Mission of Honor (27 page)

The jet engines created a pleasant white noise, making it easy for Battat to concentrate on the files. He went through the 400 pages of material in just over three hours. Battat reviewed the thin case files on Father Bradbury, Edgar Kline, and the Madrid Accords. He was surprised. Not so much by the pact between the Vatican and Spain but by the fact that other nations had not joined. Or perhaps, wisely, the Church did not want other allies. That might tweak the temptation to build an international coalition. The world community might not react favorably to the prospect of another Crusade.

Battat had also studied the general intelligence files on Botswana as well as the personal dossiers of Maria Corneja and Aideen Marley. Maria was a top Interpol agent. She had been involved in everything from surveillance to infiltration. He was glad to have her on the team. As for Aideen, he was encouraged to read that she had not been trained in field work. Aideen had been thrust into it by the assassination of Martha McCall, when the two of them were on a mission in Madrid. The fact that a junior political officer had helped to stop a civil war showed that she had superb instincts.

When Battat was finished with the other files, he came to a diskette labeled IP. That stood for Information Pool. It was provided to everyone who was working on a particular operation. The file consisted of odds and ends that might pertain to the operation at hand. It was updated twice a day and was filled with names, places, and institutions that had been mentioned in passing or details that had come up in background searches. Opening the file one looked for possible connections, coincidences, or anomalies to follow up on. Often, a seemingly incidental fact might trigger a link in the operative’s mind, something others had missed.

That had happened when Battat opened the IP file. And now it was bothering him. What frustrated the former Central Intelligence Agency operative was that he knew what was wrong. He just did not know why.

Unlike most of the personnel who worked at OpCenter, David Battat had not spent most of his career on a military base, at an embassy, in a think tank, or in a government office. He had been “on his feet,” as it was euphemistically referred to. He had been in the field. Battat knew people. And, more importantly, he knew how people of different nationalities behaved.

Before being stationed in the CIA’s New York field office, Battat had been all over the world. He had spent time in Afghanistan, Venezuela, Laos, and Russia. Because he spoke Russian, he had even done a four-month tour in Antarctica, from the beginning of spring to the middle of the summer. There, he was responsible for listening to Russian spies who were posing as scientists. The Russians were there to make sure the Americans were not using their own research stations as military bases.

Battat liked the Antarctic work because, ironically, it was the most comfortable place he had ever worked. It was called a “listening post,” but it was really a “listening folding chair.” Several radio consoles hung from hooks on the cinder block walls. He sat on a metal bridge chair beside the speakers. He spent his days listening for any activity picked up by wireless microphones planted in the ice. Mostly, he just heard the wind. When the Russians did come out, he heard a lot of complaining. That was the real value of the experience. Battat realized that for the Russians, working in the South Pole was a somewhat humiliating experience. Antarctica was perceived as a surrogate Siberia. It was exile, a comedown. Men did not do their best work when they felt like prisoners.

Human nature was fundamentally the same around the world. But Battat was aware of how cultural influences affected people. They brought out different traits in different people to different degrees. And he was bothered by something he had read in Paul Hood’s log. It was a passing reference, something that seemed to be off of everyone else’s radar.

The entry had to do with Shigeo Fujima, the Japanese Foreign Affairs intelligence chief. As far as the Japanese knew, they had a mole in the CIA. She was Tamara Simsbury, a young American. She had been approached by the Japanese Defense Intelligence Office, Jouhou Honbu, when she was a student at the University of Tokyo Graduate School of Law and Politics. They offered her a rich yearly stipend if she would go to work for the CIA and slip a DIO liaison officer information they requested pertaining to China and Korea. The woman went to the CIA and told them what the DIO wanted. The Agency hired her. Unknown to her Japanese colleagues, she told her superiors everything Tokyo wanted to know. If Fujima needed information from American intelligence, he could have gotten it without asking Paul Hood.

No, Battat thought. Shigeo Fujima had contacted OpCenter for another reason. The Japanese intelligence officer had wanted to establish a personal connection with Paul Hood.

Something he could use later. That meant Fujima knew more than he was saying. He knew there would be a “later,” something that would involve Japan.

And, most likely, the United States.

Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:00 P.M.

Leon Seronga stood in the small, open observation area at the far end of the airstrip. The viewing deck was marked as such with a painted sign. The wooden plaque hung on a tall, ten-foot-wide chain-link fence. To either side were cinder block walls topped with barbed wire. There were five other people waiting at the fence, three of them children. They could not wait to see Granpapa, who was flying in from Gaborone.

At the moment, the only things to see were two small planes. They were parked on a small asphalt patch on the other side of the field, near the observation tower. The larger one was a twin-engine tour plane owned by SkyRiders. Seronga had seen this particular aircraft flying over the Okavanga Swamp. Tourists who did not have a lot of time to spend in Botswana could be flown over or to sites they wished to see. The other plane was a small, white, single-engine Cessna Skyhawk. It was a private plane.

The pilot was checking it over. Seronga wished he had access to a small craft like that. It would be so much easier to fly the bishop out of here and land at the edge of the swamp. Mr. Genet had airplanes at his disposal, but he did not offer them to the Brush Vipers. Seronga suspected that the diamond merchant wanted to keep a safe distance from the group’s activities.

Roughly two dozen other people were standing by the road on the other side of the control tower. The first floor of the tower housed the airport’s modest terminal. It consisted of a small refreshment stand, a ticket counter, and  was not a vehicle on the road. There was a single entrance leading to the airfield. A security officer hired by the airline stood just inside the doorway. He was armed with a 9 mm pistol and a surly expression.

Seronga had bought a bottle of water at the refreshment stand. He took a sip. The Brush Viper’s own automatic was tucked in his shoulder holster, but he was trying not to look intimidating, unhappy, or uncomfortable. He wanted to appear a proper deacon. That was not easy.

Since they had arrived here a half hour before, Seronga had found it extremely difficult to focus. Physically, he was being baked by the direct sunlight and the uncustomarily heavy clothing. He was perspiring heavily from the forehead to the knees. Though a wind was blowing lightly from the northwest, it only added to his discomfort. It swept sand and grit from the tarmac into the eyes of those waiting for passengers. The marksman in the tower wore thick goggles to protect himself. When the jet landed, the assault was much worse. The engines kicked up whatever the wind had deposited and blasted it toward the crowd.

Emotionally, it was even worse. Seronga had once heard the expression, “War is hell.” It was said by an American, and it was true. But there was something worse than combat: waiting.

Inactivity did not fill the mind with visions of the things that could go right. Rarely did tension suggest good new ideas. It fueled the nerves with things that could go wrong.

Seronga had come to Maun with a simple plan. He and Pavant had taken the shuttle bus to the airfield. The shuttle would take them back to Maun with the bishop. There, Seronga and Pavant would link up with Njo Finn. That much was certain. But two of the Spaniards had come out to the airfield as well. They claimed to have left a small bag at customs and wanted to see if it was still there. The presence of the soldiers complicated the plan. What if the Spaniards decided to chat with the bishop at the airfield? What if they wanted to stay close to the clergyman when they reached Maun? What if Seronga or Pavant did something that a deacon would never do? What if that made the bishop suspicious? What //the Spaniards noticed the bishop’s uneasiness?

Seronga could not consider every possibility. Yet he knew that he had to be prepared for all of them. That was the definition of a professional. All he knew for certain was that he and Pavant had to leave Maun with the bishop. One way or another, they would.

Still, waiting to start was like running a car in neutral. Seronga was eager to get going.

Seronga was squinting out at the dusty black tarmac. Pavant was beside him, facing the control tower. After a few minutes, the lights of the airplane finally appeared in the cloudless sky. Seronga watched as the aircraft touched down. The jet’s big wheels kicked up dust. The twin tawny clouds trailed the aircraft, and the wind carried them toward the spectators. The mother of the children pulled her youngest one to her, protecting his eyes.

As the jet taxied, Pavant nudged Seronga in the side.

“Look,” Pavant said.

Seronga glanced behind them. The two Spanish soldiers had been inside the terminal since getting off the shuttle. Now they were walking toward the observation area.

“What do you think they’re doing?” Pavant asked.

“Reconnaissance,” Seronga replied. “They probably checked the faces in the crowd. Now they’ll probably make sure they can get over the fence quickly. The bishop could be vulnerable before he reaches the terminal.” Seronga pointed to the far side of the airfield. “Maybe they’re afraid someone in those small planes will come after him.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Pavant admitted.

“I didn’t, either, until now,” Seronga said. He grinned. “It’s different when you know how things are going to happen.”

“They’re going to stay close to us, aren’t they?” Pavant asked.

“That’s very likely,” Seronga agreed. “Don’t worry about it, Donald. We’ll get through this.”

Seronga turned back to the airfield. So did Pavant.

The men watched as the jet taxied and the two screaming engines were shut down. Before the dust had settled, the ground crew was already rolling over the silver white stairway. A fuel truck growled and pulled away from the control tower. There was a fire truck parked beside it with a small Red Cross emblem on the door. The firefighter was also probably a medic. That was the extent of the rescue services in Maun.

The door to the main cabin was opened. A moment later, the door to the luggage bay came down. A tractor rolled over, tugging four stainless-steel carts. Working swiftly, two men hoisted the bags onto the luggage transport. To the right, someone boarded the Cessna. He had obviously been waiting for the jet to come in. Either he was waiting for a passenger or waiting for clearance. Meanwhile, the passengers began filing out. They moved slowly down the wind-buffeted stairway with their carry-on bags. They were a diverse mix of families, businesspeople, and tourists of all ages and nationalities.

The bishop was one of the last people off the plane. At least, Seronga assumed it was the bishop. He was the only passenger wearing a simple black shirt and slacks with a white collar. His vestments and other belongings would have to come through customs.

The man in black waved to Seronga. Seronga waved back.

“Come on,” Seronga said to Pavant.

Pavant grabbed Seronga’s arm. “Wait,” he said. “I just thought of something.”

“What?” Seronga asked impatiently.

“What are we supposed to do when we greet the bishop?” Pavant asked. “Do we have to kiss his ring?”

“I don’t know,” Seronga admitted.

“We’d better do it,” Pavant suggested. “Something like that could expose us to the bishop or the Spaniards.”

“No,” Seronga said. “Let’s not worry about protocol. If we miss any formalities, we can apologize later. We’ll explain that we wanted to get him inside the shuttle, where he will be relatively safe.”

The two men left the observation area and went to the other side of the control tower. The Spaniards passed them going the other way. The soldiers did not make eye contact. Seronga stole a glance back. The Spaniards looked at the fence. Then they turned toward the tower and took pictures with a digital camera. That made sense. The soldiers were doing more than checking the crowd and planning a possible rescue. They were trying to get images of the people waiting for the airplane. If anything happened, they would be able to upload the images to Spain and have them checked against file photographs.

Seronga turned unhurriedly. He took another swallow of water. He wondered if he was in any of those security files. Probably not, he decided. He had never done anything to merit international attention. He also wondered how the deacons wore this damn outfit in the field. Maybe they were like the flagellants he had once heard about, the ancient Catholics who scourged themselves as a form of penance.

As if being a man or woman of principle was not punishment enough, Seronga thought. Whether one was Catholic or Vodun, a patriot or a rebel, a hunter or a conservationist, to do what you believed was right, against all reason, was a terrible burden. Seronga wondered, in passing, if the bishop was a man like that. Would he go passively like Father Bradbury, or would he struggle? There was another what if, another imponderable.

Seronga and Pavant reached the front of the control tower. The two men entered the packed terminal. They headed toward the airstrip doorway. As they made their way through the crowd, Seronga turned sideways to sidle through two large groups. In fact, he wanted to see if the Spaniards had entered the terminal. They had. They were only a few steps behind him. Seronga wondered, suddenly, if the bishop knew the soldiers were here. Not that it mattered. Whatever it took, Seronga was determined to accomplish his mission.