"If that's true, then Dhamballa may not know he's being used," Hood said.
"That's right," Rodgers said.
Hood nodded. He looked at Matt and his team. "Thanks, guys. You did a great job."
Stephen Viens smiled, J2 and Mae high-fived each other again across the room, and Matt Stoll unfolded his arms. He went back to the keyboard and began typing. He must have had another thought. Stoll was rarely in the same mental space as everyone else.
Hood turned to Liz. "Do you have some time right now?" he asked.
"Sure."
"I'd like you to stay here and see if there's any other data you can pick up on Dhamballa," Hood said. "His family background, friends, people he may have gone to school with, or stood next to on the diamond line, that sort of thing. Work up a profile."
"Sounds good," she said eagerly. Liz was obviously enjoying the new respect Hood was giving her profession.
Stephen Viens had already started clearing boxes of diskettes and cables from a chair. He stacked them on the floor and rolled the chair next to his workstation. Hood thanked Liz, then left with Rodgers. The men made their way back to Hood's office.
"Profiling Dhamballa is not going to give us the key to defusing this crisis," Rodgers pointed out.
"No," Hood agreed.
"We need to get someone close to him. We need to get his ear somehow," Rodgers said.
'Tell him that the Europeans are using him," Hood said.
"At least plant the idea, make him trust a little less and maybe move a little slower," Rodgers said.
"I agree," Hood said.
"Then we'll definitely have Aideen Marley and David Battat airborne as soon as possible," Rodgers said. "They can be in Maun by tomorrow evening, about six P. M. local time."
"Good," Hood said. "Assuming we can find Dhamballa and get our people close, what do we do about Father Bradbury?"
"I don't think we can do anything right now except try to get close to Dhamballa," Rodgers said.
"Then it's strictly intel gathering," Hood said. "No rescue attempt?"
"Except for Maria, none of the three has had much experience with kidnap situations," Rodgers said. "And she can't go into this alone. Besides, I wouldn't want her tripping over those Spanish soldiers if they have some kind of rescue in the works. Unless you think you can work that out with Edgar Kline. And with Darrell," he added.
"I don't know if Kline will give us the kind of access we'd need to coordinate our movements with the Unidad Especial del Despliegue," Hood said. "As for Darrell, let's not rev him up unless we have to."
"I'm with you on that," Rodgers said.
"I don't suppose we'll be able to count on much cooperation from Gaborone," Hood said. "They haven't seemed to show much interest so far."
"No, and I've been thinking about that," Rodgers said. "If this were just a backwater cult, the government might have taken stronger action. But they have to be very cautious turning against a ten-thousand-year-old religion. Hell, there may even be Vodunists in the Botswana ministries and in parliament. They may want to nudge Gaborone toward embracing the faith the way Rome turned to Christianity in the fourth century A. D."
"The Vatican is definitely not going to like that," Hood said.
"Not a bit, which is why they're probably going to do a full-court press to get Father Bradbury back," Rodgers said. "Or at least force the government to move against Dhamballa."
They reached Hood's office and stopped.
"Mike," Hood said thoughtfully. "We're going to need to get Maria on site, aren't we?"
Rodgers nodded. "If nothing else, Maria speaks Spanish," the general said. "If she manages to hook up with the Unidad Especial, she'll be able to converse with them. That could give us access to information we won't necessarily get through Edgar Kline."
"I wonder if I can sell that to Darrell," Hood said, glancing behind himself to make sure the FBI liaison was not listening.
"You mean, the idea that his wife is going in as a glorified translator instead of as a spy?" Rodgers said.
"Yeah," Hood said.
"I don't think he'll believe that," Rodgers told him.
"I don't think so, either," Hood said. "Okay, Mike. You get Aideen and Battat going. I'll go and talk to Darrell."
Rodgers turned and left. Paul Hood went into his office. He sat heavily behind his desk.
Hood was tired inside and out. He also felt strange, though he did not know why. He was going to have that chat with Darrell. Then, because he needed to feel grounded, he was going to call home. He would see what kind of a day Harleigh and Alexander had. It would be refreshing to listen to problems that did not threaten to topple a government.
Home, Hood thought. Just thinking the word put tears in the back of his eyes. And he realized that was why he felt strange. This day had begun and now ended with Hood participating in disunions.
Paul Hood still thought of the house in Chevy Chase as home. It was not. He did not live there anymore. He pulled into the driveway on weekends to pick up the kids. Home was now a small apartment a half hour from Op-Center. It was a few bare walls and some furniture. Nothing personal except for a few photos of the kids and some framed letters from heads of state. Mementos from his days as mayor. Nothing with any real emotional history. Here he was, missing that terribly. At the same time, he was trying to stop Dhamballa from reclaiming his home. And he was helping to prevent Darrell McCaskey from starting a new life with ffis new wife.
When Hood was mayor of Los Angeles, when he worked in finance, he built things. He built roads, housing, corporations, portfolios, careers. He started and nurtured his own family. What the hell was he doing now?
Keeping the world safe for other families, he told himself.
Maybe. Maybe that was a party-line crock. Maybe it was true. In any case, Hood had to believe it. Not just think it but be convinced of it. Otherwise, he would not be able to pick up the phone and call Darrell McCaskey. He would not be able to ask for help that would turn up the heat in an African floodplain where McCaskey's wife was already at risk.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Leon Seronga and Donald Pavant woke with the sun. By eight, they had been up for nearly three hours and were anxious to catch the bus to Maun. Seronga did not like sitting still.
He also did not enjoy impersonating a deacon. Seronga knew they could not simply assume the identities of Deacons Jones and Canon while they were here. The director of the center had certainly met them. What was more, the director had seen Seronga when he came for Father Bradbury. The man had seen him from a distance, but he still might recognize him. Seronga came up with a cover story in case they needed it. He hoped, instead, that he and Pavant could simply remain out of sight until the bus arrived.
It was not to be.
Nearly a dozen of the tourists went to the church that morning. Though the door was unlocked, no candles had been lit. No clergyman was in attendance. Shortly after eight A. M., the center's director, Tswana Ndebele, went to the deacons' residential quarters. Donald Pavant opened the door. He stepped through the doorway onto the veranda.
The creases of Ndebele's sun-baked skin deepened with surprise. "Who are you?"
"Deacon Tobias Comden of the Cathedral of All Saints," he replied. "And you are-?"