He changed his thinking about psychiatry.
The change prompted Hood to take an unprecedented step of involving Liz in his own decision-making process. A few days before talking to Rodgers about the new intelligence team, Hood had spoken to the psychologist about it. The question he asked her: Would an officer who lost his squad be overly cautious with the next one or more aggressive? Liz told him that it depended upon the officer, of course. In the case of Mike Rodgers, she thought he might be reluctant to take on a new command. He would not want to risk any more lives. If he did accept the post, she believed he might experience a mild form of substitution hysteria. The need to re-create a failure and make it come out right.
Fortunately, this was not a military operation. The participants did not have to stay until the matter was resolved. They collected intelligence until things became too dangerous. Then they left.
"Since everything seems to be set, it's probably a good idea to get them over to Botswana," Hood continued. "I suspect things are going to heat up when Bishop Max arrives tomorrow."
"We can get Aideen and Battat on a plane today," Rodgers told him. "Travel documents are being prepared. Right now, I've got them in Matt Stoll's section, reading what we have on the Father Bradbury situation. They're also going over files about Botswana and Albert Beaudin. Bob told me that he and his people might be involved."
"It's possible," Hood said.
"I also had a chat with Falah Shibli on the drive over," Rodgers said.
"How is he?" Hood asked. Falah was an extremely capable and humble man. Those were a good combination in any man. In an intelligence operative they were invaluable. They made him invisible.
"Falah's still working as a police officer in northern Israel, only now he's running the department," Rodgers said. "He said he has his hands full keeping peace on the Lebanese border, but he'd be happy to take a short leave of absence to do whatever we need."
"A Moslem from the Jewish state helping the Church," Hood mused. "I like that."
"So does he," Rodgers told him. "That's why he offered to drop what he was doing and join the team. I told him I'll let him know if that's necessary. I also talked to Zack Bemler in New York and Harold Moore in Tokyo. They're tied up for the next few days. After that, they said they'd be happy to work with us. But with Maria on the way and the other three ready to go, I feel we have a strong team to field."
Hood agreed. Those four intelligence operatives had exceptional abilities. Hood had to trust that their collaborative skills would surface when they were required.
When Rodgers was finished, Hood brought the general up to date on his conversations with Edgar Kline and Emmy Feroche. In the middle of that briefing, Stephen Viens called.
"Paul, I think you should come to Mart's office," Viens said.
"What have you got?" Hood asked.
Viens replied, "Your missing link, I think."
Chapter Twenty-five
According to the beliefs of Dhamballa's Vodun faith, mid-, night was the most spiritual part of the day. It was the hour I when the body was weakest and the soul the strongest.
More importantly, it was a time of the greatest darkness. The Vodun soul shunned the day. Day was for the flesh so it could be warm and work. So it could be nourished. Then there was early night, a time dominated by firelight. That was the time for group prayer, for singing, drumming, and dancing. A time when animals were sacrificed to honor the loas. Revelers were asking the gods for health, wealth, and happiness in life.! Occasionally, the celebrations led to pairings that created new, life. It was a holy thing for children to be conceived within the energy and love of a celebration.
Yet all of that, too, were needs of the flesh. And the flesh was a prison for the soul. Daylight was also an inhibiting force. In the dark, the soul could enjoy a sacred, private communion with the earth. It could leave the material world and visit the! black places of its forebears. Like the souls of the living, the souls of the dead dwelt beneath the surface.
Each midnight, before retiring, Dhamballa made time for I this personal reconnecting with the voices of the past. That I was how Dhamballa first became aware of his destiny. A! Vodun priest, Don Glutaa, had guided him through a visit to j the spirit world. There was not always a revelation, but he always came out of this journey with a reminder of why he was here: to serve as a mortal bridge between the Vodun past and future.
Dhamballa lay on his back on the rough wicker mat. He was dressed only in white shorts. His eyes were shut, but he was not asleep. The hut was dark, save for the very faint glow of a ceremonial candle. The wick was made from rushes that burned like a cigarette. It smouldered rather than flamed, releasing smoke rather than light. The short, squat candle had a slightly rounded bottom. It was not made from wax but from tallow. Dhamballa had created the candle himself before corning to the swamp. He had gone to the ancient cemetery of Machaneng. There, he mixed shavings of belladonna and pinches of dried ergot with the melted fat of a male goat. He had blended them in the eye socket of a human skull, the traditional way to make the Lights of Loa, the light of the possessing spirit. The herbs were necessary to relax his body and open his mind. The tallow was employed to capture the spirits of the dead. Burning the candle released those spirits so they could guide him through the home of the dead.
The candle sat at the top of Dhamballa's bare chest, just above his breastbone. The tallow pooled below his chin, reinventing the shape of the candle. This act was important to the Vodun faith. It symbolized what was about to occur. The dead were going to give something to the living. The living would use it to make into something new.
The pungent yellowish smoke snaked into Dhamballa's nostrils with every breath. His breathing grew slow and shallow. As he inhaled the fumes, the young man felt more and more as if he himself were made of smoke. He felt as though he were floating just above the mat. Then, like fire and air, his spirit wafted downward, through the weave of the mat.
Into the earth, he thought, home of the eternal spirit.
Dhamballa began to move, snakelike, through the thickly packed soil of the earth. He descended faster and faster. If and when the spirits wished, they would stir from cracks in the boulders and from places beneath the stones. They would come to him to make their knowledge available.
Almost at once, Dhamballa knew that this night was different than other nights. The spirits came quickly tonight, faster than ever before. That meant they had something important to share with Dhamballa. The Vodun priest stopped his descent so the spirits would not have to pursue him. It was for the living to wait for the honored dead.
Dhamballa did not select those to whom he wished to speak. Rather, the spirits approached Dhamballa. They came to tell him what he needed to know. They did not tell him in words but in images, in symbols.
The spirits began to tell Dhamballa about the future. They showed him a hen become a rooster. Then they brought him a calf, bloodied and torn but not yet dead. One was a mothering force that became a potential rival. The other signified a child that would be tested before it could mature.
The spirits left. Dhamballa moved on.
The holy man drifted farther into the earth. He moved now through larger caves and fissures. Finally, he came to a large pit. He floated past the rim and saw a great horned snake coiled below him. The gods were speaking to him now. This was a rarity. Dhamballa swam toward the huge rust-colored beast. The reptile opened its mouth. Dhamballa floated inside. Save for the serpent's red tongue, everything was black. Suddenly, the forks of the tongue became white wings. Flocks of sparrows rose from beneath him. Dhamballa watched as the birds soared upward. The first ones to reach the sky became stars. Soon there were thousands of points of light. He watched with delight but only for a moment. As birds were still rising, the stars became sand and rained to earth. The grains pelted the birds, ripping them to pieces. The downpour formed a sprawling, endless desert of sand. Here and there were small oases of dead birds and blood.