"I will," Fujima promised.
The Japanese intelligence officer thanked him. Hood told Bugs to forward the personnel files of the Beaudin board to Mr. Fujima. Then he grabbed the call from Emmy.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Emmy," Hood said.
"Not a problem, Paul," she said. "It's great to hear from you! How has life been?"
"Eventful," he replied.
"I can't wait to catch up," she said. "God, it's amazing how 'Let's stay in touch' can turn into 'Has it really been that long?' "
"I know," Hood said. "How is the world of white-collar crime?"
"Overall, it's very busy," Emmy told him. "At the moment, it's completely insane."
"Why?" Hood asked.
"We're checking to see if there were any improprieties in several major stock deals," Emmy told him. "Have you ever heard of a German stockbroker named Robert Stiele?"
Hood felt a chill. "It so happens I have," he replied. "What did he do?"
"Stiele quietly pulled the trigger on some major deals early this morning, Euro time," she said. "He dumped one hundred and fourteen million dollars in blue-chip stock holdings, companies that were doing well, and put the money into three separate, privately held operations."
"Do you have their names?" Hood asked.
"Yes," she replied. "The first one is VeeBee Ltd., the second one is Les Jambes de Venus-"
"And the third is Eye At Sea," Hood said.
"Yes!" Emmy replied. She was obviously impressed. "How do you know that?"
"I can't tell you," Hood said.
"Well, Mr. Wizard, what can you tell me?" she asked. "Look into Albert Beaudin," he said. "Why?"
"Can't tell you that either," Hood said, "what are you doing about Stiele?"
"We're trying to find out if Mr. Stiele knows something about the blue chips that we don't."
"I wouldn't worry about the blue chips," Hood said. "This is about Stiele. He needed to get liquid."
"Why?" she pressed.
"That," Hood replied, "is a damn good question."
Chapter Nineteen
It was ironic. After being given food and rest, Father Bradbury's own tactics were used against him.
The priest had recalled the missionaries, as instructed. Then he was taken outside. He was not bound or hooded, and it felt strange to see the morning light, to feel fresh air on his face. He was allowed to use the little island's outhouse. After that, he was not returned to "the cage," as his captors called it. He was taken to a small hut. The window was shuttered, the walls were made of logs, and the roof was corrugated tin. Near the ceiling, a series of four small holes had been cut two feet apart in the walls on every side. They provided the small room's only light and ventilation. The door was bolted from the outside, and the floor was concrete. But there was a cot against the back wall, and Bradbury was given bread and water. After saying grace, he ate and drank greedily.
The air was humid and extremely hot. Following his modest meal, Father Bradbury stood on the cot and sucked the relatively cool morning air through one of the openings. Then, his eyes heavy, he lay down on his belly. He put his head on the towel that passed for a pillow. He reeked of dried perspiration and the smells of the swamp. Marsh flies scouted his sticky hands and cheeks. But the heat, the stench, the bugs, all of that vanished when the priest shut his eyes. He was asleep within moments.
The next thing Father Bradbury knew, he was being awakened by a firm tap on the shoulder and a gruff, unfamiliar voice.
"Get up!"
It was now very dark in the room and he had no idea how long he'd been asleep. The voice seemed to be coming from far away. The priest felt incredibly groggy. He was not even certain he was awake. He did not want to move, let alone stand.
Someone tapped him again. "Come on!" the voice said.
Father Bradbury tried to face the speaker. His arms were asleep, and it was a moment before he could move. He finally looked over at a shadowy figure. It was someone he did not know.
The man reached down and grabbed Father Bradbury's upper arm. He gave it a sharp tug. Obviously, the priest was not moving swiftly enough. Father Bradbury pushed himself off the cot and stood unsteadily, and his vision swirled from having gotten up too quickly. Still holding him, the man led the clergyman through the open door. The skies were blue black as they walked across the warm soil toward a hut. The structure was about thirty yards away. Father Bradbury had not seen Dhamballa's hut from the outside. The last time he was pulled in this direction, he had been wearing a hood. But he saw half-dragged footprints in the soil. They were probably his. And they led to this structure.
The island seemed deserted. There was only the one soldier to escort the priest. That did not surprise Father Bradbury. Even if he had the strength, where would an unarmed man go? Especially with predators hiding in the murky waters and along the moss-shrouded shoreline.
But flight was not what Father Bradbury had in mind. Sometimes the best escape was to change the prison itself.
"Whom do I thank for giving me food and allowing me to rest?" the priest pressed.
The man responded with silence. The priest was undeterred.
"May I know your name?" Father Bradbury asked.
The man still did not answer him.
"I am Powys Sebastian Bradbury-"
"Quiet!"
"I'm sorry," Father Bradbury replied. ^
The priest had not really expected the man to say anything.
Nonetheless, now that he had the strength, the clergyman wanted to try to engage these people in conversation. When talking to parishioners or taking confession, Father Bradbury found that trust often grew from the most banal or innocent exchanges. It was easy to evolve a conversation. To progress from learning a person's name to discussing the weather to asking how they're feeling. Now that the priest was rested and thinking more clearly, establishing a personal connection with his captors was a priority. It might not guarantee his safety or gain his release, but it might give Father Bradbury a clue as to what the Botswanans were planning. It might also tell him whether he should continue to participate.
But conversation was like a spear with two heads. If a man pushed too hard, he could impale himself on the backside.
The priest was taken inside the hut. Dhamballa was there. He was sitting on a wicker mat by the far wall. His back was to the door. There was a candle in front of him. It gave off a tart smell, like burning rubber. It was the only light in the room. There was a wooden bucket behind the man. Father Bradbury could not see what was inside.
The soldier sat the priest in a folding chair in the center of the room. Then the young man closed the door and stood beside it. There was a tray on the dirt floor to Father Bradbury's right. On it were a cell phone, a plate of fruit, a pitcher of water, and a glass.
"You may drink or eat, if you wish," Dhamballa said. He spoke without turning around.
"Thank you," Father Bradbury said. He filled the water glass and took a banana.
"You did both," Dhamballa remarked.
"Yes."
"But I gave you a choice," Dhamballa pointed out.
The priest apologized. He put the banana back.
"You kept the water," Dhamballa said.
"Yes."
"People will always choose drink over food," Dhamballa said. "Do you know why?"
"Thirst is a more commanding need, I would say," the priest replied.
"No," Dhamballa told him. "Water is the companion to air, earth, and fire. Men always return to the four elemental forces to nurture life, to find the truth, to understand themselves."
"Is that what you are doing out here?" Father Bradbury asked. "Searching for truth?"
"I am not," Dhamballa said. He looked back. His face was dark, but his head was haloed by the candle's orange glow. He looked very young, very innocent. "I have found the truth. I am preparing to bring it to others."