Mission of Honor (31 page)

There were many possibilities. Unfortunately, there was not yet sufficient intelligence to support any of them.

Edgar Kline was in an office of the Permanent Observer of the Holy See to the United Nations in New York. Hood was not surprised to learn that he already knew what had happened at the airfield in Maun. Kline said that the leader of the Spanish group had informed him. He added that he was about to phone Bob Herbert when Hood called.

“I was extremely sorry to hear about the shooting,” Hood said.

“We were all caught off guard,” Kline replied. “No one expected the kidnappers to ratchet things up like this. Now we have to accept that they may have killed Father Bradbury as well.”

“Not necessarily,” Hood said. “No one here believed that the Brush Vipers would kill Bishop Max. I’m not convinced they’re behind this.”

“Who else could it be?” Kline asked.

“I don’t know,” Hood admitted. “Let’s talk about that.”

“Botswana has never been on anyone’s list of security risks,” Kline pointed out. “The government prides itself on the nation’s stability. Everyone who wants a job has one.”

“Obviously, Dhamballa and his followers feel there’s room for change,” Hood said.

“Economy masquerading as religion,” Kline said.

“What do you mean?”

“Botswana’s greatest asset is its diamonds,” Kline said. “They produce two hundred million dollars’ worth each year. No outside entity is going to stir things up for that. They’d go after drugs or weapons-grade uranium, something that could net them billions.”

“What makes you think Dhamballa and the Brush Vipers are after the diamond mines?” Hood asked.

“Someone is,” Kline remarked. “Otherwise, Dhamballa could have started this crusade in a nation with a much higher rate of indigenous religious affiliation. Mozambique, for example. Angola is half Christian, but even they have a smaller Roman Catholic population than Botswana. The fact is, no one wants to corner the cashew or banana markets.

Kline had a point. But Hood could not help but think this was about more than diamonds. He was not the only one who thought so. The Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs thought so as well.

“Were the Spanish soldiers at the site?” Hood asked.

“They were there,” Kline said. “At a discreet distance.”

“Were the soldiers able to give you any insight into what happened?” Hood asked.

“Nothing,” Kline replied. “They did not see very much. They had positioned themselves well away from the tarmac. They didn’t want to seem like bodyguards. They weren’t supposed to be there.”

Which possibly cost the bishop his life, Hood thought. He wondered if the Spanish soldiers might somehow have been involved with the assassination. Or at least been aware of it.

“Where are the soldiers now?” Hood asked.

“The ones who were at the airport are still there,” Kline replied.

“Incognito?” Hood asked.

“No,” Kline said. “We wanted to be able to recover the body. Get a look at the bullet. See if it can give us any leads. The soldiers have identified themselves as special Vatican envoys and are talking with police. They are trying to get some background on the dead guard. Also, there is some confusion about the identity of the deacons who were waiting at the airport. Apparently, they were black men. The only black men who worked with Father Bradbury had already left Botswana and are in Cape Town now. What about your people?” Kline went on. “Were any of them there?”

“Yes,” Hood told him. “Maria Corneja.”

“Where was she?” Kline asked.

“Close enough to have made a tentative identification of one of those ‘deacons,’ ” Hood said. “She believes that the man she saw was the leader of the Brush Vipers.”

“Leon Seronga?”

“Yes,” Hood said.

“What else did she tell you?” Kline demanded. “Does she know where he went?”

 “She’s following him in a cab,” Hood said. “I was hoping we could get some of your people to watch out for her. She’s alone over there.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Kline said. “Are you in touch with her?”

“Yes,” Hood said.

“What is her present location?” Kline asked.

“She’s headed back into Maun,” Hood said.

“In a taxi, you say?” Kline said.

“Right.”

“Maybe the soldiers can rent a helicopter at the airfield and track her,” Kline said. “Or the local police must have a small plane they can use.”

“I do not want you to do that,” Hood said.

“Why?”

“If the deacons are Brush Vipers, or operatives of any ability, they’ll notice a spotter,” Hood said.

“Does that matter?” Kline asked.

“It does if you want to recover Father Bradbury,” Hood said.

“Assuming he’s still alive,” Kline said.

“He’s alive,” Hood said confidently. “If the Brush Vipers were behind this killing, they knew they would need a hostage. If they weren’t, they have no reason to kill him.”

Kline was silent. Hood began to wonder if they had been disconnected.

“All right,” Kline said at last. “I’ll buy that.”

“If the Brush Vipers think they’re being tailed, my guess is they’ll try to get their hands on the plane or chopper and its pilot.” Hood accessed the topographical map on his computer. “If they manage to do that, we’ll have a tough time picking them up again. We can tap into South African radar, but it may not be able to find them if they fly low in the Okavango Basin.”

“That may be true, Paul, but how the Brush Vipers are tracked is out of my hands,” Kline told him. “Now they’ve killed a man. According to the leader of the Spanish team, both the local police and the national police will be moving against the assassins.” Hood swore.

“Based on their conversations with the local authorities,” Kline went on, “the Botswana National Police have taken over the case from the police in Maun. Apparently, attacking a local individual remains a local matter. Once an international figure is involved, the state becomes involved.”

Hood noticed Mike Rodgers’s instant message about the church on his computer.

“Edgar, let me ask you something,” Hood said. “Is there a church in Maun proper?”

“There’s a multidenominational chapel,” Kline replied. “It started out as a Catholic church. We opened it to other faiths when we established the Church of the Holy Cross at the tourist center. It was a show of good faith.”

“Do you happen to know if the church has Internet access?” Hood asked.

“I can find out for you,” Kline said. “Why do you ask?”

“If the police are closing in, we may need to send our people data at a place where they won’t have to look over their shoulders,” Hood said. He did not want to tell Kline about Maria’s photographs. The Botswanans might want to confiscate the camera.

“Hold on,” Kline said.

“While you’re looking,” Hood went on, “what is the name of the dead security guard?”

“Festus Mogami,” Kline said.

“Are they sure that’s his real name?” Hood asked.

“Pretty certain,” Kline said. “He’s been at the airport for at least two years, according to one of the ticket agents.”

Hood instant-messaged that name over to Bob Herbert. It sounded, on the surface, like the kind of mob hits he used to see in Los Angeles. An outsider was hired to kill an important figure. Then he was shot by the backup gunmen or the people who were supposed to get him out.

“The church in Maun does have an E-mail address, so obviously they’re on-line,” Kline said.

Kline provided the E-mail address. He also gave Hood an up-to-date list of the pastors who held services at the chapel.

Hood sent all the information to Herbert as well.

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Hood asked.

“What are you looking for?” Kline asked.

“Details about the shooting, anything about what our people might be facing over there,” Hood told him. “Because we are in this now. Not just OpCenter but the United States. I don’t think the president will do anything except condemn the action, but you never know.”

“Paul, I don’t have any other information right now,” Kline told him. “I wish I did.”

“Can we talk to the leader of the Spanish team?” Hood asked.

“I’ll find out for you,” Kline replied. “Your agent in Maun is Spanish, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Depending on what region of the country she’s from, that could work for her or against her,” Kline said. “The soldiers are serious loyalists.”

“Maria’s not a separatist, if that’s what you’re asking,” Hood said. “She was with Interpol for years.”

“That’s good,” Kline said. “I’ll call over there. They may want to talk to her directly. I’ll let you know as soon as possible.”

Hood believed that Kline would press the soldiers to cooperate. He would want all the help he could get.

“Before you go, Edgar, there is one more thing I would like to ask you,” Hood said. “Does the Church believe that what’s happening in Botswana is the will of God?”

“That’s an odd question,” Kline said.

“Not from a doctrinarian member of the Episcopal Church,” Hood said. “We believe that God’s hand is in everything.”

“Catholics believe in free will,” Kline said. “It is the privilege of an intelligent being to act or not act. There is no compulsion from outside. God did not will the kidnappers to do what they did nor the assassin to do what he did. The choices were their own.”

“And God would not have intervened to stop either of those events,” Hood said.

 “He would not have,” Kline said. “He did not save His own Son. Murder is the province of-“

Suddenly, Kline stopped.

“I have another call,” the Vatican official said. His voice was noticeably different now. It was clipped, urgent.

“Is everything all right?” Hood asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Then we’ll talk later,” Hood said.

“No, I’ll call you right back,” Kline insisted urgently.

“Why?” Hood asked. “What happened?”

“The incoming call,” Kline said. “It’s news from Father Bradbury.”

Washington, D.C. Friday, 9:00 AM.

Before phoning Darrell McCaskey, Mike Rodgers needed to put in a call to his friend Lieutenant Colonel Matt Mazer at the Pentagon. Rodgers wanted Mazer to call ahead to the airport in Gaborone. He wanted to make sure the plane carrying Aideen Marley and David Battat to Maun was given a thorough security check. The airfield as well. Maybe it was an attack on the bishop himself. Or maybe someone was shooting Americans. Rodgers wanted to make sure Aideen and Battat were protected.

Rodgers had just hung up with Mazer, when Darrell McCaskey swung into his office.

“Mind if I come in?” McCaskey asked.

“No. I’m glad you’re here, Darrell,” Rodgers said. “I was just going to give you a holler.”

“What about?” McCaskey asked.

“I’ve heard from Maria,” Rodgers replied.

“And?”

“She’s doing all right,” Rodgers said.

“Just ‘all right’?”

“No, she’s fine,” Rodgers said. This was not coming out the way he wanted. Rodgers had been in combat situations that were easier than this.

McCaskey eyed the general warily. “I hear a ‘but’ there, Mike,” McCaskey said.

“What you hear is frustration, Darrell, because I feel like a genie in a goddamn bottle,” Rodgers said.

“Mike, what the hell are you talking about?”  McCaskey asked.

 “I’m talking about things happening on the outside that affect what we do,” Rodgers said. “The bottle gets rubbed, we jump into service with all our resources, and we have very little control over any of it.” He took a short, deep breath. “Yes, Maria is all right. But she was at the airport in Maun when a security guard, or someone posing as a security guard, killed the American bishop.”

“What?” McCaskey declared. “They killed the bishop who just flew over there?”

“Yes,” Rodgers said.

“How did it happen?” McCaskey asked as he eased into a chair. His voice was flat and professional. For the moment.

“He was killed by a gunshot at close range,” Rodgers told him. “When the killer tried to board a small plane that was apparently waiting for him, the pilot shot him.”

“A patsy,” McCaskey said.

“No doubt,” Rodgers said.

“And Maria?”

“She was on the sidelines, but she’s pretty sure she ID’ed one of the men who was on site,” Rodgers said. “She thinks it was a Brush Viper. She’s following him in a taxi.”

“Did the Brush Viper participate in any way?” McCaskey asked.

“Not that she could see,” Rodgers said.

“I see. Does Maria have backup?” McCaskey asked.

“Aideen Marley and David Battat will be arriving in Gaborone shortly,” Rodgers told him. “They’ll be in Maun in about three hours. I left a message for Aideen on her cell phone. Calls are being relayed by our consulate in Gaborone. She’ll call before they catch the connecting flight, and I’ll bring them up to speed.”

“What about local police?” McCaskey asked.

“They were not present, and she left without them,” Rodgers said. “It would have taken them about a half hour to get there.”

“But you’ll let them know where Maria is,” McCaskey said.

“She doesn’t want that,” Rodgers replied.

“Does that matter?” McCaskey asked.

“Yes, it does,” Rodgers said. “Maria is hoping the Brush Viper may lead her to Dhamballa and Father Bradbury. She doesn’t want to do anything to signal her presence.”

“Mike, it doesn’t matter what she wants,” McCaskey said. “She isn’t running this mission. The Maun police can pick up the Brush Viper and get the same information she can. Botswana peace officers can be pretty aggressive when they want to be.”

“Then how do we get the information?” Rodgers asked.

“Why do we need it?” McCaskey asked. “The police can find Father Bradbury.”

“Not if the target sees them closing in and signals ahead,” Rodgers said. “You know better than that, Darrell.”

McCaskey stared at Rodgers. The look was pure G-man: steady gaze, neutral mouth. It was an expression that agents practiced to keep adversaries from knowing whether they had touched a weak spot in a confrontation or interrogation. Or that they had let an important piece of information slip. Rodgers did not think McCaskey was trying to keep his feelings a secret, but the former FBI agent was trying to keep them in check. McCaskey could not have liked what he just heard about his wife.