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
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."