He may have just been used to start the flood that was going to wash over Botswana.
Chapter Fourteen
Paul Hood was shaving when Bob Herbert called. The intelligence chief was already at Op-Center. They had spoken about Edgar Kline just a few hours before. Hood told Herbert that they should give the Vatican representative any support he required.
"What did I interrupt?" Herbert asked.
"Just scraping my face," Hood replied as he finished up. "What's up?"
Op-Center's director pulled the hand towel from his bare shoulder. He wiped his cheeks and chin. He felt a sad pang as he thought back to when his young son Alexander used to watch him do this. He would not be there the day Alexander started shaving. How the hell did that happen?
Herbert's soft, Southern accent brought Hood back to the moment.
"I just got a call from Ed Kline," Herbert said. "Powys Bradbury has been working the phones."
"The priest?" Hood said.
"Father Bradbury, yes," Herbert replied.
"Is he all right?"
"They don't know," Herbert told him. "He telephoned each of his deacon missionaries, the guys in the field, and told them to pack up and go back to the diocese in Cape Town."
"Are they sure it was him?" Hood asked.
"Yeah," Herbert said. "One of the deacons asked him something about a conversation they had a few weeks ago. The caller knew what the two of them had spoken about."
"Did Father Bradbury give a reason for recalling the missionaries?" Hood asked.
"None," Herbert said. "Apart from saying he was okay and would catch up with them in Cape Town, the preacher didn't tell them anything else. Nothing about where he was, where he would be, or what comes next. Kline got the records of calls that were placed to the missionaries' cell phones."
"And?"
"Nada," Herbert said. "The number was blocked. Stoll says someone probably hacked the local computers to erase the number as soon as it appeared. Or maybe it was blocked on the caller's end. Our own TAC-SATs do that."
"Which means these people have some technological talent either in the group or available to them," Hood said.
"Right," Herbert said. "We'll have to wait for this Dhamballa guy to surface again before proceeding. In the meantime, I want to do two things. First, we should get people into Botswana. We will need intelligence resources on the ground. Second, assuming Beaudin is part of this, I want to try to get a look at his possible end game."
"How?" Hood asked.
"Revolutions need two things," Herbert said.
"Guns and money," Hood said.
"Exactly," Herbert went on. "We need to try to find out if any of Beaudin's companies are funneling money to Botswana."
"Absolutely," Hood said. He thought for a moment. "There's someone I used to work with on Wall Street who might be able to help with that," he said. "Let me give her a call."
"I knew those years you spent in the exciting world of finance would come in handy," Herbert teased.
"It hasn't helped my stock portfolio," Hood said as he walked into the bedroom. He looked at the clock. When Emmy Feroche worked with Hood at Silber Sacks, she used to be in the office at four A. M. to check the Tokyo and Hong Kong exchanges. Now she worked for the FBI's Finance Division investigating white-collar crime. Hood had not spoken to Emmy in over a year, but he bet that she was still an early riser.
"Do me a favor?" Hood said.
"Sure," Herbert said.
"Give Darrell a call," Hood said. "Tell him I'm contacting a friend at the Bureau. I don't want him upset because I'm playing in his sandbox."
"You've got to stop doing that," Herbert joked.
"Yeah," Hood replied.
Hood said he would call back as soon as he had spoken to Emmy. However, before he hung up, Herbert had one thing to add.
"When I came in this morning, there was a voice mail message from Shigeo Fujima."
"I know that name," Hood said.
"He's the head of the Intelligence and Analysis Bureau of Gaimusho, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs," Herbert said. "Fujima did the Japanese security follow-up on our North Korea operation."
"That's right," Hood said.
"Fujima wanted to know if we had any information on a guy named Henry Genet," Herbert said.
"Who is?"
, "A member of the board of directors of Beaudin International Industries," Herbert said. "But that's not all he does. Genet spends a lot of time in Africa pursuing his main business."
"Which is?" Hood asked.
Herbert replied, "Diamonds."
Chapter Fifteen
DiMaggio's Joe was not the kind of place where spies did business. It was public, brightly lit, watched by security cameras, heavily trafficked, and generally loud.
That was precisely why Mike Rodgers asked Aideen Marley, David Battat, and Darrell McCaskey to meet him there. Any young job seekers or political junkies would be watching and listening for members of Congress, the State Department, or something high profile. Spies looking for intelligence typically went to bars. Not only was it dark, but people drank. Caution fell away. Information was often revealed, especially if free drinks or sex was used as bait. No one sold out their government for a mochachino.
Battat was the only out of towner who said he could come down immediately. The former CIA officer promised to take the first shuttle down from La Guardia and cab right over Thursday morning.
Rodgers was the first to arrive. He ordered coffee and a Danish and grabbed a corner table. He sat facing the front door. Darrell got there a few minutes later. The short, wiry, prematurely gray ex-FBI man looked tired. His leathery face was pale, and his blue eyes were bloodshot.
"You look like you haven't slept," Rodgers said.
McCaskey sat down with two double espressos and two raisin biscottis. "Not much," he admitted. "I was up most of the night seeing what I could find out about the disappearance of your friend."
"Ballon?" Rodgers said quietly.
McCaskey nodded. He leaned closer. "I called my contacts in France and at Interpol," he said. "They swear that the colonel is not undercover. A couple of months ago, he went out to return a library book and never came back."
"You believe that?" Rodgers asked.
"These guys have never lied to me before," McCaskey said.
Rodgers nodded. He felt very sad about that. A man like Ballon made a lot of enemies during the course of his work. A man like Beaudin had the clout to mount a counterattack like this.
"So that's the story about Colonel Ballon," McCaskey said. "I had Interpol look for bank transactions, credit card purchases, phone calls to relatives and friends-nothing."
"Shit," Rodgers said.
"Yeah," McCaskey agreed.
"Well, thanks, Darrell," Rodgers said.
McCaskey took a sip of his first double espresso. "Then there's stuff with Maria," he said.
"What kind of stuff?" Rodgers asked.
"She's worried," McCaskey said.
"About being married, or coming to the U. S.?" Rodgers asked.
"I don't know. Everything, I guess," McCaskey grumbled.
"I wouldn't worry about it," Rodgers said. "Newlyweds always have a bout of PHSD."
"PHSD?" McCaskey asked.
"Post-honeymoon stress disorder," Rodgers replied.
"You're pulling my leg," McCaskey said.
"Partly," Rodgers said. "It's not a real syndrome. But I swear, Darrell, I've seen this in family members, friends, servicemen. It's when you get back from the Bahamas or Tahiti or wherever and realize, 'Holy shit. My dating days are over. I've enlisted for the duration.' "