Mission of Honor (22 page)

“A photo ID from the files of the IODM,” Viens replied. “That’s the International Organization of Diamond Merchants. I figured your guy must have had a job before he became a cult leader.”

“Good job, Stephen,” Hood said.

“Thank you,” Viens replied. “The IODM had his personnel file on-line, as required by law. The computer says that the guy in the three-year-old ID photograph and the guy in that Vatican photograph you sent over are an eighty-nine percent match.”

“The differences being some apparent weight loss around the cheekbones and neck, different hair length, and a change in the bridge of his nose,” Stoll added. “Possibly due to a break.”

“I’m very comfortable with that match,” Hood said.

“It’s a good one,” Rodgers agreed.

“We hacked the tax records in Gaborone and got lucky right away,” Stoll said. “Your man is named Thomas Burton. Until four months ago, he was a mine worker in Botswana.”

“Did he mine industrial diamonds or gems?” Liz asked.

At her station, Mae Won wriggled the bare fourth finger of her left hand. Hood smiled at her.

“Yes, diamonds,” Viens replied.

“There’s the connection between Dhamballa and Henry Genet,” Rodgers observed.

Hood looked at the ID on Viens’s screen. There was a color picture attached to it. Below it was a photo Edgar Kline had sent over. “Are you sure this is the same guy?”

“We’re sure,” the heavyset Stoll said from his keyboard.

“I’ve got a small on-line newspaper report of the Dhamballa guy’s first mention,” J2 said. “It matches the time Thomas Burton stopped making calls from his home phone.”

“I had a look at those phone records,” Mae added* proudly.

“Where did Burton live?” Rodgers asked.

“In a town called Machaneng,” Viens told him. “They’ve got an industrial mine about five miles out of town.”

“According to the file from Mr. Kline, that was where the rally photo was taken,” Stoll pointed out.

“Anything else?” Hood asked.

“Not yet,” Viens replied.

“We’ve only had Mr. Kline’s file for about thirty-five minutes,” Stoll reminded Hood. “Like Stephen said, we got lucky.”

“Believe me, Matt, that wasn’t a knock,” Hood told him. “You guys worked a miracle. I appreciate it.”

J2 and Mae each slapped the air, giving one another an across-the-room high five.

“Will you be able to access any of this man’s medical records?” Liz Gordon asked.

“Yes, if they’re in a computer file and that computer has an Internet link,” Stoll said.

“Looking for anything in particular, Liz?” Hood asked.

“Psychiatric care,” Liz said. “Nine out of ten known cult leaders were treated, according to the last World Health Organization study.”

“That’s compared to what percentage of the non-Wacobound populace that’s had their heads shrunk?” Stoll asked.

“Seven out of ten percent,” Liz replied.

“That doesn’t exactly put cult leaders in an exclusive club,” the computer expert continued.

“I never said it did,” Liz told him. “But there may be records that we can get our hands on. The Botswana government might be interested in helping shut down a cult before it can get started.”

“He was never shrink-wrapped,” J2 declared.

The others looked at him.

“According to Mr. Burton’s employment file, he was a line leader in the mine,” the young man said. “That meant he was the last person to see the diamonds before they left the mine. I’m looking at the qualifications IODM has on their employment site for double is. They can have no criminal record. No immediate family members can have criminal records. And there must be zero history of treatment for mental problems.”

“Also, according to a footnote in this file, the Botswana average for psychiatric care is far below the international average,” Mae added, still studying her own computer screen. “According to the WHO, shrinkage in Botswana amounts to three in ten people. And most of those folks are white-collar workers and military personnel.”

“They probably can’t afford psychiatric care,” Hood said.

“Government subsidies are available,” Mae said, still reading.

“Maybe I ought to move there,” Stoll said.

“Well, I still want to try to get as much information on Dhamballa as possible,” Liz said. “If we can come up with a reliable profile, we can make some intelligent guesses as to what his next moves will be. You’ll need that, Paul, if this goes on for any length of time.”

“I agree,” Hood said.

“You know, people, there’s also the whole voodoo angle to this thing,” Stoll said. “I did some research on the net. It was recognized as the official religion of Benin in 1996. It also has an extremely large following in the Dominican Republic, Ghana, Haiti, Togo, and various places around the United States including New York, New Orleans, and Miami,” Stoll said, as he read from the screen. “It’s also widely recognized throughout South America, where there are a variety of sects like Umbanda, Quimbanda, and Candomble.”

“Impressive,” Liz remarked.

“Shows how parochial we are here,” Hood said.

“The essence of it seems to be very similar to Catholicism, actually, except that the spiritual figures dwell in the earth instead of in Heaven,” Stoll went on. “Both religions worship a supreme being and believe in a spiritual hierarchy. In Vodun the big guns are called loas, and in Catholicism they’re saints. The loas and the saints each have attributes that are unique to them. Vodunists and Catholics believe in an afterlife, in the notion of resurrection, in the ritualistic consumption of flesh and blood, in the sanctity of the soul, and in-clear cut forces of good and evil, which they refer to as white and black magic.”

“Interesting,” Rodgers said. “And it makes sense.”

“What does?” Hood asked.

“It helps to explain why Catholicism took hold in non-Islamic sections of Africa back in the seventeenth century,” Rodgers said. “In the absence of a national Vodun church, Africans would have found the structure of the Catholic church familiar and comforting.”

“The food and wine the missionaries brought probably didn’t hurt their cause,” Stoll said.

“That would have gotten people to sit down and pay attention,” Rodgers said. “But I’ve seen army recruiters at work. You need more than a buffet to get people to actually commit to something.”

“So now Dhamballa wants his people back,” Hood said.

“That could well be the limit of Dhamballa’s ambition,” Rodgers said. “The larger question is what Beaudin wants. And what his associates may have promised Dhamballa.”

“What would they want from him that they can’t get now?” Liz asked.

“A puppet leader,” Hood said.

“Or maybe they don’t want anything from him per se,” Rodgers suggested. “Maybe it’s destabilization of the region that they’re after.”

“Possibly,” Hood agreed.

“There’s also the chance that Dhamballa is just doing a job for pay,” Viens remarked.

“The voodoo equivalent of a televangelist,” Stoll said. He shook his head. “That’s pretty sad.”

“Yes, but I would not spend too much time looking into that idea,” Rodgers said.

“Why not?” Hood asked.

“Let’s assume that Beaudin or someone else is underwriting the Vodun movement,” Rodgers said. “They aren’t likely to have gone out and cast the role of a religious leader. Training someone and convincing others that he’s the real thing is tough and time consuming. It’s like gathering HUMINT. Infiltration doesn’t work as well as finding an individual who is already on the inside and turning him. What’s more likely is that someone spotted Burton or Dhamballa, heard him preaching, and saw an opportunity. They found a way to dovetail his beliefs into a project that was already in the works.”

“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 OpCenter. 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 his 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.

Maun, Botswana Friday, 8:00 A.M.

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.