Mission of Honor (12 page)

“You will be given water and food now,” said the man who had done most of the talking. “Then you will be allowed to sleep.”

“Wait!” said the priest. “You told me I would be released-“

“You will be set free when your work is finished,” the man assured Father Bradbury.

“But I did as you asked!” the priest protested.

“For now,” the man said. “You will be asked to do more.”

Father Bradbury heard a door shut. He wanted to scream, but he did not have the energy or the voice. He felt betrayed, foolish.

A canteen was once again pressed to the priest’s lips.

“Drink it or else I will,” the gruff-voiced man said from beside him. “I have things to do.”

Father Bradbury put his mouth around the warm metal. He drank as slowly as a thirsty man could. Then he sat while the man fed him pieces of banana, papaya, and melon. He sat and he thought.

Reason returned along with some of his strength. As Father Bradbury began to think back through the events of this morning, he began to feel extremely uneasy. He realized that he may have made the greatest mistake of his life.

He may have just been used to start the flood that was going to wash over Botswana.

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 6:00 A.M.

Paul Hood was shaving when Bob Herbert called. The intelligence chief was already at OpCenter. They had spoken about Edgar Kline just a few hours before. Hood told Herbert that they should give the Vatican representative any support he required.

“What did I interrupt?” Herbert asked.

“Just scraping my face,” Hood replied as he finished up. “What’s up?”

OpCenter’s director pulled the hand towel from his bare shoulder. He wiped his cheeks and chin. He felt a sad pang as he thought back to when his young son Alexander used to watch him do this. He would not be there the day Alexander started shaving. How the hell did that happen?

Herbert’s soft, Southern accent brought Hood back to the moment.

“I just got a call from Ed Kline,” Herbert said. “Powys Bradbury has been working the phones.”

“The priest?” Hood said.

“Father Bradbury, yes,” Herbert replied.

“Is he all right?”

“They don’t know,” Herbert told him. “He telephoned each of his deacon missionaries, the guys in the field, and told them to pack up and go back to the diocese in Cape Town.”

“Are they sure it was him?” Hood asked.

“Yeah,” Herbert said. “One of the deacons asked him something about a conversation they had a few weeks* ago. The caller knew what the two of them had spoken about.”

“Did Father Bradbury give a reason for recalling the missionaries?” Hood asked.

“None,” Herbert said. “Apart from saying he was okay and would catch up with them in Cape Town, the preacher didn’t tell them anything else. Nothing about where he was, where he would be, or what comes next. Kline got the records of calls that were placed to the missionaries’ cell phones.”

“And?”

“Nada,” Herbert said. “The number was blocked. Stoll says someone probably hacked the local computers to erase the number as soon as it appeared. Or maybe it was blocked on the caller’s end. Our own TAC-SATs do that.”

“Which means these people have some technological talent either in the group or available to them,” Hood said.

“Right,” Herbert said. “We’ll have to wait for this Dhamballa guy to surface again before proceeding. In the meantime, I want to do two things. First, we should get people into Botswana. We will need intelligence resources on the ground. Second, assuming Beaudin is part of this, I want to try to get a look at his possible end game.”

“How?” Hood asked.

“Revolutions need two things,” Herbert said.

“Guns and money,” Hood said.

“Exactly,” Herbert went on. “We need to try to find out if any of Beaudin’s companies are funneling money to Botswana.”

“Absolutely,” Hood said. He thought for a moment. “There’s someone I used to work with on Wall Street who might be able to help with that,” he said. “Let me give her a call.”

“I knew those years you spent in the exciting world of finance would come in handy,” Herbert teased.

“It hasn’t helped my stock portfolio,” Hood said as he walked into the bedroom. He looked at the clock. When Emmy Feroche worked with Hood at Silber Sacks, she used to be in the office at four A.M. to check the Tokyo and Hong Kong exchanges. Now she worked for the FBI’s Finance Division investigating white-collar crime. Hood had not spoken to Emmy in over a year, but he bet that she was still an early riser.

“Do me a favor?” Hood said.

“Sure,” Herbert said.

“Give Darrell a call,” Hood said. “Tell him I’m contacting a friend at the Bureau. I don’t want him upset because I’m playing in his sandbox.”

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” Herbert joked.

“Yeah,” Hood replied.

Hood said he would call back as soon as he had spoken to Emmy. However, before he hung up, Herbert had one thing to add.

“When I came in this morning, there was a voice mail message from Shigeo Fujima.”

“I know that name,” Hood said.

“He’s the head of the Intelligence and Analysis Bureau of Gaimusho, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” Herbert said. “Fujima did the Japanese security follow-up on our North Korea operation.”

“That’s right,” Hood said.

“Fujima wanted to know if we had any information on a guy named Henry Genet,” Herbert said.

“Who is?”

 “A member of the board of directors of Beaudin International Industries,” Herbert said. “But that’s not all he does. Genet spends a lot of time in Africa pursuing his main business.”

“Which is?” Hood asked.

Herbert replied, “Diamonds.”

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 8:00 A.M.

DiMaggio’s Joe was not the kind of place where spies did business. It was public, brightly lit, watched by security cameras, heavily trafficked, and generally loud.

That was precisely why Mike Rodgers asked Aideen Marley, David Battat, and Darrell McCaskey to meet him there. Any young job seekers or political junkies would be watching and listening for members of Congress, the State Department, or something high profile. Spies looking for intelligence typically went to bars. Not only was it dark, but people drank. Caution fell away. Information was often revealed, especially if free drinks or sex was used as bait. No one sold out their government for a mochachino.

Battat was the only out of towner who said he could come down immediately. The former CIA officer promised to take the first shuttle down from La Guardia and cab right over Thursday morning.

Rodgers was the first to arrive. He ordered coffee and a Danish and grabbed a corner table. He sat facing the front door. Darrell got there a few minutes later. The short, wiry, prematurely gray ex-FBI man looked tired. His leathery face was pale, and his blue eyes were bloodshot.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” Rodgers said.

McCaskey sat down with two double espressos and two raisin biscottis. “Not much,” he admitted. “I was up most of the night seeing what I could find out about the disappearance of your friend.”

“Ballon?” Rodgers said quietly.

McCaskey nodded. He leaned closer. “I called my contacts in France and at Interpol,” he said. “They swear that the colonel is not undercover. A couple of months ago, he went out to return a library book and never came back.”

“You believe that?” Rodgers asked.

“These guys have never lied to me before,” McCaskey said.

Rodgers nodded. He felt very sad about that. A man like Ballon made a lot of enemies during the course of his work. A man like Beaudin had the clout to mount a counterattack like this.

“So that’s the story about Colonel Ballon,” McCaskey said. “I had Interpol look for bank transactions, credit card purchases, phone calls to relatives and friends-nothing.”

“Shit,” Rodgers said.

“Yeah,” McCaskey agreed.

“Well, thanks, Darrell,” Rodgers said.

McCaskey took a sip of his first double espresso. “Then there’s stuff with Maria,” he said.

“What kind of stuff?” Rodgers asked.

“She’s worried,” McCaskey said.

“About being married, or coming to the U.S.?” Rodgers asked.

“I don’t know. Everything, I guess,” McCaskey grumbled.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Rodgers said. “Newlyweds always have a bout of PHSD.”

“PHSD?” McCaskey asked.

“Post-honeymoon stress disorder,” Rodgers replied.

“You’re pulling my leg,” McCaskey said.

“Partly,” Rodgers said. “It’s not a real syndrome. But I swear, Darrell, I’ve seen this in family members, friends, servicemen. It’s when you get back from the Bahamas or Tahiti or wherever and realize, ‘Holy shit. My dating days are over. I’ve enlisted for the duration.’ “

“I see.” McCaskey bit one of the biscottis, then took another short swig of double espresso. “Well, there’s probably some of that. But I think it’s more,” he said. “Maria’s afraid that when she’s finished psychologically disengaging from Interpol, she’ll have a really tough time getting adjusted to suburban D.C. and then finding something interesting to do.”

“I thought she was ready for a break,” Rodgers said.

“So did she,” McCaskey replied.

“Did something change her mind?” Rodgers asked.

“Yeah. Bob called her early this morning,” McCaskey told him.

“Bob called Maria?” Rodgers asked.

McCaskey nodded.

Rodgers was not happy. Maria Corneja was on his own short list of operatives to call on, and Herbert knew that. But Bob Herbert was a team player. Something must have happened over there, or he would not have contacted her. Because Rodgers’s cell phone was not secure, he would have to wait until he got to OpCenter to find out what it was.

“What did he want?” Rodgers asked.

“He needed Maria to check on something at the Ministry of Defense,” McCaskey said.-

“Do you have any idea what it was?”

“Haven’t a clue. But it didn’t matter to Maria,” McCaskey went on. “She got all juiced up having something to do, something that was important. She called me from her old office. She was psyched because she knew which people to talk to at the Ministry, she knew the area, and she knew exactly where to look. She felt plugged in.”

“She’s spent her life there,” Rodgers said. “And going back home, right before you leave somewhere-that’s rough.”

“I know,” McCaskey said. “But she also isn’t a kid. We went through all this. She knew that moving here would be like anyone going to a new job, a new house in a new neighborhood, a new anything. There’s a lot you think you’re going to like about it. Then, like you said, after you make the commitment, you start to think about all the things it doesn’t ‘t have.”

“You go through withdrawal,” Rodgers said.

“You got it,” McCaskey replied. “That’s what Maria had been going through. Or at least, that’s what she was going through until four-thirty this morning, our time. She wakes me up with a call that goes something like, ‘Darrell, I may have made a mistake. I don’t know if I can give this up.’ “

“I’m sorry, Darrell,” Rodgers said.

“Thanks. I appreciate that,” McCaskey said.

Rodgers took a swallow of coffee. He was not certain whether this was a good time or a terrible time to broach the subject of Maria becoming a part of the new unit.

Given the situation in Botswana, he decided he did not have a choice. He also thought of something that might appeal to McCaskey.

“So what are you going to do if she does want to go back into the field?” Rodgers asked.

“I don’t know,” McCaskey said. “I guess the question is: Where does she get that opportunity?” He leaned in closer again. “There was a rumor going around the clubhouse yesterday that you’re going to spearhead a new HUMINT operation. Is that true?”

Rodgers nodded. Herbert must have slipped McCaskey the word. The intelligence chief hated keeping a brother at arms in the dark.

McCaskey sat back. “Damn, Mike. I would have appreciated some kind of heads-up.”

“You would have gotten that today, right now,” Rodgers said. “That’s why I asked to see you this morning. Christ, Paul just hit me with this new operation. “

McCaskey scowled.

“As for Maria, I don’t know why Bob called her,” Rodgers said. “The new group is my operation, not his. And I won’t ask Maria to be involved with my team if it’ll make things tough for you.”

Even as he said that, Rodgers knew he should not have. He might not have anyone else he could call on in Europe. However, there might be a solution.

“I don’t know, Mike,” McCaskey admitted. “I love the woman. I always have. I gave Maria up once rather than worry about losing her in the field, if that makes any sense.”

“It does,” Rodgers said.

“But after talking to her this morning, I know she’s not going to be happy working as a nine-to-fiver again even for us,” he said.

“How ya gonna keep ‘em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree,” Rodgers said.

“Something like that,” McCaskey replied.

“Maybe she won’t have to,” Rodgers said.

“What do you mean?”

“We might be able to work something out where Maria is in the field part-time,” Rodgers said. “And when she does go out, we wouldn’t send her into red zones.”

Red zones were high-risk areas, such as going behind the lines in combat situations. A white zone action was the infiltration of an adversary’s nonmilitary group. A green zone operation was the kind Maria was doing now, going into an allied area for information.

“That could work,” McCaskey said. “Hell, I don’t want to try to control Maria.”

“As if you could,” Rodgers said.

“Exactly. I just don’t want her dead.”

Rodgers glanced at the wall clock.

“Listen, Darrell, we can talk about this later,” Rodgers said. “Having Maria work with me is not why I wanted to see you. I asked you here to tell you about the HUMINT group because I may need help from some of your people in D.C. and abroad.”

“Then why did you want to meet at this place instead of the office?” McCaskey asked.

“Because two other people are joining us,” Rodgers said. “I want to see how they conduct themselves in public.”