill him. Do you understand?”

Father Bradbury nodded. “I still… will not say … what you want,” he informed the man.

The priest expected another blow. He was trembling uncontrollably, too unsettled now to even try to prepare for it. He waited. Instead of striking him, someone relied the hood under his chin. Then he lifted the prisoner to his feet. His legs seemed to be disconnected, and the priest began to drop. The man grabbed the meat of his upper arms and held him tightly. It hurt, but not as much as the rest of him.

The priest was dragged back outside. He was taken to another structure and tossed roughly inside. His hands were still tied behind him, so he tucked his head into his chest to protect it from a fall to the floor. The fall never came. Father Bradbury struck a corrugated metal wall and bounced back toward the door. He landed against metal bars that had been shut so quickly they literally pinned him to the wall. His legs were still wobbly, but that did not matter. His body sagged but did not drop. There was no room. He tried to wriggle to the left and right, but that was not possible. The side walls were as far apart as his aching shoulders.

“Lord God,” he murmured when he realized he was in a cell, a cell so small that he would not be able to sit, let alone sleep.

Father Bradbury began to hyperventilate through the hood. He was frightened and rested his cheek against the metal. He had to calm himself, get his mind off his predicament, off his pain. He told himself that the man who had been leading this action, the man in the hut, was not an evil man. He could feel that. He had heard it in his voice. But Father Bradbury had also heard strong determination. That would cloud reason.

The priest folded the fingers of his bound hands. He squeezed them together tightly.

“Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with Thee,” he muttered through the damp cloth.

In the end, only the body dies. Father Bradbury would not stain his soul to save it. But that did not stop him from fearing for the lives of his friends the deacons, from acknowledging that he had no right to sacrifice them.

Yet he also feared for his adoptive home. Only one group spoke of white and black magic. A group as old as civilization and terrifying to those who knew of the pain black magic could cause. Not just supernatural magic, but dark deeds such as drugging, torture, and murder.

A group that had the power to subvert the nation and the continent. And then, possibly, the world.

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 5:55 P.M.

It was Mike Rodgers who informed Bob Herbert of Paul Hood’s proposed new intelligence unit. The general had come to Herbert’s office and briefed him about the meeting with Hood. Then he went off to contact the personnel he hoped would join his new unit.

Bob Herbert was not happy when he heard about it. He was pretty sure he understood why Hood did this the way he had. Rodgers had lost Striker twice. First in Kashmir, then in a wood-paneled office on Capitol Hill. The general needed something to get him back on his feet. The combination of briefing, pep talk, and eye on the prize seemed to have done that. Rodgers had been upbeat when he came in to talk to Herbert.

But Herbert was the intelligence chief. Hood should have consulted him. Herbert should have been briefed about this new unit at the same time that Mike Rodgers became involved.

Hood did not speak to Herbert about the new undertaking until after the routine five P.M. intelligence briefing. The briefings were held at both nine in the morning and again at five P.M. The first briefing was to keep Hood abreast of activities in Europe and the Middle East. Those regions had already been active for hours. The second meeting was to cover the day’s intelligence activities involving OpCenter as well as events in the Far East.

After the fifteen-minute update, Hood regarded the Mississippi-born intelligence chief.

“You’re upset, aren’t you?” Hood asked.

“Yeah,” Herbert said.“

“About Mike’s new operation.”

“That’s right,” Herbert replied. “Since when is my input a threat?”

“It isn’t,” Hood told him.

“For that matter, since when is Mike’s ego so delicate?” Herbert asked.

“Bob, this had nothing to do with letting Mike ramp this thing up on his own,” Hood assured him.

“What then?” Herbert asked indignantly.

“I wanted to keep you clean,” Hood said.

“From what?” Herbert asked. That caught him off guard.

“From the CIOC,” Hood said. “My sense of what they decided last night was to try to push Mike to resign. Senator Fox and her allies can’t afford public hearings, and they don’t want Mike around. He’s a loose cannon who gets things done. That doesn’t work in their bureaucratic worldview. The solution? Terminate his primary responsibility. That gives him a disciplinary kick in the ass, and it leaves him without much to do.”

“Okay. I’ll buy that,” Herbert said.

“So I had to give Mike something else to do,” Hood said. “If I had made it part of your intelligence operation, that would have given the CIOC a new avenue to attack us. They could have gone after your budget, your personnel. What I did was give Mike responsibilities that fulfill both the CIOC action and his own job description. If Senator Fox decides she isn’t happy with what I’ve done, and they question you about it, you can honestly tell them you had nothing to do with it. Your job or your assets can’t be attacked.”

Herbert was still pissed. Only now he was angry at himself. He should have known that Hood had a reason for doing what he did. He should never have taken it personally.

He thanked Hood for the explanation. Then Herbert returned to his office to do something constructive rather than brood. Emotion was a quality intelligence operatives were trained to avoid. It fogged the brain and impeded efficiency. Since he had taken an office job, Herbert often forgot that. One of the first questions Hood had asked Herbert before hiring him was a good one. Herbert and his wife had been working for the CIA when they were caught in the Beirut embassy blast. Hood wanted to know whether Herbert would trade information with the terrorists who had destroyed his legs and killed his wife.

Herbert said that yes, he would. Then he had added, “If I hadn’t already killed them.”

If Herbert had thought this through, he would have realized that Hood was trying to insulate him. That was what the professionals did. They looked out for their people.

Herbert had just returned to his office when the desk phone beeped. His assistant, Stacey, told him that Edgar Kline was calling. Herbert was surprised to hear the name. The men had worked together in the early 1980s. That was when the Johannesburg native first joined the South African Secret Service. They shared information about terrorist training grounds on the African coast along the Indian Ocean. The SASS was responsible for gathering, correlating, and evaluating foreign intelligence with the exception of military data. Kline resigned from the group in 1987, when he discovered that SASS resources were being used to spy on antiapartheid advocates working abroad. The operative was a devout Catholic who did not approve of apartheid or any exclusionary form of government. Kline moved to Rome and joined the Vatican Security Organization, where Herbert lost touch with him. He was a good man and a solid professional. But he had also been a very difficult man to read. He told you only what he wanted you to know. As long as you were on his side, that was fine. He never left your ass exposed.

Herbert wheeled himself behind the desk and grabbed the phone. “Gunther Center for World Studies,” Herbert said.

“Robert?” said the caller.

“Yeah, this is Robert,” Herbert replied. “Is this really the Master of Ceremonies?”

“It is,” said the caller.

MC had been Edgar Kline’s code name. The CIA had assigned it to him when the then-twenty-three-year-old operative worked the coast along the Mozambique Channel. Kline used it whenever he called the Gunther Center for World Studies. That was a small office Herbert had set up to process intelligence information. Herbert had named it after John Gunther, the author of Inside Africa and other books that Herbert had read as a young man.

“You know, I’ve always said the best way to start a day is saying good-bye to a new friend,” Herbert said. “Preferably of the opposite sex. But the best way to end a day is definitely saying hello to an old one. How the hell are you?”

“Very well,” Kline told him. “What about you?”

There was no mistaking Edgar Kline for anyone else working in intelligence. His voice was still thick with its Afrikaans inflection. It was a unique accent, a hybrid of the English and Dutch that comprised Kline’s Afrikaner heritage.

“I’m still cleaning up after the yakety-yak diplomats,” Herbert replied. “Where are you calling from?”

“At the moment, from a commercial airliner en route to Washington,” Kline told him.

“No shit!” Herbert said. “Does that mean I’m going to get to see you?”

“Actually, while I realize this is rather short notice, I was wondering if you might be free for supper.”

‘Tonight?”

“Yes,” Kline said.

“If I weren’t, I would make myself free,” Herbert said.

“Excellent,” Kline said. “I’m sorry about this being so last minute, but it’s been difficult to make plans.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Herbert assured him. “Tell me. Are you still with the same group?”

Herbert had to be careful what he said. Kline had made a point of informing him that he was on board a commercial aircraft. That meant the phone line was not secure.

“Very much so,” Kline answered. “And obviously, so are you.”

“Yeah, I love it here,” Herbert informed him. “They’ll have to blast me out of this place, too.”

There was a short, pained moan on the other end. “I can’t believe you said that, Robert,” Kline told him.

“Why not?” Herbert asked. “That’s how they got me out of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“I know. But still,” Kline replied.

“You’ve spent too much time with the wrong people,” Herbert teased. “If you don’t laugh at yourself, the only option is to cry. So where do you want to meet?”

“I’m staying at the Watergate,” Kline told him. “I should be there about eight o’clock.”

“Fine. I’ll meet you at the bar,” Herbert said. “Sounds like we need to put some hair back on your cheek.”

“Would you mind meeting me in my room?” Kline asked. The South African’s tone was suddenly more serious.

“Okay, sure,” Herbert said.

“I’ll be in the same room I had back on February 22 of ‘84,” Kline told him. “You remember which one that was?”

“I do,” Herbert told him. “You’re getting nostalgic.”

“Very,” Kline said. “We’ll order room service.”

“Fine, as long as you’re picking up the check,” Herbert said.

“Of course. The Lord provides,” Kline said.

“I’ll be there,” Herbert told him. “And don’t worry, me. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”

“I’m counting on that,” Kline told him.

Herbert hung up. He glanced at his watch out of habit and immediately forgot what time it was. He was thinking about Kline.

Kline had not stayed at the Watergate in 1984. That was how they used to communicate room numbers or house addresses of terrorists. The date signified the number. In this case, February 22 meant that Kline was staying in room 222. Obviously, the VSO operative did not want Herbert asking for him. That meant he was not traveling under his real name.

Edgar Kline did not want a record of his being in Washington, D.C. That was also why he was not staying in the permanent rooms the Vatican kept at Georgetown University. If he did, he would be photographed by the campus security cameras. There was also a chance he might be recognized by someone he had worked with.

Herbert wondered what kind of crisis could require such precautions. He brought up the White House database on the travels of world leaders. The Pope was not planning any trips abroad in the near future. Perhaps there was a plot against the Vatican itself.

Whatever it was must have come up suddenly. Otherwise, Kline would at least have let Herbert know he was coming.

In any case, Herbert could use a good scrap right now. The CIOC action had left him frustrated. And it would be nice if he could help an old friend and colleague in the process.

While Herbert pondered the problem, he happened to glance down to his right to the pocket in his wheelchair, to something he had forgotten because he had been distracted and annoyed for most of the day.

To a possible answer to his question.

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Wednesday, 1:40 A.M.

The hut was bank-vault dark, and the air was as stuffy and still. The swamp gave up the heat it had accumulated during the day. It was no longer as open-oven hot as it was under the sun. But it was still humid, especially inside the small hut. However hot he was, though, Henry Genet was certain of one thing. The stubborn Father Bradbury was warmer.

Dressed only in briefs, the bald, five-foot-nine-inch Genet sat down on the forty-eight-inch canvas cot. The bed was surrounded by a heavy white nylon lace mosquito net that hung from a bamboo umbrella and reached to the wooden floor. Genet pulled it shut. Then he eased onto his sunburned back. It had been too hot to keep his shirt on, and the sun had managed to find him, even through the thick jungle canopy. Beneath him was a foam mattress and pillow. They were not the king-size bed and down pillow to which he was accustomed, but both were surprisingly comfortable. Or maybe he was just tired.

The trappings were completely alien to the Belgian native. So was this remote swamp, this distant nation, this vast continent. But the fifty-three-year old was thrilled to be here.

He was also thrilled to be doing what he was doing.

The son of a diamond merchant, Genet had lived in and around Antwerp most of his life. Situated on the busy Scheldt River, Antwerp was Europe’s chief commercial city by the mid-sixteenth century. The importance of the Belgian city declined after its sacking by the Spanish in 1576 and the subsequent closing of the Scheldt to navigation. Its significance to modern times dates from 1863. Kings Leopold I and Leopold II undertook a massive industrialization program and a modernization of Antwerp’s port. Today, it is a very modern city and a major center of finance, industry, and the diamond trade.