Op Center 09 – Mission Of Honor – Clancy, Tom

Chapter One.

Maun, Botswana Monday, 4:53 A. M.

The sun rose swiftly over the flat, seemingly endless plain.

The landmarks had changed in the decades since “Prince” Leon Seronga had first come here. Behind them, the Khwai River was not as deep as it had been. The grasses of the plain were shorter but more plentiful, covering familiar boulders and ravines. But the former army officer had no trouble recognizing the place or reconnecting with the transformations that had started here.

One was his personal growth.

The second was a result of that growth, the birth of a new nation.

And the third? He hoped that his visit today would begin the greatest change yet.

Walking into the new dawn, the six-foot-three Seronga watched as the deep black sky seemed to catch fire. It started at a point and spilled all along the horizon, like liquid flame. Stars that had been so bright just moments before quickly dimmed and faded like the last of fireworks. Within seconds, the sharp, crescent moon dimmed from sickle-edged brilliance to cloudlike. All around him, the sleeping earth became active. The wind began to move. High-flying hawks and tiny kinglets took flight. Fleas started to creep along Leon’s army boots. Field mice dashed through the grasses to the north.

That is power, thought the lean, dreadlocked man.

Simply by waking, by opening a blind eye, the sun caused heaven’s other lights to flee and the earth itself to stir. The retired Democratic Army soldier wondered if Dhamjjalla felt a hint of that same prepotency when he woke each morning.

It was still too early in his ministry. Yet if a leader is a leader born, he must feel something of that flame, that heat, that strength.

The temperature climbed rapidly as daybreak spread along the plain and into the sky. The red softened to orange, then yellow, and the deep blue of dawn became the soft blue of day. Perspiration began to run down Leon’s sides, down the small of his back, and along his lower legs. It collected on his high cheekbones, under his nose, and along his hairline. Leon welcomed the slick moisture. It kept his flesh from burning under the sun’s merciless glare. It also prevented his jeans and high boots from chafing his thighs and ankles. It was amazing. The body knew how to take care of itself.

While nature unfolded as it always did, with both grandeur and detail, there was also something special about this morning. It was more than what Leon was about to do, though that was extraordinary enough. Without realizing it, he had been waiting over forty years for this moment. There were fifty-two men marching behind the former Botswana army colonel in two tight columns. He had trained them himself in secret, and he was confident of their abilities. They had parked their trucks by the river, over a quarter mile from the distribution compound, so they would not be seen or heard.

But for a brief time, the sights and sensations took the fiftysix-year-old Botswana native back to when he had first witnessed dawn on the majestic floodplain.

It was on a savagely muggy August morning in 1958. Leon was eleven years old, the age of passage for men of the small Batawana tribe. But while Leon was told he was a man, he did not yet feel like one.

He clearly remembered walking between his father and his uncle, both of whom were big and powerful. They were followed by two other village men who were equally strong of back and stamina. In Leon’s mind, they were what a man was supposed to be: tall and upright. He did not yet understand the concepts of confidence and pride, loyalty and love, bravery and patriotism. Those qualities came later, the qualities that made the inner man.

Back then, he found that he had the will and ability to slaughter animals for food, but he did not yet understand that it was a man’s prerogative-and often his responsibility-to kill other men for honor or country.

Leon’s father and his uncle were both seasoned hunters and trackers. Until that morning, Leon had never caught anything more ferocious than hares and field mice. While Leon walked alongside the men, he knew that he did not truly walk among them.

Not yet.

On that morning nearly a half century before, the five men had gathered outside the Serongas’ thatched hut. It was well before sunrise, when only the newborns and chickens were awake. Before leaving, the men ate a breakfast of sliced apples and mint leaves in warm honey, unleavened bread, and fresh goat’s milk. Even though her son was going on his first hunt, Leon’s mother did not see them off. This was a man’s day. A day, as his father had said, for men who were among the oldest hunters in the human race.

That morning, the men were not armed with anything like the Fusil Automatique assault rifle Leon Seronga carried now. They were armed with nine-inch knives tucked in giraffe-skin sheaths, iron-tipped spears, and a coil of rope carried around the left shoulder. That left the right arm unencumbered. Barechested, dressed only in sandals and loincloths, the men made their way unhurriedly along the eastern edge of the flat Khwai River floodplain. Eleven miles to the north and thirteen miles to the south were the villages of Calasara and Tamindar. Straight ahead, to the east, was game.

The men walked slowly to conserve their energy. Leon had never been so far from the village. The farthest he had ever gone was the Khwai River, and they had crossed that after an hour. They stayed wide of the grass, which stood nearly as tall as his lanky shoulders. It hid burrowing adders and brush vipers. Both snakes were poisonous and active in the early morning hours. But to this day, Leon still vividly remembered the sound of the grass bending gently in the early morning breeze. It reminded him of the way rain sounded when it slashed through the trees on its way to the village. It was not a sound that came from a single place. It seemed to come from everywhere.

Leon also vividly remembered the faint musky scent that rode the early morning breeze from the southeast. His father Maurice told him that was the smell of sleeping zebras. The men would not be hunting zebras because they had very sensitive ears. They would hear the men coming, and they would panic. Their hoofbeats and braying brought lions.

“And lions bring fleas,” the older man had added quickly. Even then, Leon knew that his father was trying to take some of the scare from what he was about to say.

The elder Seronga told him that as kings of the plain, lions were privileged to sleep late every morning. When the cats woke, when they had yawned and preened, they would hunt zebra or antelope. Those were animals with meat on them, enough food to make a difficult chase worthwhile. Maurice assured Leon that lions ignored men unless they got in their way. Then the great cats would not hesitate to attack.

“For a snack,” Leon’s father had said with a grin. “Something to give to the cubs.”

Leon took the warning very, very seriously. The boy had once dangled a piece of hemp over the head of a small dog. It jumped up and bit Leon instead. The bite had hurt him terribly, burning and stinging at the same time. Even Leon’s toes had tingled with pain. He could not imagine the agony of being dragged down by lions and bitten all over. But he had faith that would not happen. His father or the other men would protect him. That was what adults and leaders did. They protected the smaller members of the family or tribe.

Even the smaller men, like Leon.

On that great and majestic morning, the hunters from Moremi were after giant forest hogs. The brown-and-black bristled herbivores inhabited the intermediate zones between forest and grassland. That was where hog ponds and the reeds they liked could be found. A family of the animals had been spotted the day before by one of the men. The pigs moved in small groups and tended to become active not long after dawn, before predators were up and about. Leon’s father had told him that it was important to catch the hogs when they were just beginning to forage. They knew the lions were not awake yet. That was when their attention was primarily on food and not on potential predators.

The men were successful that morning. They killed a fat old hog that had wandered from the group. Or maybe the group had wandered from the hog. Perhaps they had left it out there as sacrificial prey. The knee-high pig was speared by Leon’s uncle, who had crept close from behind and then launched himself at the beast. Leon could still hear the animal’s squeals of pain and confusion. He could still see that initial jet of blood from behind the pig’s shoulder. It was the most exciting thing he had ever experienced.

Leon’s father had rushed forward. The dying animal was flipped onto its side before the other hogs were even aware that anything had happened. The beasts did not scatter until Maurice had already knelt on the beast’s shoulder, pinning it, and slashed its throat. The animal was quickly noosed with one of the ropes. That would prevent it from bleeding and attracting carrion feeders like silverbacked jackals. The blood would also keep the meat moist as they transported the heavy carcass under the searing sun.

While Maurice and his brother stanched the bleeding, the young boy and the other men found two long branches. These were quickly stripped with the knives and used as carrying poles. Before the pig was trussed, Maurice paused to slip a bloody finger between his son’s lips. Then he bent very close to his son. He wanted the boy to see the conviction in his eyes.

“Remember this moment, my son,” the elder man said softly. “Remember this taste. Our people cannot survive without shedding blood. We cannot exist without risk.”

Less than four hours after the men had set out, the animal had been slung loosely between the poles and was being carried home on the shoulders of the men. Leon walked to the side. His job was to hold the end of the noose and keep it tight. Leon was never so proud as when they walked into the village with his kill on the end of a leash.

The hog was a good-sized animal that fed the village for two days. After the meat was finished, its bones already carved into trinkets for sale to occasional tourists, another group of men went out to hunt. Leon was sorry not to be going with them. He was already thinking of tackling a zebra or gazelle and maybe even a lion. Leon even told his mother of his dream to kill a great cat. That was when he got his nickname. Bertrice Seronga told her son that only a prince could get close enough to kill a king.

“Are you a prince?” she asked.

Leon said that maybe he was. The woman smiled and began calling him Prince Leon.

Leon went on nearly 300 hunts during the next five years. By the time he was thirteen years old, Prince Leon was already leading his own parties. Since a son could not command his father, Maurice proudly withdrew from those hunts so that his son could learn about leadership. During that time, most of the kills were also his, though Leon never did slay a lion. But that was not his fault, he decided. It was the lions’ doing. The king of beasts was much too smart to come within range of his spear.

Seronga wondered, then, if the lion is so powerful and so clever, who could kill it? The answer, of course, was death. Death killed the lion just as death must kill the most powerful of men. Leon wondered, though, if the lion was strong enough to hold death back. He had once watched a lioness die after making a rare solo kill of an antelope. He wondered if the lioness had expended herself in the chase. Or, knowing that she was soon to die, had she held off death long enough to enjoy this one, last chase.

In 1963, the world changed. Leon’s thoughts turned from the habits of animals to the habits of men.

Hunting became more difficult as the men of the Batawana tribe had to go farther and farther to find game. At first, they thought the ranging habits of the animals had changed. Seasonal lightning strikes had caused fires that changed the landscape. Herbivores had to follow the grasses, and meat eaters had to follow their prey. But in 1962, men from the capital city of Gaborone and from London arrived in the small village by airplane.

At the time, Botswana was known as Bechuanaland. It was a British protectorate and had been so since 1885. It was being protected, Leon had been taught, from South African Boers and other aggressors. The white men from Gaborone and London told the Batawanans that the animals were being hunted out of existence. The men said that the tribespeople had to change the way they lived or eventually they would perish.

The men from Gaborone and London had a plan.

With the blessings of the elders of all the local tribes, the government transformed the entire floodplain and vast, surrounding areas into the Moremi Wildlife Reserve. Tourism rather than hunting would become the mainstay of the people of the region.

A good deal of money was paid to every family. Construction teams arrived by truck and airplane three weeks later. They razed the old village and built houses of wood and tin. Farther out, where there were no signs of civilization, they also built the Khwai River Lodge. They made that of stone and tile. Each week, the trucks that brought food to the lodge also brought food that the villagers could buy. Schools were established. Missions that had been responsible for education and medical care took a more active role in the running of the local villages. The old gods, gods of the hunt and of thunder, were displaced and forgotten. Radios and then television replaced storytelling. European-style clothes and jewelry and housing were coveted. Life became less arduous.

Less exciting.

The animals of the floodplain were saved. So too, the Batawanans were told, were their lives and their immortal souls.

Leon had never been convinced of that. What his people had gained in security they had lost in independence. They had been given knowledge at the expense of wisdom; faith had taken the place of religion. They had secured life and surrendered living.

When he was eighteen, Leon left the village. He had read about a man in Gaborone, Sir Seretse Khama, whose Democratic Party was working to free his nation from British control. Leon enlisted in Khama’s Democratic Army. It was a peaceful group of nearly three thousand men. Their job was to hand out leaflets and ensure the security of their leader. Leon did not enjoy that work. He was a hunter. Together with five men who felt the same way he did, Leon formed the Brush Vipers. They worked in secret to collect intelligence on key British officials. Among their discoveries was a plot to frame Sir Khama for embezzling funds from his Democratic Party.

Within days, the chief plotter vanished. Sir Khama never learned of the plan against him or of the counterstrike. But the English knew. Leon had made very certain of that. Despite the quiet demands of the foreign office, the Englishman was never located. Few outsiders who went into the Okavango Swamp alive were ever seen again. Men who went into the swamp and had their throats slashed from ear to ear were never found. Leon did, however, give the chief foreign officer the man’s watch. The Batawanan told him he had no desire to start a collection of British timepieces.

The CFO got the message.

A year later, the British ceded control of the country. Bechuanaland became the Republic of Botswana, with Khama as its first president. The changes that had started were not undone. People liked the goods from Europe and America. But President Khama made it difficult for other groups to enter his country with new distractions and foreign ideas.

It was only then that Leon and his young colleagues realized what a huge responsibility they had won for themselves. They were no longer protecting one man.

Like Khama himself, they were looking after a nation. In a continent buffeted by ancient tribal rivalries and wars of land, water, and precious minerals, they were suddenly responsible for the security of nearly half a million people. Their own families depended upon their vigilance.

Leon was given a commission as second lieutenant and joined the Botswana Defense Forces. He served in the army’s elite Northern Division. Among other regions, Batawana and the floodplains of Maun were under their jurisdiction. Seronga helped to organize security along the border with war-ravaged Angola. He also instructed native Angolans on intelligencegathering techniques to use against the Portuguese. Like his brothers in Botswana and South Africa, he wanted to see the Europeans driven from Africa.

Despite the efforts of Leon and the president, the nation continued to change. Leon watched as his people became fat and eviscerated. Like the hogs Seronga and his father had hunted so long ago, the Botswanans were prey for hunters: men from Europe who came back with money. Botswanans sold the hard-won coal mines, the copper mines, the diamond mines. They had thrown off political control only to surrender to economic control. The revolution had been for nothing.

During this time, his greatest comfort was his own family. Lieutenant Seronga married when he returned to the north. He and his wife had four sons. In time, they began bearing him grandchildren.

It was for their sake, finally, that he left the Defense Forces. He retired on a pension for a time. But then something happened. He found a new cause, a new army to lead.

Leon and his men rounded a clump of high grasses. Some of his old soldiers had returned. They had done the legwork for this crusade. They had found and watched the deacon missionaries. They were supported by new and idealistic fighters such as Donald Pavant, his right-hand officer. Pavant was a little extreme, but that was all right. His youth and impulsiveness were balanced by Leon Seronga’s age and wisdom. Other men had joined them, including a handful of white warriors Gaborone, men who believed in their cause. Or perhaps in the money to be made by driving the foreigners out. Regardless, they were here.

Seronga and his unit came upon a familiar pond. The watering hole was smaller than it used to be. Irrigation had changed the floodplains, and the pigs had been relocated. Only the field mice and a few flightless birds came here to drink. But it was still unmistakably the pond where he had begun his road to manhood. In the rising sun, Leon imagined^he could still see the long shadows of his father and the other men. He could still taste the blood of the pig on his lips.

And one thing more. Leon could still see his father’s dark eyes, hear his father’s words: “Our people cannot survive without shedding blood. We cannot exist without risk. “

Fortunately, the other members of Leon’s old Brush Viper unit felt the same as their former leader did. The men had remained in contact over the years. When one of the Brush Vipers heard Dhamballa speak, an opportunity presented itself to undo the mistakes that had been made. Leon went to hear the man in Machaneng, a village to the east. He was captivated by what he heard. He was even more impressed with what he saw: a leader.

They had to work with Europeans again, only this time they would do it right. They would take back what had been lost.

Distant structures appeared on the horizon, beyond the waving grasses. There were six of them built of logs with ceramic tile roofs. The sun glinted on the white satellite dish in a clearing. It played on the chrome of the cars and vans parked in the dirt lot.

Leon motioned for his men to stay low behind the grass. He knew that they should have come here in the dark, but it was important that he see the sun rise. Besides, the tourists inside the compound would not be up yet. Scouts had reported that the shutters remained closed until nearly eight A. M. The foreigners liked their sleep.

Saving the nation would not be easy. And it would not be bloodless. But that was to be expected.

Revolutions seldom were.

Chapter Two.

Maim, Botswana Monday, 5:19 AM.

Father Powys Bradbury opened his eyes a moment before the sun peeked over the windowsill. He smiled as he watched the white walls and ceiling brighten. It was good to be back.

The South African native usually rose at first light. Throughout his forty-three years as a priest, Bradbury had made it a habit of saying his morning offering at the break of day. The prayer was about dedicating one’s day to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. It seemed only right to do that when the day began, not when it was convenient.

The short, wispy man continued to smile as he lay in his small twin bed. The bed was tucked in a corner of the whitewalled room. The only other pieces of furniture were a night table, a wardrobe at the foot of the bed, and a desk across the room. There was a simple laptop computer on the desk. Father Bradbury used that primarily for E-mail. The computer was surrounded by stacks of books and periodicals, which were also piled on the floor of the small room. The priest subscribed to newspapers from across the continent. He enjoyed finding out what other Africans were thinking.

The wardrobe contained two sets of his priestly vestments, a white bathrobe, a windbreaker for cool winter nights, and one pair of jeans and a Cape Town sweatshirt. Father Bradbury wore the jeans and sweatshirt whenever he played soccer with his more sports-minded congregants. Apart from the short pajamas he had on now, these were the only clothes the priest owned. He believed wholeheartedly in Psalm 119:37 which said, “Turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity; Your way give me life.”

Father Bradbury’s only indulgence was a compact disc player that he kept on a shelf above the desk. He enjoyed listening to Gregorian chants while he wrote or read.

Father Bradbury stretched soundlessly. There was no one in the adjoining room. The seven deacon missionaries who were attached to the Church of the Holy Cross were in the field. But silence was a way of life for Father Bradbury. He had first developed a fondness for it at the Seminary of Saint Ignatius in Cape Town, where silence was mandatory for all but prayer. He felt there was something civilized about quiet. It was something that separated humans from the braying, roaring animals of Africa. He had never agreed with the notion that noisy, crowded cities were the hubs of civilization. To him, civilization was a place where sophistication was not as important as loving cooperation.

In just a few moments, the energies of the white-haired priest would be turned to the service of God. His attention would go to the people of the surrounding villages. Father Bradbury took a minute to enjoy one of the few times of the day that were truly his.

The night before, Father Bradbury had returned from a fiveday visit to the archdiocese in Cape Town. He always enjoyed his meetings with Archbishop Patrick and other mission priests. The cathedral itself was made of shining white stone, an inspiration to see and to work in. There were two bell towers framing the main portal, each of them five stories high. Their ringing could be heard all over the city. Archbishop Patrick himself was also an inspiration. He always had stimulating ideas about how to bring the word of Christ to people who had little familiarity with the Church and its teachings. The seven men actually had a great deal of fun as they went to the Veritas Production House to make audiotapes. Using simple readings and commentary, the clergymen outlined gospel values. These audiotapes would help the deacon missionaries of southern Africa bring new believers to the fold. Unlike Father Bradbury, who remained in his own parish, the deacon missionaries were the men who worked in the field, who went to the isolated villages and regions shaken by poverty, disease, and hunger.

Father Bradbury drew a deep breath of the dry, hot air. He exhaled slowly, then listened to the wonderful silence. Once in a while it was broken by chacma baboons that approached the compound in search of a handout. Though the grasses, insects, and fruits they ate were plentiful, the dog-nosed primates were among God’s laziest creations.

There were no apes today. Nothing stirred but the wind. And it was absolutely delicious.

The air in Father Bradbury’s native city was dusty and humid, and the streets were loud, even at night. The clergyman had been in Botswana for eleven years. He had spent seven of those years as a deacon missionary. He still had the rough feet and sunburned face to prove it. He had spent the last four years as parish priest at the forty-seven-year-old Church of the Holy Cross, which ministered to the neighboring villages of Maun and Moremi. Bradbury missed the church terribly whenever he was away. He missed the calm, he missed his ministry, and most of all, he missed the individual congregants. So many of them had given their time and their energy to make the church an extended family. The priest loved being a daily part of their lives, their thoughts, their faith.

Whenever Father Bradbury was gone, he also missed the tourists. For purely proselytical reasons, Archbishop Patrick had supported the construction of the tourist center adjoining the church. Each week, over four dozen tourists came from Europe, North America, the Middle East, and Asia. They enjoyed great comfort. Porcelain bathtubs, teak floors, mahogany sleigh beds, wicker chairs with thick cushions, and sumptuous native rugs. They ate from bone-handled silveware and copper plates. There were unfinished oak beams all around them. Guests had rich cotton sheets on the beds and elegant damask tablecloths in the dining area. Tourists used the walled compound as a staging area for tours and photo safaris. Many of the visitors were young. Religion did not play a large part in their lives. Archbishop Patrick thought that an inspirational place like the reserve might bring them nearer the creator. For Father Bradbury, the tourists also brought something, something more secular but no less important. Their wide-eyed awe at the countryside reaffirmed his own sense of wonder and pride in the region.

The priest threw off the lightweight top sheet. Even this far from the river, Father Bradbury needed a mosquito net. He was grateful for it. The priest had what his mother used to call “candy-sweet veins.” Mosquitoes loved him. In addition to sore feet, he did not miss the mosquitoes, gnats, and parasitic warble flies that were part of his years of carrying the word of God from village to village. There were fleas here, but at least they could not fly. A shower a day with medicated soap, and they showed no interest in him.

Father Bradbury rose. He knelt briefly beside the cross that hung above the bed. Then he headed for the tiny washroom built between his room and the deacons’ quarters. Along with the tourists, plumbing had come to the compound. It was a welcome addition to the rectory.

After showering in the tiny washroom, Father Bradbury dressed. Then he stepped outside into the warm morning. A small flagstone walk led from the rectory to the small church. Beyond that, only partly visible behind the sanctuary, was the tourist center. The government-licensed enterprise consisted of an office, bungalows, the lobby and dining room, and a parking area. Father Bradbury took a moment to look across the sixfoot-high wall at the rising sun. The wall had been built to keep out animals that strayed from their usual terrain. That usually occurred twice each year during a period of drought or flood. When that happened, wildlife officials always came to take the animals to a safe haven closer to Maun. They did so quickly, since lost herbivores tended to draw predators. And hungry predators drew tourists with cameras.

The sky was shading from deep blue to cerulean. There were no clouds, just the fair, faint crescent moon high on the northern horizon. It was a good morning and a good life.

A few seconds later, both the morning and Father Bradbury’s life were changed.

There were a series of loud pops from inside the compound.

At first, the priest thought some of the hanging ceramic flowerpots had dropped from the tile eaves of the tourist center. Then he heard shouting. It was not shattering pots that had disrupted the peaceful morning.

The priest ran around the church. His sandals clopped on the stones of the walk. At the front of the church was a rose garden that he had planted himself. He had put them there so they would have the early morning sun. The church protected them from the late morning on. Father Bradbury reached the courtyard that fronted the tourist center.

The sixty-three-year-old director of the center was already standing outside. Native Maunan Tswana Ndebele was still dressed in his underwear. He was also wearing a look of tempered rage. His bare arms were raised ear high. About ten feet behind him, one of the tour guides and several tourists were grouped together just outside the door of the main office. They were all facing the open gate. Their hands were also lifted. None of them moved.

The priest noticed several bullet holes in the oak door frame. He turned toward the gate.

The gate was made of iron bars that resembled Batawana spears. The door had been swung inside, and over four dozen men were assuming positions along the inside wall of the courtyard. They were dressed in camouflage uniforms with black berets. Each man carried a firearm. They did not wear insignias or chevrons of rank. They were not government soldiers.

“No,” Father Bradbury muttered. “Not here.”

The group looked like any of the small, organized militias he had read about in his newspapers. During the past decade, they had caused revolutions in Somalia, Nigeria, Ethiopia, the Sudan, and other African nations. But there had been no rebels in this land since the 1960s. There was no need. The government was democratically elected, and people were generally content.

The soldiers were approximately two hundred feet away. The priest walked toward them.

“Father, don’t!” Ndebele warned.

The priest ignored him. This was an outrage. The nation was run by a lawfully elected government. And this reserve was holy ground, not just the home of a church but a place of peace.

The militiamen finished filing into the courtyard. They stretched from the parked vehicles on the west side of the entranceway to the satellite dish on the east. One of the men walked forward. He was a tall, lean man with long dreadlocks and a resolute expression. His rifle was slung over his right shoulder. He wore a belt with extra rounds, a hunting knife, and a radio. He was obviously the leader of the unit. Not because of what he carried but because of how he carried himself. His dark eyes glistened even brighter than the sunlit sweat that covered his forehead and cheeks. He walked on the balls of his feet with his knees slightly bent. He did not make a sound as he crossed the coarse dirt of the parking area.

“I am Father Powys Bradbury,” the priest said. His voice was soft but firm. The two men continued to approach one another. “Why have armed men come to our compound?”

“To take you with us,” the leader replied.

“Me?” Bradbury demanded. The priest stopped just a few feet from the taller man. “Why? What have I done?”

“You are an invader,” the man told him. “You and your kind will be driven out.”

“My kind?” Father Bradbury said. “I am no invader. I have been living here for eleven years-“

The leader interrupted with a sharp gesture to the men behind him. Three of the soldiers jogged forward. Two of them seized Father Bradbury by his forearms. Tswana Ndebele made a move as if to protest. The motion was met by the distinctive click of a rifle bolt.

Ndebele stopped.

“Everyone stay where you are, and there will be no casualties,” the leader declared.

“Do what he says,” Father Bradbury shouted. He did not struggle, but he did look toward the leader. “I tell you, you have the wrong man.”

The leader did not respond. The two men continued to hold the priest in his place.

“At least tell me where you’re taking me,” the white-haired clergyman implored.

The third militiaman went behind the priest. He pulled a black hood over Father Bradbury’s head. He tied it tightly around the clergyman’s throat. Father Bradbury gagged.

“Please don’t hurt him!” Ndebele cried.

Father Bradbury wanted to reassure the director that he would be all right, but he could neither turn nor yell. It was all he could do to breathe in the tight, stifling mask.

“You don’t have to do this!” the priest gasped. “I’ll go peaceably.”

Hands pushed roughly against Father Bradbury’s shoulder blades. He stumbled forward. Only the men holding his arms kept him from falling. They tugged him up and ahead. The priest went with them.

Father Bradbury said nothing more. It was all he could do to breathe. The heat was terrible, and the darkness was unnerving. He also did not want to show fear to these men.

But Father Powys Bradbury could not hide his fear from God. And it was to God whom he spoke silently as the militiamen led him from the compound. The priest silently recited his morning prayers and then prayed for himself. He did not ask God for salvation but for strength. He also prayed for the safety of the friends he left behind and for the souls of those who had abducted him. Then he prayed for one thing more.

He prayed for the future of the land he had come to love.

Chapter Three.

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 7:54 AM.

It was a dark, rainy morning and DiMaggio’s Joe was not as jammed as usual. That was fine with General Mike Rodgers. He had been able to find a parking spot directly outside the coffee bar. And he spotted a small, clean corner table on the inside. He walked to the back of the room, slapped his damp cap and his copy of the Washington Post on the empty table, then got in line.

The line at the counter moved quickly, and to Rodgers’s amazement, the display case actually had what he wanted. He paid for his oversized corn muffin and an ultratall cup of coffee. Then he returned to the table and sat on the stool, facing the back wall. He gazed into the past. He had to remind himself why he had become a soldier in the first place. And this was certainly the place to do it.

The legendary DiMaggio’s Joe was located in Georgetown on the corner of M Street and Wisconsin Avenue. The coffee shop had been established in 1966 by a transplanted New Yorker named Bronx Taylor. Taylor was a New York Yankees fan back when the Washington Senators were their rivals and people could still smoke in coffee shops. The widower had retired and moved to Washington to be close to his daughter and son-in-law. He needed something to do, and he decided to be provocative. Taylor succeeded. Fans of the baseball Senators used to come in to yell at Taylor. They were all bluecollar workers back then. Janitors from Georgetown University, bus drivers, barbers, and butlers and gardeners from the tony old houses. The men would come in and deride the Yankees over juice, sausage, and watery eggs. And pie.

And coffee. And a smoke or two. And more coffee. Taylor made a fortune at this little place.

When Bronx died four years ago, his daughter Alexandra took over. The diner was gentrified. The woman replaced the catsup-stained white tile walls with wood paneling. Instead of a counter and booths with large, solid Formica tables, there were now wood stools with stands that had wobbly metal lattice tops. And Alexandra no longer served just one kind of coffee. For that matter, she no longer served just coffee. There were flavors and fragrances and blends that ended in an e. Rodgers still ordered plain and black coffee, even though it tasted as if it were brewed with potpourri.

Apart from the name of the place, Alexandra had left one thing more or less intact. Taylor had covered all four walls with framed photographs and faded newspaper front pages. The pictures were of Yankee Stadium and the star players of the 1940s and 1950s. The yellowing headlines in coffeestained frames boasted of winning plays, pennants, and world championships. Alexandra had collected them all on the back wall, and they were the only reason Rodgers still came. The mementos took him back to the summers of his youth.

Rodgers grew up in Hartford, Connecticut, which was closer to Boston than to New York. But he was still a Yankees fan. The Bronx Bombers had flash, confidence, and poise. They were also largely responsible for his becoming a soldier. Mike Rodgers could not hit a baseball worth a damn, as his lifelong friend and former Little League teammate Colonel Brett August often reminded him. Rodgers had the eye, but he did not have the power in his arms. Rodgers sure could shoot, though. He started by building orange-crate pistols. They used tightly stretched rubber bands to fire squares of cardboard with surprising accuracy and force. Then he graduated to Daisy BB guns. The sleek Model 26 Spittin’ Image was his first. Then his father bought him a Remington Fieldmaster .22 caliber pump to hunt small game. Rodgers shot the squirrels, birds, and rabbits that fellow students used for dissection in biology class. What he did would not be fashionable today. But in the early 1960s, it earned Rodgers a commendation from the school principal. The teenager’s interest in firearms led him to study history. To this day, weapons and history remained his greatest passions.

Those and the New York Yankees, he thought as he looked up at a sun-browned photograph of Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris with their bats slung casually across their shoulders.

Thanks to the Yankees, Rodgers associated the idea of wearing a uniform with belonging to an elite team. Since the Yankees did not need a sharpshooter-except when Boston fans came to town-Rodgers turned his sights on that other great team with uniforms, the United States military. Rodgers’s extended tours of Vietnam and his devotion to the service had kept him from having any long-term relationships. Except for that, the forty-seven-year-old general never regretted a day of the life he had chosen.

Until four months ago.

Rodgers finished his coffee. He looked at his watch. There was plenty of time before he had to be at Op-Center. He went to the counter to order another ultratall cup.

As Rodgers waited patiently in the short line, he looked around at the young faces. They were mostly college faces with journalists and members of Congress here and there. He could tell them all at a glance. The politicians were the ones lost in newspapers, looking for their names. The reporters were the ones watching the politicians to see who they sat with or who they ignored. The students were the ones who were actually discussing world events.

Rodgers did not see any future soldiers among the many students. Their eyes were too lively, too full of questions or answers. A soldier needed to be committed to just one thing: following orders. The way Striker had done.

Striker was the elite rapid response military arm of the National Crisis Management Center. Rodgers was the deputy director of the NCMC, familiarly known as Op-Center. Upon joining Op-Center shortly after its inception, Rodgers had formed and trained the unit.

A little over four months ago, while parachuting into the Himalayan mountains, General Rodgers and Colonel August had watched as all but one other member of Striker was shot from the sky. In Vietnam, Rodgers had lost close friends and fellow soldiers. On Striker’s first foreign mission, he had helped them through the death of Private Bass Moore. Shortly after that, he had seen them through the loss of their original field commander, Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Squires. But Rodgers had never experienced anything like this.

Even worse than the scope of the slaughter was the helplessness Rodgers felt watching it happen. These young soldiers had trusted his judgment and his leadership. They had followed him without hesitation out the hatch of the Indian Air Force AN-12. And he had led them into an ambush. Rodgers was seasoned enough to know that nothing was guaranteed in life and war. But that did not stop him from feeling as if he had let the Strikers down.

Op-Center’s staff psychologist Liz Gordon told Rodgers that he was suffering from trauma survivors’ syndrome, a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. The condition manifested itself as lethargy and depression resulting from escaping death that took others.

Clinically, that might be true. What Rodgers really suffered from was a crisis of faith. He had screwed up. Being a soldier was about risking your life. But Rodgers had gone into a situation without being aware of an obvious potential danger. In so doing, he had disgraced the qualities his uniform meant to him.

But Liz Gordon had told him one thing that was certainly true. If Rodgers continued to dwell on what had gone wrong, he would be no good to Op-Center or its director, Paul Hood. And both needed him now. Striker had to be rebuilt, and Hood had to deal with ongoing budget cuts.

Enough, thought the general. It was time to get out of the past.

Mike Rodgers turned from the back wall. He sat down, unfolded the newspaper, and scanned the front page. Rodgers was one of the few people at Op-Center who still read a printed newspaper. Paul Hood, intelligence chief Bob Herbert, FBI liaison Darrell McCaskey, and attorney Lowell Coffey III all got their news on-line. To Rodgers, that was like engaging in cybersex. It was a result without an interactive process. He would rather have the real thing.

Ironically, the New York Yankees were mentioned in an article below the fold. The piece described some megatrade with the Baltimore Orioles. It sounded to Rodgers as if the Birds were getting the better end of the deal. Even the Yankees were not as sharp as they used to be.

Of course, no one dies when the Yankees make a bad call, Rodgers reflected. He looked at the other headlines.

The one that caught his attention was beside the baseball article. It was about an apparent paramilitary action in Botswana. The nation rarely showed up on the morning intelligence reports. The government in Gaborone was stable, and the people were relatively content.

What was most surprising were the eyewitness accounts of the action. At least four dozen armed men entered a tourist compound. After firing a few warning shots, they abducted a Catholic priest who ministered at the adjoining church. The priest was well liked and had no known enemies. The kidnappers had not demanded a ransom.

Rodgers’s immediate thought was that the priest had heard someone’s confession, and the men wanted the information. But why send a small army to grab a single individual? And why attack in daylight instead of at night? To make sure the army was seen?

Rodgers would have to see if Bob Herbert had any information about the kidnapping. Even when he was down on his abilities, Mike Rodgers could not help but ruminate about military issues. The army was not just his profession but his avocation.

He read the rest of the front page while he finished his coffee. Then he refolded the newspaper and slid it protectively under his arm. Rodgers made his way through the pinball array of tables to the front door. He pulled on his hat and stepped onto the slick pavement.

The rain was heavy, but Rodgers did not mind. The gray tones of the morning suited his mood. And though the dampness did not feel comfortable, he was surprised to find that it made him feel good. The pictures reminded him of what he had dreamed. Each droplet reminded him of what he had. Something that his former teammates did not possess: life.

As long as Mike Rodgers had that, he would continue to do the one thing that had ever really mattered.

He would strive to be worthy of his uniform.

Chapter Four.

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 8:33 AM.

The National Crisis Management Center was housed in a two-story building at Andrews Air Force Base. During the Cold War, this nondescript, ivory-colored structure was one of two staging areas for flight crews known as NuRRDsNuclear Rapid-Response Divisions. In the event of a nuclear attack on the nation’s capital, their job would have been to evacuate key officials. Ranking members of Congress, the entire cabinet, and both officers and logistics experts from the Pentagon would have been flown to secret bunkers built deep in Maryland’s Blue Ridge Mountains. Their task would be to keep food and supplies flowing to soldiers, police officers, and civilians, in that order. They would also have worked to keep open as many routes of communication as possible. Other leaders, including the president, vice-president, their top military advisers, and medical personnel, would have been kept aloft aboard Air Force One and Air Force Two. Both planes would have flown at least five hundred miles apart. They would have been refueled in-flight and protected by an escort of NuRRD fighter jets. This would have allowed the commander in chief and his successor to remain separate moving targets.

With the fall of the Soviet Union and the downsizing of the Air Force’s NuRRDs, evacuation operations were consolidated at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia. The newly vacated building at Andrews was given over to the newly chartered National Crisis Management Center.

The two floors of upstairs offices were for nonclassified operations such as finance, human resources, and monitoring the mainstream press for possible hot buttons. These were seemingly innocent events that could trigger potential crises. They included the failure of Third World governments to pay their troops, accidents such as a U. S. submarine ramming a foreign fishing vessel or yacht, the seizure of a large cache of drugs, and other seemingly isolated activities. But nothing was ever isolated. A disgruntled military could stage a coup. A sunken ship may have been an attack on intelligence-gathering capabilities. And the drug bust might lead to violent clashes as other dealers moved in to fill a void. All of these were events that fell within Op-Center’s sphere of activity.

The basement of the former NuRRD building had been entirely refurbished. It no longer housed living quarters for flight crews. It was where the tactical decisions and intelligence crunching of Op-Center took place. The executive level was accessible by a single elevator that was guarded on top 24/7. Paul Hood, Mike Rodgers, Bob Herbert, and the rest of the executives had their offices down here. The small offices were arranged in a ring along the outer wall of the basement. Inside the circle were cubicles that housed the executive assistants as well as Op-Center’s intelligence gathering and processing personnel. On the opposite side of the room from the elevator was a conference room known as the Tank. The conference room was surrounded by walls of electronic waves that generated static to anyone trying to listen in with bugs or external dishes.

Bob Herbert pushed his wheelchair down the oval corridor. His coat was damp, and his ears were cold, but he was glad to be here. This was an important day.

Herbert had nicknamed this hallway the Indy 600. According to his wheelchair odometer, it was exactly 600 yards around. There were no windows down here, and the rooms were not spacious. The facility reminded Herbert more of a submarine than the headquarters of an agency. But the building was secure. Anyway, Herbert never believed all that crap about people needing sunshine to brighten their mood. The thirtynine-year-old intelligence head only needed two things to make him happy. One was his motorized wheelchair. The balding intelligence expert had lost the use of his legs in the Beirut embassy bombing in 1983. Only the quick work of physician Dr. Alison Carter, a visiting foreign service officer, had prevented him from losing his life. The wheelchair did not just keep Herbert mobile. It had a foldaway arm, like an airplane seat, that housed his computer with a wireless Modern. Everything Herbert needed, including E-mail addresses to order pizza, were literally in his lap. Op-Center’s technical expert, Matt Stoll, had even installed a jack for a satellite dish. At times, Herbert felt like the Bionic Man.

The other thing that made Herbert happy was when outsiders left him and his coworkers alone to do their jobs. When Op-Center first began operations, no one paid them much attention. Whether they were saving the space shuttle from saboteurs or Japan from nuclear annihilation, everything they did was covert. It passed under the radar of the press and most foreign intelligence services. The relationships they established were ones they chose to establish. They did so quietly with Interpol, the Russian Op-Center, and other groups.

Unfortunately, the dynamics changed drastically after Paul Hood personally resolved a highly public hostage standoff at the United Nations. Foreign governments complained to the White House about Hood’s unsanctioned military activity on international territory. The Central Intelligence Agency, the National Security Agency, and even the State Department complained to the Congressional Intelligence Oversight committee. They accused Paul Hood of usurping personnel and chartered responsibilities from both agencies. The Pentagon said that Op-Center had monopolized the spy satellite capabilities of the National Reconnaissance Office.

All of that was true. But the truth did not always tell the whole story. None of these activities were done for the aggrandizement of Paul Hood or the NCMC. Under Hood, OpCenter functioned without the bureaucracy, infighting, and egos that undermined the effectiveness of those other agencies. That helped Op-Center to achieve its chartered goal: to save lives and protect American interests.

Because of politics, not effectiveness or cost-efficiency, the CIOC had ordered Paul Hood to cut his operating budget. He had done so. This morning, Hood was supposed to learn the results of the quarterly follow-up conducted by the CIOC finance subcommittee. Hood, Rodgers, and Herbert hoped that tempers had cooled somewhat in four months. The previous day, the men had submitted their written petition to get some of the cuts rescinded. Among other things, training a new Striker team was going to take additional funds. Hood had been optimistic. Rodgers had been pessimistic. Herbert had declared himself neutral.

“Neutral like Sweden,” Alison Carter had joked. The night before, Dr. Carter and her former patient had gone to dinner. Carter had just completed a secret assignment for the State Department. Though she did not say so, Herbert took that to mean she had participated in an assassination. Officially, the United States government did not sanction such killings. Unofficially, with the help of medical specialists, they executed them brilliantly.

During the course of the mission, Carter had exposed extensive collaboration between supposedly neutral Sweden and Nazi Germany during World War II. She was proud of that fact. She said that she had never believed any nation or individual could be completely impartial about anything.

Herbert disagreed. He insisted he had to be neutral. As he pointed out to Dr. Carter after one glass of wine too many, “It takes an Optimist, Pessimist, and Centrist to spell Op-Center.”

She had groaned and made him pay for dinner. Then she left him with this thought: “Tell me,” Carter asked. “Do you ever use the neutral gear on your wheelchair?”

Herbert informed her that there was no neutral gear on his chair. Just forward and backward.

“Exactly,” she replied.

Herbert passed Paul Hood’s office. The door was open. Since Hood’s separation from his wife Sharon, he had been getting to the office earlier and earlier. For all Herbert knew, his boss had slept here instead of going back to his new apartment.

Not that it mattered. Staying busy had helped keep Hood’s spirits from sinking. The intelligence chief certainly understood that. His own wife was killed in the blast that had cost him the use of his legs. After her death, all Herbert wanted to do was work. He needed to keep his mind moving forward, engaged in something constructive. If he had dwelt on the loss, his mind would have stayed in place, idling angrily, digging downward.

That was probably why psychologists called the result the pits of depression, now that Herbert thought about it.

Hood was gazing at his computer monitor. Herbert rapped lightly on the doorjamb.

“Good morning,” Herbert said.

Hood glanced toward the door. He looked tired. “Good morning, Bob,” Hood replied.

The director’s voice was low and flat. The day had just begun, and already something was not right.

“Is Mike in yet?” Hood asked.

“I haven’t seen him,” Herbert replied. He swung into the doorway. “What’s up?”

Hood hesitated. “The usual,” he said quietly.

That told Herbert a lot.

“Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do,” Herbert said.

“There will be,” Hood assured him. He did not elaborate.

Herbert smiled tightly. He lingered a moment. He thought about trying to get Hood to talk but decided against it.

Herbert backed his wheelchair from the doorway and continued down the hallway. Psychologist Liz Gordon was already at work. So was Director of Electronic Communications Kevin Custer. Herbert waved good morning to each of them as he passed. They waved back. It was a welcome touch of normalcy.

He did not bother trying to guess what Hood had to say to Rodgers. Herbert was an intelligence man. And right now, he had very little intelligence to go on.

But he did know two things. One was that the news was grave.

Paul Hood had been mayor of Los Angeles before coming to Op-Center. He was a politician. Hood’s silence a moment ago was not about keeping secrets. It was about protocol. His tone had told Herbert that the news was bad. The fact that Hood did not want to tell Herbert, his trusted number-three man, meant that Mike Rodgers was entitled to hear it first. That told Herbert it was personal.

The other thing Herbert knew was that Alison Carter was right: Neutrality was a myth.

Herbert was an optimist. Whatever this was and whatever it took, he would help his teammates beat it.

Chapter Five.

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Tuesday, 4:35 P. M.

The Okavango River is the fourth longest river system in southern Africa. The wide river runs southeasterly for over 1,000 miles, from central Angola to northern Botswana. There, it ends in a vast delta known as the Okavango Swamp. In 1849, the Scottish explorer David Livingstone was the first European to visit the region. He described the swamp as “vast, humid, and unpleasant with all manner of biting insects.”

“Vast” is an understatement.

The great, triangular delta covers an area of some 6,500 miles. Much of the region is under three feet of water during the rainy season. For the rest of the year, just over half the swamp is as dry as the surrounding plains. Amphibians such as frogs and salamanders breed in cycles that produce offspring who are air breathers by the time the rains stop. Other animals, such as lungfish and tortoises, burrow into the mud and estivate to survive.

The Moremi Wildlife Reserve is located beyond the northeastern corner of the Okavango Swamp. The reserve’s 1,500 square miles are a strikingly different world from the marshland, a self-sustaining ecosystem of lions and cheetahs, wild pigs and wildebeests, hippopotamuses and crocodiles, storks and egrets, geese and quail, and rivers filled with pike and tiger fish.

There is only one animal that dwells in both regions. And right now, a force of them was making its way from one area to the other.

After leaving the Maun tourist center, Leon Seronga had led his four-vehicle caravan north through the reserve. The unit was riding Mercedes Sprinters that had been given to them by the Belgian. “The Necessary Evil,” as Seronga referred to him in private, among his men. Each van held fourteen passengers. The vehicles had been flown to the Belgian’s private airfield in Lehutu in the Kalahari. That was where they had been painted the green and khaki of Moremi Ranger Patrol vans. Before crossing the reserve with their prisoner, the men had all donned the olive-green uniforms of rangers. If any real rangers or army patrols stopped the RPVs, or if they were spotted by tour groups or Botswana field forces, they would claim to be searching for the paramilitary unit that had kidnapped the priest. Depending upon who approached, Leon’s team was equipped with the proper documentation. The Belgian had provided that as well.

Dhamballa saw to the spirits, but the Necessary Evil and his people saw to everything else. They said they supported the cause and hoped to benefit by having the mines returned to Botswana ownership. Leon Seronga did not trust the Europeans. But if anything went wrong, he could always kill them. And that made him a little more comfortable.

Leon was sitting in the rearmost seat of the second van. His prisoner lay on his side in the small storage section of the van. The men had tied his hands behind him and bound his feet before laying him inside. He was still wearing the hood and was wheezing audibly. The van was hot. Inside the mask, it was even hotter. Leon had kept the mask on for two reasons. First, to dehydrate the priest and keep him weak. Second, to force him to draw some of his own exhaled carbon dioxide with each breath. That would keep the priest lightheaded. Both would make Father Bradbury more cooperative when they reached their destination.

The priest was nestled among stacks of thigh-high wading boots and several cans of petrol. The other vans were packed with food, water, weapons, blankets, and the nine-by-nine-foot cotton canvas military tents the group would be using when they stopped for the night.

After more than twelve hours driving through tfce reserve, the group reached the southernmost edge of the Okavango Swamp. Their arrival was marked by a dramatic increase in humidity. The climate was one of the reasons the swamp had been selected. It was hospitable to insects. In particular, the mosquitoes at the perimeter of the water provided more security than a battery of soldiers. And those sentries did not have to be provisioned.

The drivers parked the vans on the south side of a grove of high, thick date palms. The vehicles would be needed for a mission three days from now. Leon and his team would be driving to the Church of Loyola in Shakawe, which was to the north. That would begin the second phase of the program.

The thick trunks and long leaves of the trees would keep the vans from being baked by the sun. Six- and seven-foottall batches of feathery papyrus plants would provide cover from any passersby.

Because it was well after dark, the militiamen made camp. Four guards were posted around the perimeter. They would serve shifts of one hour each. The trip would resume at daybreak.

The night was noisier at the water’s edge than it was in the reserve the evening before. Insects, birds, and toads hummed, barked, clicked, and wailed continuously. Because of the thick foliage, the sounds did not penetrate into the swamp. Even the breathing of the sleeping militiamen seemed loud and very, very close to Leon. They remained trapped in the immediate vicinity, as if the noise were coming from headphones. But it was like white noise. Within minutes after curling up on his blanket, the exhausted but satisfied Leon Seronga was asleep.

The symphony ended shortly before dawn. When the men woke, Leon selected six men to continue the journey with him. He left Donald Pavant in charge of the bivouac.

It was just after the rainy season, and the dark waters still stretched to the outer boundaries of the swamp. While the other six men pulled on their hip boots, Leon untied the priest’s hands and legs. Father Bradbury was cautioned not to remove his hood, or he would be dragged through the water. He was also warned not to speak. Leon did not want his men or himself distracted by chatter or prayer. Then the priest was hefted onto the back of one of the men. He was weak, and Leon did not have time to walk him through the swamp. The militiamen set out, wading through the sloshy waters. They had tied a pair of motorboats to a tree on a small island 400 yards offshore. The boats were hidden among high reeds where they would not be seen. Seronga had not been worried about rangers spotting them as much as poachers. The islands of the swamp were an ideal hiding place.

The men moved as they had on land, in two tight, parallel columns. Seronga liked to keep his men organized and disciplined at all times.

The mosquitoes were relentless for about 250 yards from the shore. After that, the only real threat the men faced were burrowing asps. The snakes typically stretched their yard-long bodies on the silty marsh bottom. Meanwhile, their flat heads rested on the shore, on raised roots, or on floating branches. Though they could not bite through the vinyl of a boot, the snakes could be stirred up and washed over the top in deep water.

The militiamen continued to walk toward the northeast. They made their way slowly through thickets of high cattails and around stocky bald cypress trees. The bald cypresses literally sat on the soft marsh bottom like bowling pins. They passed mounds of dry land as well as swamp knots. These were raised masses of tangled tree roots. Small lizards actually made permanent homes on the swamp knots. Countless generations of amphibians were born, fed on insects and rainwater, mated, and died without ever leaving the knot.

Upon reaching the two boats, the men were divided. Seronga and the priest got into one with two guards. The remainder of the men climbed into the second boat. They fired up the engines and sped into the brightening morning.

The journey northward lasted nearly ten hours. Seronga and Dhamballa had selected a base that was close to the northeastern edge of the swamp. If it became necessary for Dhamballa to escape, the Barani salt pan and the rugged Tsodilo Hills lay to the west. The relatively unguarded border with Namibia was just a short, fifty-five-mile trip to the north.

By the time the men reached their destination, the sun was low on the horizon. It shone in long, tawny red streaks beyond the rich green of the plants and trees. The swamp itself was already dark, its surface like an oily mirror. But there was something different about this section from anything the men had encountered before. A low, symmetrical, treeless hill rose from the water. It was approximately twelve acres of black earth, soil topped with a layer of fertile, gray brown humus. Built on the low-lying hill were five thatched huts. The walls were made of thick, slab-cut pieces of baobab tree. The rooftops were interwoven roots sealed with mud. Battery-powered lights were visible through the thatching of the central residence, which was also the largest of the huts. The other, smaller huts contained cots for the soldiers that were stationed here, supplies, additional weapons, communication and video gear, and other equipment that had been brought in by the Belgian.

Only one structure was radically different from the others on the island. It was an oblong shack about the size of two coffins set back-to-back. Except for the floor, which was made of wood, it was built entirely from corrugated tin. There were iron bars in front and a tin door behind them. The door was open. There was nothing and no one inside.

The waters to the north and east of the small island had been completely cleared of trees, plants, underwater roots and logs, and other debris. The roof thatching used to complete the huts had come from this effort. The work had been necessary in order to create a 150-foot flight strip for the Belgian’s Aventura II 912 ultralight. The small, white, two-seat amphibious aircraft could set down on water or on land. Right now, the needle-nosed airplane sat perfectly still in the lengthening blackness. Beside the plane was the seventeen-and-a-half-foot red cedar canoe that Dhamballa used to leave the swamp. It was covered with a fiberglass tarpaulin to protect it from animals looking for a home. Like the airplane, it sat motionless on the flat surface of the swamp. The sixty-pound vessel was tied to a post that had been driven into the shore of the island. The pole was actually a small totem of a loa or god. The three-

foot-high mooring was made of bald cypress that had been carved in the shape of a tornado. The image personified the mighty loa Agwe, the divine force of the sea.

Two armed guards patroled the island at all times. As Seronga and his team neared the southern shore, the sentries turned bright flashlights on them. Seronga and his men stopped.

“Bon Dieu,” Seronga said.

“Pass,” said a voice as one of the flashlights snapped off.

Seronga had uttered their password, the name of their guardian deity. One of the guards left to inform Dhamballa that the team had returned.

The men walked ashore. Seronga quickly removed his boots, watching as the soldier carrying Father Bradbury set him on the shore. The priest fell back, wheezing through the mask, unable to move. The militiaman stood over the prisoner, while another soldier bound his hands. When they were finished, Seronga walked over. He grabbed Father Bradbury under an arm and hoisted him to his feet. The priest’s robes were thick with sweat.

“Let’s go,” Seronga said.

“I know your voice,” the priest gasped.

Seronga tugged on the priest’s slender arm.

“You are the leader,” the priest continued.

“I said let’s go,” Seronga replied.

Father Bradbury stumbled forward, and Seronga had to hold him up. When the clergyman regained his footing, the men started walking slowly through the warm, soft soil. Seronga directed the priest toward the main hut.

“I still do not understand,” Father Bradbury went on. “Why are you doing this?”

Seronga did not answer.

“The mask,” Father Bradbury implored. His voice was breathy and weak. “At least won’t you remove it?”

“When I have been instructed to do so,” Seronga replied.

“Instructed by whom?” the priest persisted. “I thought you were the leader.”

“Of these men,” Seronga said. He should never have answered the man. Additional information gave him new avenues to poke and prod.

“Then who are we going to see?” Father Bradbury asked.

Seronga was too tired to tell the priest to stop talking. They were almost at the hut. Though the Batawana native was leg weary, seeing the hut gave him strength. It was more than just the soft, welcoming glow through the wood slats. He was renewed by the knowledge of who was inside.

“Forget about me,” the priest said. “Have you no fear of God’s judgment? At least let me save your soul.”

His soul. What did this man know? Only what he had been taught. Seronga had seen life and death. He had seen Vodun power. He had no doubt about what he was doing.

“Look to your own soul and your own life,” Seronga advised.

“I have done that tonight,” Father Bradbury replied. “I am saved.”

“Good,” Seronga told him as they reached the hut. “Now you will have a chance to save the lives of others.”

Chapter Six.

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 10:18 A. M.

For most of his career, Mike Rodgers had gotten up with the sun. There were soldiers to drill, battles to fight, crises to settle. Lately, however, Rodgers’s world had been quiet. There were reports to file about the mission to Kashmir, dossiers to review for possible new Strikers, and endless sessions with Liz Gordon. There was no reason to be in early.

Also, it was difficult to sleep. That made it damned difficult to get up as early as he once had. Fortunately, the decor and the caffeine at DiMaggio’s Joe brought him up to something resembling full speed.

Rodgers parked and walked toward the building. The rain had stopped. He carried his rolled-up newspaper, whacking it in his open hand. The blows smarted. The general was reminded of basic training, when he was taught how to roll newspaper tightly to form a knife. Another time, the DI showed them how to use a crumpled piece of newspaper or napkin to disable someone. If hand-to-hand combat were inevitable, all a soldier had to do was toss the scrap to one side. An opponent would always be distracted. During that moment-and a moment was all it took-the soldier could punch, stab, or shoot an adversary.

Rodgers entered the small, brightly lit reception area. A young female guard stood in a bulletproof glass booth just inside the door. She saluted smartly as Rodgers entered.

“Good morning, General,” the sentry said.

“Good morning,” Rodgers replied. He stopped. “Valentine,” he said.

“Go right in, sir,” the guard replied. She pressed a button that opened the elevator door.

Valentine was Rodgers’s personal password for the day. It was left on his secure GovNet E-mail pager the night before. Even if the guard had recognized Rodgers, he would not have been allowed to enter if his password did not match what was on her computer.

Rodgers rode the elevator to the basement. As he stepped out, he bumped into Bob Herbert.

“Robert!” Rodgers said.

“Morning, Mike,” Herbert said quietly.

“I was just coming to see you,” Rodgers said.

“To return some of the DVDs you borrowed?” Herbert asked.

“No. I haven’t been in the mood for Frank Capra,” Rodgers said. He handed Herbert the Washington Post. “Did you see the article about the kidnapping in Botswana?”

“Yes. They caught that item upstairs,” Herbert told him, refolding the newspaper.

“What do you make of it?” Rodgers asked.

“Too early to say,” Herbert answered truthfully.

“The uniforms don’t sound like the men were Botswana army regulars,” Rodgers went on.

“No,” Herbert agreed. “We haven’t had any reports of paramilitary activity in Botswana, but it could be a new group. Some idiot warlord who’s going to turn Botswana into the next Somalia. Or the soldiers could be expatriates from Angola, Namibia, any of the countries in the region.”

“Then why take a priest?” Rodgers asked. He was uncharacteristically anxious, tapping a foot and toying with a button on his uniform.

“Maybe they needed a chaplain,” Herbert said. “Or maybe the priest heard someone’s confession, and they want to know what was said. Why are you all over this, Mike?”

“There’s something about the size of the group and the timing of the attack that bothers me,” Rodgers said. “Why send so many soldiers to kidnap a single, unarmed man? And in daylight, no less. A small squad could have picked him up in the middle of the night.”

“That’s true,” Herbert agreed. “But you still haven’t told me why this is important. Do you know anyone over there? Do you recognize something about the abduction scenario?”

“No,” Rodgers admitted. “There’s just something about it-” He did not finish the thought.

Herbert’s eyes were on the general. Rodgers was restless. His eyes were searching, not steady as they usually were. There was an unhappy turn to his mouth. He looked like a man who had put something down and couldn’t remember where.

Herbert flipped over the newspaper and glanced at it. “You know, now you’ve got me thinking,” the intelligence chief said. “If this is a paramilitary unit that’s been dormant somewhere, maybe they chose this target as a way of announcing themselves without having to face a firefight. If it’s a new group, maybe they wanted to give their people some field experience. Or maybe they just miscalculated how long it would take to get to the church. Didn’t that happen to George Washington during the Revolution?”

“Yes,” Rodgers said. “It took him longer to cross the Delaware River than he had expected. Fortunately, the Brits were all asleep.”

“That was it,” Herbert said. “So there could be trouble percolating somewhere in southern Africa,” Herbert said. He slid the newspaper into the leather pocket on the side of his wheelchair. “I’ll make calls to our embassies, see if this smells dangerous to anyone. Find out if there’s any additional intel. Meanwhile, Paul was asking if you were in yet.”

Rodgers’s expression perked. “Did he hear from the CIOC?” the general asked.

“I don’t know,” Herbert said.

“He would have told you if he had,” Rodgers said.

“Not necessarily,” Herbert said. “He’s supposed to brief his number-two man first.”

“That’s according to the Good Book,” Rodgers said. The Good Book was what they called the National Grists Management Center Operations Book of Codes, Conduct, and Procedure. The CCP was as thick as the Bible and almost as idealized. It explained how life should be lived in a perfect world.

“Maybe Pope Paul’s found religion after all these years,” Herbert said.

“There’s one way to find out,” Rodgers said.

“Go get ’em,” Herbert said.

“I will.” The general stepped around the wheelchair. “And thanks for checking out that priest for me.”

“My pleasure,” Herbert replied.

Rodgers threw him a casual salute and started down the hall. It was strange to hear Hood’s old nickname after all these years. Press liaison Ann Farris had given it to Hood because of his strict selflessness. Ironically, the name didn’t really apply. Early in his tenure, Hood had discontinued adherence to the CCP. He tossed the rule book when he realized that it was the antithesis to intelligence work. All an adversary needed to do was get a copy of the CCP from the government printing office to know exactly what Op-Center was going to do in a given situation. That included enemies outside the country as well as rivals inside the U. S. intelligence community itself. When Hood retired the CCP, his nickname went with it.

Hood’s door was closed when Rodgers arrived. The director’s assistant, Bugs Benet, was sitting in a cubicle directly across from the door. Bugs told Rodgers that Hood was on a personal call.

“I don’t expect it to be a long conversation,” Benet said.

“Thanks,” Rodgers said. The door was soundproof. Rodgers stood beside it and waited.

Hood was probably talking to his wife, Sharon. The two had recently reached an agreement on terms for their divorce. From what little Hood had confided to Rodgers, their primary goal now was the rehabilitation of their daughter, Harleigh. The young girl was one of the hostages taken by terrorists at the United Nations. After nearly a half year of intensive therapy, Harleigh was at last beginning to recover from the trauma she had suffered. For weeks after the crisis, she had done little more than cry or stare.

Rodgers understood what Harleigh was feeling. The general was luckier than the young woman. The difference between an adult and an adolescent was a lifetime of anger. “Impotent rage” was what Liz Gordon had called it. When a kid took an emotional beating, he tended to feel victimized. He shut down the way Harleigh had done. When an adult took a hit, it often tapped into buried resentment. He let it out. That aggressiveness did not heal the trauma, but it did provide fuel to keep the individual going.

“He’s off now, General,” Bugs said.

The general nodded. He did not have to knock. There was a small security camera in the upper left corner. Hood already knew Rodgers was there.

“Good morning, Mike,” Hood said.

“Morning.”

“Sit down,” Hood said. He did not say anything else.

The general lowered himself into one of the room’s two armchairs. He knew then that Hood was troubled. Whenever Paul Hood had bad news, he did not engage in top-of-themorning chat. The only thing Mike Rodgers did not know was whether this was personal or professional. And if it was professional, which one of them it was about.

Hood did not waste time getting to the point.

“Mike, I received an E-mailed letter of resolution from Senator Fox early this morning,” Hood told him. He regarded the general. “The CIOC has voted unanimously not to allow the NCMC to rebuild its military capacity.”

Rodgers felt as if someone had driven a baseball bat into his gut. “That’s knee-jerk bullshit.”

“Whatever it is, the decision is final,” Hood said.

“We can’t restaff Striker?” Rodgers said, still in disbelief.

Hood looked down. “No.”

“But they can’t order that,” Rodgers protested.

“They have-“

“No!” Rodgers said. “Striker is mandated by charter. Fox would need an act of Congress to change it. Even if we sent Striker on an unauthorized mission, the CCP very clearly states that disciplinary actions are to be directed against the commanders in the field and at HQ, and not against the unit individually or in total. I’ll send her the chapter and verse.”

“They took pains to point out that this is not a disciplinary action,” Hood told him.

“Like hell it isn’t!” Rodgers snapped. Senator Fox had poked a hole in his rage. He was fighting to control it. “Fox and the CIOC doesn’t want one, because if they investigate us under DA charges, the hearing has to be public. The press would put her against a wall and pull the trigger. We stopped a goddamn war. They know it. She has no reason other than pressure from other agencies to shut us down. Hell, even Mala Chatterjee had good things to say about us.”

Mala Chatterjee was the Indian-born secretary-general of the United Nations. Before the Striker action in Kashmir, she had been fiercely critical of Paul Hood’s handling of the United Nations situation.

“Mike, we stepped on the toes of the military and made things rough for the embassy in New Delhi,” Hood said.

“Aw, I’m bleeding for them,” Rodgers said. “Would they have preferred dealing with a nuclear attack?”

“Mike, what was going on between Pakistan and India was not our official business,” Hood said. “We went in to reconnoiter, not intervene. Yes, you have humanitarian rights on your side. They have political ramifications on their side. That’s why the CIOC is hitting us so hard.”

“No, they’re just hitting us low,” Rodgers shot back. “They don’t have the balls to hit hard. They’re like my friggin’ Uncle Johnny who didn’t have a car but liked to take drives. He called realtors and asked them to show him houses. The CIOC doesn’t have a car, or money, but they’re working us.”

“Yes, the CIOC is working us,” Hood said. “And yes, they’re doing it very quietly and very effectively.”

“I hope you told them to stuff their little letter,” Rodgers said.

“I did not,” Hood replied.

“What?” Rodgers said. That felt like the small end of the baseball bat.

“I informed Senator Fox that the NCMC would comply with the resolution,” Hood said.

“But they’re cowards, Paul!” Rodgers yelled. “You kowtowed to a bunch of sheep.”

Hood said nothing. Rodgers took a long breath. He had to reel it in. He was not going to get anywhere beating up on Paul Hood.

“Fine,” Hood agreed at last. “They’re cowards. They’re sheep. But you’ve got to give them credit for one thing.”

“What’s that?” Rodgers asked.

“They did something that we did not,” Hood replied. “They did this thing legally.” Hood opened a file on the computer and swung the monitor toward Rodgers. “Have a look.”

Reluctantly, the general leaned forward. He needed a minute to calm down. He looked at the monitor. Hood had brought up section 24-4 of the CCP manual. Paragraph 8 was highlighted. Rodgers read the passage. Even as he focused on the text, Rodgers could not believe this was happening. What had happened to Striker in the field was crushing enough. But at least they died in action. To be shut down and humiliated by a clutch of soft, self-serving politicians like this. It was almost unbearable.

“Seconding fresh troops from other military forces falls under the heading of ‘Domestic military activity and procurement,’ ” Hood continued. “That is something the CIOC can and has preemptively denied. They’ve also blocked the hiring of retired military personnel for other than advisory activities. They used section 90-9, paragraph 5, to do that.”

Hood jumped to that part of the CCP. It outlined the need for all recommissioned personnel to undergo field examinations at Quantico, which was where Striker had been stationed. The manual defined that as military activity that had to be approved by the CIOC.

Mike Rodgers sat back. Hood was right. He almost had to admire Senator Fox and her backstabbing colleagues. They had not only stopped Hood and Rodgers by the book, but they had done it without kicking up any dust. He wondered if they were also hoping to get his own resignation.

Maybe they would. He did not want to give them the satisfaction, but he also did not have the patience for this kind of bureaucracy anymore.

Hood turned the computer screen around and leaned forward in his chair. He folded his hands.

“Sorry I got a little hot,” Rodgers said.

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Hood said.

“Yes, I do,” Rodgers replied.

“Mike, I know this is a tough blow,” Hood went on. “But I’ve also been reading the CCP. This does not have to be a terminal blow.”

Now Rodgers leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

Hood typed something on the keyboard. “I’m going to throw some names at you.”

“Okay,” Rodgers said.

“Maria Corneja, Aideen Marley, Falah Shibli, David Battat, Harold Moore, and Zack Bemler,” Hood said. “What do those people have in common?”

“They’re agents we’ve worked with over the years,” Rodgers said.

“There’s something else most of them share,” Hood said.

“I’m missing whatever it is,” Rodgers admitted.

“Except for Aideen, none of them ever served in the military,” Hood said. “And none of them is in it now.”

“I’m still not following you,” Rodgers said apologetically.

“These people are not governed by the CIOC resolution or by CCP restrictions,” Hood said. “What I’m saying is that we get back in the field, but we don’t do it with a military team. We don’t replace Striker.”

“Infiltration,” Rodgers said. Now he got it. “We defuse situations from the inside rather than the outside.”

“Exactly,” Hood replied.

Rodgers sat back. He was ashamed that he had been so slow on the uptake. “Damn, that’s good,” Rodgers said.

“Thanks,” Hood said. “We have an absolute mandate to collect intelligence. The CIOC doesn’t control that,” he went on.

“So we run this as a black ops unit. Only you, Bob Herbert, and one or two others know about it. Our people fly commercial airlines, work with cover profiles, move around in daylight, in public.”

“They hide in plain sight,” Rodgers said.

“Right,” Hood said. “We run an old-fashioned HUMINT operation.”

Rodgers nodded. He was annoyed that he had sold his boss short. Yet this was a side of Paul Hood he had never seen. The lone wolf in sheepish team player’s clothes.

Rodgers liked it.

“Any thoughts?” Hood asked.

“Not at the moment,” Rodgers said.

“Any questions?” Hood asked.

“Just one,” Rodgers replied.

“I already have the answer to that,” Hood said. He smiled. “You start right now.”

Chapter Seven.

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Tuesday, 5:36 P. M.

It felt good to breathe again.

For the first part of his ordeal, Father Bradbury was on the edge of panic. The man of the cloth could not draw breath easily nor could he see through the hood. Except for his own strained breathing, sounds were muffled by the mask. Sweat and the condensation from his breath made the fabric clammy. Only his sense of touch was intact, and he was forced to focus on that. The priest was hyperaware of the heat of the plain and the ovenlike convection inside the vehicle. Every bump, dip, or turn seemed exaggerated.

After lying in the vehicle for a long while, Father Bradbury forced himself to look past his fear and discomfort. He concentrated on drawing the air that was available, even if it was less than he was accustomed to. More relaxed, his oxygendeprived mind began to drift. The priest went into an almost dreamlike reverie. His spirit seemed to have become detached from his weakened body. He felt as if he were floating in a great, unlit void.

Father Bradbury wondered if he were dying.

The priest also wondered if the Christian martyrs had experienced something similar, a tangible salvation of the soul as the flesh was consumed. Though Father Bradbury did not want to give up his body, the thought of being in the company of saints gave him comfort.

The priest was torn from his reflection when the vehicle stopped. He heard people exit. He waited to be pulled out. It never happened. Someone climbed into the vehicle. Father Bradbury’s hood was lifted at the bottom and he was given scraps of bread and water. Then the hood was retied and was left there for the night. Though the priest kept drifting into sleep, he would invariably suck the cloth of the hood into his mouth, begin to choke, and wake himself. Or his perspiration would cool just enough to give him a chill.

In the morning, the priest was hauled from the vehicle and placed face forward on someone’s back. As the men entered what was almost certainly a marsh, Father Bradbury’s body returned, vividly alive. For a time, his shoulders, arms, and legs were hounded by mosquitoes and other biting insects. The humidity was greater here than on the plain. Breathing was even more difficult than the previous day. Perspiration dripped into his dry mouth, turning it gummy and thick. The paste caused his throat to swell, and swallowing became a chore. The clergyman once again succumbed to mortal despair. But he was too -weak to struggle. Father Bradbury went where he was taken.

Whenever he opened his eyes, the priest saw dark orange instead of black. The sun was up. As the humidity increased, the priest became dehydrated. He found himself fighting to stay awake. He feared that if he lost consciousness, he would never regain it. Yet he must have passed out. When they stopped, the sun appeared to be much lower in the sky.

But he could not be sure. Even as he was walked across thick, almost muddy soil, his captor would not remove his hood. Once again, he would not tell the priest why he was brought here. It was not until Father Bradbury had been taken into a structure of some kind that he was given any information at all.

Unfortunately, not all of the communication was verbal. And none of it was encouraging.

Father Bradbury was led onto a rug and was ordered to stand there. The man who had brought the priest in released him. Through the hood, he saw a gauzy spot of light directly ahead.

“May I have a drink?” Father Bradbury rasped.

The priest heard a high whistling sound from behind. A moment later, there was a sharp snapping sound followed by a blaze of intense heat behind both knees. The fire jumped up through Father Bradbury’s thighs and down to his ankles like an electric shock. He sucked a deep, involuntary breath. At the same time, his legs folded, and he dropped to his knees. When he was finally able to let the air from his lungs, he moaned miserably.

The burning grew worse as he lay there. He knew at once that he had been struck with a switch.

After several moments, he was hoisted roughly back to his feet and cuffed on the side of the head to get his attention.

“Do not speak,” someone ordered.

The speaker was standing a few feet in front of the priest. His voice was soft but commanding. Father Bradbury’s ear was ringing from the blow. He turned the side of his head toward the man who had just spoken. There was something compelling about his voice.

“This island has been sanctified with blood of fowl and day dancing,” the man continued. “The voice of a reverend from outside the circle can only be used to advance or accept our faith.”

The words made sense, but Father Bradbury was having difficulty concentrating on them. His legs were weak and trembling violently. He fell again.

“Help him,” the voice from in front said.

Strong hands moved under the priest’s arms. He was raised from the rug. This time the hands held him upright. The priest’s breath was tremulous. The pain behind his knees settled into a regular, forceful throbbing. His head, overheated and aching for water, sagged forward. The hands released him after a moment. The priest wobbled but forced himself to remain standing.

The only sound the priest heard was his own breathing. And then, after a minute or two, the man in front spoke again. He was nearer now. Though the voice was barely more than a whisper, it was deep and compelling.

“Now that you understand my position, I want you to do something,” said the speaker in front.

“Who… who are you?” Father Bradbury implored. The words were cracked. It did not sound like his own voice.

A moment later, he heard the terrible whistle. He cried out as he felt the bite of the switch. This time, it struck a little higher, along the backs of his thighs. The pain was so great that he actually danced forward several steps before collapsing. He fell on the dirt floor, panting and whimpering. He had a flashback to when he was a boy and had been hit with a strap by his father. This was how he sounded then. The priest lay writhing on his belly, hooting pain into the hood. He could not control what came from his mouth. His bound hands pulled against the ropes. But Father Bradbury was not trying to get free. His body had to move, to keep from letting the pain be his only stimulus.

“You were told not to speak!” someone yelled from behind. It did not sound like the man who had brought him here. This was some other tormentor. Perhaps they had brought in someone who was proficient with a switch. Many villages had people like that, men who were skilled at corporal punishment. “Nod if you understand the instructions.”

Father Bradbury was curled on his side. He nodded. He barely knew what he was doing anymore. His body was in agony, yet his mind was numb. His mouth was dry, but his hair and face were greasy with sweat. He was struggling mightily with his bonds yet he had never felt so weak.

Only the priest’s spirit was intact. It had been shaped and reinforced by over two score years of reflection, reading, and prayer. He needed that part of him to stay strong.

The switch nipped the backs of his bound hands. Father Bradbury yelped and stopped moving them. He thought of restless young boys whose knuckles he had rapped in catechism class and apologized to God. He was pulled back onto his feet. His knees folded inward, but the priest did not fall. The powerful hands continued to hold him.

“You must believe me,” said the gentle man in front. He was leaning close again, his voice even more compassionate now. “I do not wish to hurt you. On my soul, I do not. The creation of pain is a black deed. It hurts you, and it attracts the attention of evil spirits. They watch us. They feetj on evil, and they grow stronger. Then they attempt to influence us.

That is not what I wish. But for the sake of my people, I must have your cooperation. There is no time to debate this.”

Father Bradbury had no idea what this man was saying. Everything around him was confusion.

“Now,” the voice said as the man stepped away. “You will be taken to a telephone. We have been watching your seven deacon missionaries. We have the numbers of their cellular telephones. You will call them and tell these men to leave my country. When their departure has been confirmed, you will be permitted to leave our camp. Then you, too, will leave our Botswana. You and the other priests of a false divinity.”

“He is not false,” Father Bradbury said.

The clergyman braced for a blow that did not come. Then it came, just as he was relaxing. It struck his lower back. He felt the shock of the blow race up his back to his neck, and he whimpered loudly. No one said anything. There was no need. He knew the rules.

The hands holding Father Bradbury were joined by another set of hands. They pulled the priest forward. He could not keep his wounded legs under him. He did not even try.

The priest was dragged across the room. His legs were screaming, but he could do nothing to quiet them. His head was throbbing as well, not just from the blows but from thirst and hunger. One set of hands pushed him onto a stool. The edge of the seat brushed his leg where he had been hit. It burned terribly, and he jerked away. The men settled him back down. Another man untied the bottom of the hood. It was lifted to just above the priest’s mouth. As warm as the evening was, the air felt wonderfully cool on his face.

“There is a speakerphone in front of you,” said someone close to Father Bradbury. This was the man who had originally captured him. “The first person we are calling is Deacon Jones.”

No one was holding the priest now. He slumped forward slightly, but he did not slip from the stool. His feet were spread wide, and his hands were still bound behind him. His arms served as a counterbalance to keep him from falling. His legs and hands burned furiously where he had been struck. His arms shook. Tears slipped from the edges of his eyes. His parched lips were trembling. He felt violated and forsaken. But Father Bradbury still had one thing neither pain nor promises could take from him.

“You will tell him to return to the church, collect his belongings, and go home,” his captor told him. “If you say anything else, we will end the call, and you will be beaten.”

“Sir,” Father Bradbury croaked. “I am… Botswanan. So is … Deacon Jones. I will not tell him … to leave.”

The switch came down across his slender shoulders. The heavy blow snapped the priest erect and bent him backward. His mouth flew open, but he made no sound. The pain paralyzed his vocal cords and his lungs. He sat there frozen, arched away from the telephone. After a few seconds, the little air that was left in his lungs wheezed out. His shoulders relaxed slowly. His head fell forward. The pain of the blow settled in as a now-familiar heat.

“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.

Chapter Eight.

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 Op-Center 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.

me 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.

“me, 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 planniflg 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.

Chapter Nine.

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 Leojpold 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.

For all of that, Henry Genet did not miss it.

Despite the history, the culture, and the conveniences, Antwerp existed for finance. So did most of Europe these days. So did Genet. Though he loved acquisition, it had ceased to become a challenge. That was why he had put together the Group. The others were as bored as he was. And boredom was one of the reasons they had come here.

In Botswana, the mentality was far different than it was in Antwerp. For one thing, the age of things in Africa was measured in eons, not in centuries. The sun witnessed the rise and fall of mountains and plains, not improvements in buildings and streets. The stars looked down on the slow workings of evolution, not the life span of civilizations. The people had a monolithic patience that was unheard of in Europe.

Here, Genet had found himself thinking bigger thoughts but with European impatience.

As ancient as this world was, it was also fresh and uncomplicated. There was a clarity of purpose. For the inhabitants it was dance or die. The predators had to kill their prey. The prey had to elude the predators. That simplicity also suited Genet’s partner Beaudin. Unlike Europe, where there were attorneys and financial institutions to protect him, the risks here were intense and exciting.

It had been two days since Genet first arrived to oversee the expansion of the ministry. What he had discovered was that even sleeping here was a challenge. The noises, the heat, the mosquitoes that lived in the shallow waters on the shore of their little island. Genet loved being challenged like this.

Especially when the Belgian diamond merchant knew that, if he needed it, escape was just a few dozen yards away. Genet could always use the Aventura II to fly back to his private airstrip and then to civilization. He wanted excitement, but he was not delusional.

Not like Dhamballa. He was an idealist. And idealists, by their nature, were not realists.

Genet used the edges of his pillow to wipe sweat from his eyes. He turned gently onto his belly so the perspiration would run out on its own. Then he thought about Dhamballa, and he had to smile. This operation could not have been easier from conception to launch. And for all Dhamballa’s ideas, for all his insights about faith and human nature, he had no idea what any of it was really about.

Eight months before, Dhamballa had been associated with Genet in a much different capacity. Then, the thirty-three-yearold Botswanan was known as Thomas Burton. He was a sifter in a mine Genet visited each month to do some of his buying. Sifters were men who stood beside the mining flumes-long wooden troughs with running water. These troughs were located inside the mines where the lighting could be kept constant. There were screens at different intervals. The water went through without a problem. Small rocks and dirt were trapped by the screen. If the sifters did not see any diamonds, they moved the screen so the detritus could be washed along. Each successive screen had a finer mesh than the one before. And each successive sifter was trained to spot diamonds of decreasing size. Even diamond dust had value to scientists and industrialists. Those people used the dust in microtechnology as prisms, cutting surfaces, or nano-thin switches. The diamond dust was removed from the sand by a fan operator, who blew the fine powder away from the significantly heavier grains.

Thomas had worked at the very end of the trough line. And he had a voice that could be heard over the rushing water and the hum of the fan. Genet knew this because every day, promptly at two o’clock, Thomas would speak about the agesold teachings of Vous Deux or “You Two.” While continuing to sift, the young man would extemporize on the beauty of life and death and their relation to the universe.

He would talk about the greatness of the snake, which cast off its skin and died without dying. He would explain how men could cast off death if they took the time to find their own “second skin.”

The mine operators allowed Thomas to speak. The other sifters enjoyed hearing him, and they always worked more energetically after his ten- or fifteen-minute inspirational talks. During one visit, Genet listened to what Thomas had to say. He spoke about the gods and how they favored the industrious. He talked about “the white arts,” the doing of good deeds, and how it spread light on those whom the practitioner loved. And Thomas spoke of the strength and character that was indigenous to the people of Botswana. It was all very general and very uplifting. It sounded to Genet as if Thomas’s words could have come from any faith-Christian, Hindu, Islam.

It was only upon his return to Antwerp that Henry Genet discovered what Thomas Burton was talking about. Who and what he really was. As Genet drifted into sleep, he recalled how, over dinner, he had been discussing the speeches with five other businessmen. When Genet was finished, one of the men, Albert Beaudin, sat back and smiled. Beaudin was a seventy-year-old French industrialist who had his hand in a variety of businesses. Genet’s father had invested heavily in several of his enterprises.

“Do you have any idea what you witnessed?” Beaudin asked.

“I don’t understand,” Genet told him.

“Do you know what you saw in Botswana, Henry? You saw a papa giving a sermon about Bon Dieu,” the elderly industrialist explained.

“Who was doing what about whom?” asked Richard Bequette, one of the other merchants.

“A papa is a priest, and Bon Dieu is his supreme deity,” Beaudin said.

“I still don’t follow,” Genet said.

“What you heard were lectures in Vodunism, the religion of white and black arts,” Beaudin said. “Of good magic and evil magic. I read about it in National Geographic.”

And suddenly Genet understood. Vous Deux was better known by its Anglicized name, voodoo.

Henry Genet and the other men at that meeting also understood something else. That what the Belgian had witnessed was like the mines he visited. The voodoo faith was deeper, older, and richer than most people knew. All it needed was for someone to tap its wealth. To speak directly to its traditional adherents and potential converts. To unleash its power.

Chapter Ten.

Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 8:00 P. M.

The Watergate was Bob Herbert’s favorite hotel. And not just his favorite in Washington. His favorite in the world.

It was not only because of the history of the hotel. The infamy attached to Richard Nixon and the break-in. Herbert actually felt sorry for the man. Virtually every candidate did what Nixon’s staff had done. Fortunately or unfortunately, he got caught. That was bad enough. What affected Herbert was this smart man’s too-slow uptake in the nascent art of spin control.

No, Herbert had a more personal connection with the hotel. It happened in 1983. He was still getting accustomed to life in a wheelchair, to life without his wife. His rehabilitation facility was several doors down from the hotel. After one frustrating session, Herbert decided to go to dinner at the Watergate. It was his first time out alone.

The hotel, the world, were not yet wheelchair-accessible. Herbert had a difficult time getting around. It was made more difficult by the fact that he was convinced everyone was giving him the “you poor man” look. Herbert was a CIA agent. He was accustomed to being invisible.

Herbert finally made it into the hotel and to a table. Almost at once, the diners at the next table engaged him in conversation. After a few minutes, they invited Herbert to sit with them.

The diners were Bob and Elizabeth Dole.

They did not talk about disabilities. They discussed the value of growing up in a rural area. They talked about food. They compared notes on TV shows, movies, and novels. It was one of those moments of kismet that transcended the practical value of what had transpired. The act of being asked to join the Doles made Herbert feel whole.

Herbert had come back often after that. The Watergate became a touchstone for him, a place that reminded him that a man’s value was not in his mode of mobility but what was inside.

Of course, it did not hurt that they had installed ramps since then.

Herbert did not go directly to the elevators. He went to the house phones. There, he swung his laptop from the arm of the wheelchair and accessed the wireless Internet. As soon as he was on-line, he rang room 222. Intelligence people made enemies. Some of those enemies went to elaborate extremes to get revenge. Herbert wanted to make certain that it was Edgar Kline who had called and not someone trying to set Herbert up.

Kline picked up. “Hello?”

“Just making sure you’re in,” Herbert said.

“I got here five minutes ago,” Kline replied.

“On what airline and flight?” Herbert asked.

If Kline were being held against his will, he might give Herbert misinformation to keep him from coming up.

“Lufthansa 418,” Kline said.

Herbert did an Internet search for Lufthansa schedules. While he waited he asked, “What make of aircraft?”

“Boeing 747,” Kline replied. “I was in seat IB, and I had the filet.”

Herbert smiled. A moment later, the Lufthansa web site confirmed the flight. It was supposed to land at 3:45 P. M., but it had been delayed. “I’ll be right up,” Herbert said.

Three minutes later, Bob Herbert was rapping on the door of room 222. A tall man with a lantern jaw and short blond hair answered. It was Edgar Kline all right. A little more rotund and leathery around the eyes than Herbert remembered him, but then who wasn’t?

Kline smiled and offered his hand. Herbert rolle^d into the foyer and shut the door before accepting it. He glanced quickly around the room. There was an open suitcase on the bed. Nothing had been removed from it yet. A tweed sports jacket was draped over the back of the desk chair, and a necktie was slung over that. Kline’s shoes were at the foot of the bed. Those were the first things a man would have removed after a long flight. The arrival looked legitimate. Kline did not appear to be trying to put something over on him.

Now Herbert turned toward Kline and shook his hand.

“It’s good to see you, Robert,” Kline said.

Kline spoke with the same reserve Herbert remembered so well. And though he was smiling, it was the kind of smile a professional gambler gave to a newcomer or to a flip comment during a poker game: polite, practiced, not insincere but not very expressive.

“I’m glad to see you, too,” Herbert replied. “We haven’t been together since I left for Beirut, have we?”

“No,” Kline said.

“So what do you think of the new me?” Herbert asked.

“You obviously haven’t let what happened over there stop you,” Kline observed.

“Did you think it would?” Herbert asked.

“No,” Kline replied. He nodded toward the wheelchair. “Does that thing have afterburners?”

“Yeah, these,” he said, holding up his powerful hands.

Kline smiled his polite smile and gestured toward the main room. It bothered Herbert more than it used to. Maybe it was just because the intelligence chief was older and more cynical. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe his veteran spy antennae were picking something up.

Or maybe you ‘re just flat out paranoid, Herbert told himself.

“Would you like a drink?” Kline asked.

“A Coke would be nice,” Herbert said as he wheeled himself in. This was the first time he had been to one of the rooms. He stopped by the bed and watched as Kline went to the minibar. The South African turned the key and removed a can of soda.

“Would you like anything else?” Kline asked.

“Nope,” Herbert said. “Just the Coke and an update.”

“I promised you dinner,” Kline said. “Shall I call for it?”

“I’m okay for now, and we know you just ate,” Herbert said.

“Touche,” Kline said.

“So,” Herbert said. “Why are you here?”

‘To talk to Cardinal Zavala here in Washington and Cardinal Murrieta in New York,” he replied as he handed the Coke to Herbert. “We need to get more American missionaries into the field in southern Africa.”

“Quickly, I assume?” Herbert said.

Kline nodded. Then his mood changed. The bright blue eyes lost a little of their light. The thin mouth tightened. He began to pace the room. “We’re facing a potentially explosive situation in Africa, Robert,” Kline said slowly. “And I do not mean just the Vatican.”

“You’re talking about the incident yesterday with Father Bradbury,” Herbert said.

“Yes,” Kline said. A hint of surprise crossed the poker face. “What do you know about that?”

“You first,” Herbert said. He held up the can. “My mouth is dry.”

“Fair enough,” Kline said knowingly.

Bob Herbert never went first. Having more information than someone else, even an ally, was always a good thing. Today’s allies could be tomorrow’s adversaries.

“Father Powys Bradbury was abducted by a militia that was led by someone who we believe is Leon Seronga,” Kline said. “Do you know that name?”

“Doesn’t spark anything,” Herbert said.

“Seronga is a former Botswana soldier who helped to organize the Brush Vipers,” Kline said. “They were a very effective intelligence unit that helped Botswana break away from Great Britain.”

“I know about the Brush Vipers,” Herbert said. This was not what he had wanted to hear. If the Brush Vipers were back, in more than just name, it meant that what happened was probably not a small, isolated action. A “Seronga was spotted two weeks ago at the Botswana village of Machaneng,” Kline went on. “He was attending a rally held by a religious leader named Dhamballa.”

“Is that his real name?” Herbert asked as he unfolded his computer. “I mean is that a surname or a tribal name or an honorary title?”

“It’s a variant spelling of the name of a god of the Vodun faith,” Kline said. “We do not know more than that. And we do not have direct access to him. Nor is his image in our file.”

“At least, not under that name,” Herbert said.

“Correct.”

“But this Dhamballa is the reason you had someone watching the rally,” Herbert said.

“Yes,” Kline admitted.

Herbert asked Kline for the spelling of the name. He made a note of it in a new computer file.