Mission of Honor (37 page)

Even the former accountant in Hood was restless. Senator Fox had done all the budget slashing for him. He could probably stay in here the rest of the day, and everything would run just fine. Even Bugs Benet, God bless him, was on top of things. Hood’s assistant was dealing with a lot of the operational details, paperwork, and E-mails the director had been handling. Benet even found time to take care of some of the press matters Ann Farris used to handle.

It was not just here Hood felt a sudden disconnect. Right now, his kids would be eating the lunch their mother had prepared. There was a time when Hood knew what was in those sandwiches. Or in the juice boxes. What kind of snack they were having. What brand of chips. Who they would be sitting with at school. Hell, he did not even know what their class schedules were.

Some of that was their age. They were not in elementary school anymore. Some of it was circumstance. Hood was not at the house anymore. If he called each morning to ask what the kids were having for lunch, they would not see it as Dad connecting. They would think it was weird.

Whether or not this was a momentary lull or the shadow of things to come, Hood had to do something. The leaner OpCenter was still feeling its way. His divided family was still finding its own new personality. Hood had to do the same. If things were quiet here this afternoon, maybe he would drive over to the school and pick up Harleigh and Alexander. Or he could stay and watch Alexander play ball, if that was what he was doing.

Hood was about to splash water on his eyes when the phone on the washroom wall beeped. Maybe Lowell Coffey was bored and thinking about going to lunch.

It was Mike Rodgers.

“Are you free?” Rodgers asked.

“Yes,” Hood replied.

“We may have to blow the situation in Botswana to the next level,” Rodgers replied. “We’re meeting in the Tank in two minutes.”

“I’m on my way,” Hood said. He hung up the phone, wiped his neck, and tightened the knot of his tie. Then he opened the washroom door.

And, gratefully, Paul Hood began to move again.

Maun, Botswana Friday, 7:00 P.M.

The lights of Maun vanished, swallowed by the dirt kicked up by the truck. The vehicle bounced and rocked as it made its way over the dirt roads outside the city.

The cab of the truck was dark. Maria Corneja was crowded between the driver and Leon Seronga. Pavant sat in the back of the truck. He was armed with a rifle and night-vision goggles.

Soon Leon would contact the base camp. That was when they would reach the fork that took them north to the swamp or west toward the diamond mine. Leon needed to know where Dhamballa wanted to rendezvous. One of the Brush Vipers monitored military and police bands. Seronga was certain the Vodun leader had already heard about the bishop’s murder. Seronga also needed to assure Dhamballa that he had nothing to do with that.

As the truck pushed through the dark, Seronga turned to the woman seated beside him.

“Shall I introduce myself?” Seronga asked. “Or do you already know who I am?”

“You are Leon Seronga, commander of the Brush Vipers,” the woman answered.

“How do you know all of that?” he asked.

“I cannot tell you,” she said.

“You’re not being very helpful,” Seronga said.

“It’s not my job to be helpful,” she replied. “All you need to know is that I can help.”

“By revealing who killed the bishop,” Seronga said.

“I have taken steps to find out who was responsible for the shooting,” Maria told him.

“Can you tell me what kind of steps?” Seronga asked.

“I took photographs at the airport,” the woman replied. “I’ve arranged for the pictures to be analyzed. Hopefully, my colleagues will be able to trace the identity of the people involved.”

“Colleagues in Spain?” Seronga pressed.

Maria did not answer.

“But you will use that information to help us?” Seronga asked.

“I said I would use the information to clear you,” Maria replied, “nothing more.”

“That will help us,” Seronga pointed out.

Maria acted as if she had not heard. “But I will do that only if you give me what I want,” she said.

“Which is?” Seronga asked.

“You must release your captive, Father Bradbury,” she replied.

“What if that is not possible?” Seronga asked.

“Everything is possible,” Maria replied.

“But your cooperation depends upon that?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she answered.

“Unfortunately, I do not have the authority to promise what you say is possible,” Seronga informed her.

“Then get it,” she said.

“That isn’t going to be easy,” Seronga said.

“If political upheaval were easy, everyone would do it,” Maria replied. “Without my help, your movement will die within days.”

“You’re certain of that,” he said.

“Yes.” Maria looked at him. “Whoever ordered the death of the bishop wants that. Assassinating an American prelate is a harsh opening move. I can only imagine what will follow if they do not get their way.”

“And you say you have no idea who they are?” Seronga said.

“None,” she replied.  

“Would you tell me if you did know?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

Seronga sat back. He gazed out the passenger-side window. A thin coat of pale mud made the moon a featureless blur. That was fitting. Nothing was in clear focus right now. Except the woman. She had the confidence of a cheetah. He turned back to her.

“What do you know about our movement?” Seronga asked.

Maria shrugged. “Not much.”

“Then let me tell you,” Seronga said.

“Why?” Maria asked.

“You may be swayed by the righteousness of what we are doing,” he said. “I was.”

“Mr. Seronga, I am from Madrid,” Maria said. “I have listened to the arguments of Basque separatists and monarchists from Castile, all of it very passionate and at times persuasive. But when they break the law, I don’t care what they have to say. I take them down.” She looked at him. “I’m here to secure the release of Father Bradbury. That is my righteous cause. I won’t be stopped. If you want my help, that is the price.”

“What if cooperating with us is the only way you will survive the night?” Seronga asked. He did not like being ordered around by someone he did not yet respect.

The woman looked ahead. A moment later, she jammed her left foot on top of the driver’s foot. The accelerator was crushed to the floor and the truck sped ahead. Njo Finn’s shouts filled the cab as he struggled to steer. At the same time, Maria thrust her long thumbnail into the small of Seronga’s throat. The nail rested just above the sternum. Seronga tried to push her back, but she used her free arm to brace herself against the driver’s shoulder. That action also pinned Njo Finn against the door. The harder Seronga pushed, the more Finn was pinned. Finn could not interfere with her and steer at the same time.

Maria pushed harder on Seronga’s throat. He gagged. He could feel her long nail break through his flesh.

The Brush Viper raised his hands. Maria released both men. She raised her foot from the accelerator.

 “That was madness!” yelled Finn. “I almost ran into a tree!”

Pavant pounded on the back of the cab. “What happened? Is everything all right?”

“Everything is under control!” Finn shouted back. He looked at Seronga. “Isn’t it?”

Seronga nodded.

Finn looked at Maria. She did not answer.

“I’ll take that to be a ‘yes’ from the lady,” Finn said.

The three sat in silence. Seronga raised his right hand slowly. He did not want to alarm her by moving quickly. He touched a finger to his throat. There was blood. He lowered his hand to his side.

“Mr. Seronga, a killer for a familia in Spain once asked me the same question you did,” Maria said. “He posed a threat veiled as a question. Well, I am here. He is with the devil.”

The tone of Maria’s voice was unchanged from before. This woman was as cool a warrior as Leon Seronga had ever encountered. But Seronga had been a soldier for a long time. He had nothing to prove to her or to himself. He had underestimated her. She had impulsively, foolishly put him on notice. He would not give her that kind of freedom again.

The Brush Viper had slid his right hand into the leather pouch on the door. That was where Njo Finn kept an automatic. Seronga wanted to make certain the weapon was there. It was.

Seronga relaxed and looked ahead. In a few minutes, he would call base camp for instructions.

He believed that this woman might be able to help them. He did not want to jeopardize that or hurt her. But there was too much at risk to let her determine policy.

He had already killed in the name of the faith. He had slain the two deacon missionaries.

If necessary, he would kill again.

Washington, D.C. Friday, 12:05 P.M.

“Edgar, Paul Hood just arrived,” Bob Herbert said.

Herbert was talking into the speakerphone on the desk of the conference room, which was familiarly known as the Tank. The Tank was surrounded by walls of electronic waves that generated static to anyone trying to listen in with bugs or external dishes.

“Good afternoon, Paul,” Kline said.

“Hello,” Hood said. He strode behind Herbert and stopped there. Mike Rodgers, Darrell McCaskey, and Lowell Coffey were also in attendance. The men looked grave.

There was a thin monitor built into the arm of Herbert’s wheelchair. When he was in the Tank, he jacked his computer and phone into a land line. He angled the monitor toward Hood and pointed toward the screen. There was a photograph of a small airplane. Herbert typed on the keyboard, “Just in from Maun. Assassin’s getaway plane. Tracing number now.”

Hood patted Herbert’s shoulder.

“Paul, I was just telling Mike and the others that the Vatican wants to move against the people who are holding Father Bradbury,” Kline said. “We are under a lot of pressure to take action.”

“Your office or the Vatican?” Hood asked.

“My office,” Kline replied. “Officially, the Vatican is calling for patience and a peaceful resolution to the crisis. Unofficially, they want the assassins caught, Father Bradbury released or rescued as quickly possible, and his captors apprehended and tried.”

“I can understand why,” Hood said.

“We found the driver who took the two ‘deacons’ to Maun,” Kline said. “His description pretty much confirmed what we suspected. They were not affiliated with Father Bradbury’s church. We are looking into the whereabouts of all the deacons who serve or have served in Botswana, though we are relatively certain these men will not be among them. It looks like your agent may have been right. They could very well be Brush Viper imposters.”

“Could they have stolen vestments from one of the church residences?” Hood asked.

“Easily,” Kline replied. “We may have more information soon, however. The driver did tell us where he dropped them. The entire Spanish unit is converging on the area. The driver also put us in touch with the man who brought your agent to Maun. He won’t tell us anything.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know anything,” Hood pointed out.

“I don’t believe that,” Kline said frankly. “He won’t even tell us where he dropped your agent. Surely he knows that.”

“I can’t answer for what he does or doesn’t know,” Hood said. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be involved in this. He could be afraid.” That would not surprise Hood. Either Maria had terrified the driver or charmed him. Either way, he would not be talking.

“Paul, I gave you access to that church to use as a data drop,” Kline said. “I have told you what we know. As I was just telling Mr. Herbert, I thought we were cooperating on this.”

“Mister?” Herbert muttered. He scrunched his face.

“Edgar, we are cooperating,” Hood said.

“Then I’ll ask you the same thing the other members of your staff refused to answer, Paul,” Kline said. “Where is your agent now? Is she still in Maun, or has she followed the two Brush Vipers?”

Hood looked at Rodgers.

“Edgar, this is Mike,” Rodgers said. “As I told you a minute ago, we don’t know where Maria is. She has not contacted us.”

“You have an agent in the field, closest to the scene, and she has not called in to let you know where she is?” Kline said.

“I have to assume she’s been very busy,” Rodgers said.

“Either that, or she’s not in a position to talk to us,” Herbert said. “She could be hiding in a goddamn closet somewhere, eavesdropping.”

“Edgar, what reason would we have to withhold information from you?” Hood asked.

No one said anything for a moment. Hood could think of many reasons. No doubt Kline could as well. But this was not the time to go into them. Which was why Hood had asked the question.

“You’ve got other agents en route,” Kline said. “How are they going to rendezvous with her?”

“We’re hoping she will contact us so we can relay the information to them,” Rodgers said.

“Well, while you’re waiting for that, we’re going to find the Brush Vipers,” Kline said.

“I wish you luck, Edgar,” Hood said. “I sincerely do.”

“We’re going to find them and do whatever it takes to stop them from terrorizing our missionaries. What I don’t want is for your people-more of your people, General Rodgers-to be caught in the crossfire in a foreign land.”

That last dagger was a reference to the loss of Striker in Kashmir. The general took the hit impassively. Hood did not.

“If you want our cooperation, Edgar, you’ll address my people with a little more tact,” Hood said.

“What I will do, Paul, what I am concentrating on doing, is bringing down the people who are attacking my Church,” Kline said. “If anyone gets in our way, I’m sorry if they get clipped with a little tactlessness. They’ll recover.”

“What about Father Bradbury being caught in the crossfire?” Herbert asked. “How much does that matter?”

“I’m not even going to answer that,” Kline said.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Rodgers said. “Because you and I both know how the Grupo del Cuartel General and their Unidad Especial del Despliegue work.”

“Explain,” Hood said.

 “Paul, those soldiers hit hard,” Rodgers said. “And they protect their own. They would sooner take out everyone in the line of fire than suffer any casualties. If you pursue your publicly stated policy of patience and peace, our people might be able to get Father Bradbury out safely.”