Mission of Honor (36 page)

Or had something else happened? Something to distract him? His stride was quick, but it did not seem hostile.

“Put your weapon down,” the leader commanded. “The priest is coming with us.”

The soldier behind Father Bradbury backed away. The priest felt his heart drop from his throat. Blood began to subside from his temples and extremities. He stopped counting what was left of his life in breaths.

Dhamballa stopped beside Father Bradbury. “Why were you doing this?” he demanded.

“We were following instructions,” the soldier replied.

“Instructions from whom?” Dhamballa asked.

“Leon Seronga,” the soldier told him.

“Seronga?”

“Yes,” the soldier said.

“Is he here?” Dhamballa asked.

“No,” the soldier replied. “He called on the radio set five minutes ago.”

“He had the code word?” Dhamballa asked.

“Yes,” the soldier said.

“And he ordered you to execute the prisoner?” Dhamballa went on.

“He told me to do it personally, before we left,” the soldier said.

“Did he say why?” Dhamballa asked.

“No, houngan,” the man told him.

Even in the dark, the priest could see that Dhamballa was surprised. It was in his stiff posture, the way he stood still and silent for a long moment.

“But you did not think to check with me,” Dhamballa said.

“You are our religious leader,” the soldier said. “He is our military commander.” There was a hint of defiance in his voice.

“You did not question the order?” Dhamballa pressed.

“I asked him to repeat it, that is all,” the soldier said.

Dhamballa moved closer to the man. “Do you know what happened today in Maun?”

 “Yes, houngan,” said the soldier. “Another Catholic holy man was killed.”

“He was shot in the back of the head, as you would have done,” Dhamballa said. “That changes things for us. When we move into Orapa, we must show the world that we are not murderers. This man must be with us.”

“I understand,” the soldier replied.

“You will see to it, then?” Dhamballa asked. “You will see that he arrives safely?”

“Yes, houngan.”

“If Seronga contacts you again, let me know,” Dhamballa added. “We leave within the hour.”

Dhamballa left, and the soldiers helped Father Bradbury to his feet.

As they walked toward the shore, the priest found it strange to be back in his body. He felt tired and hot again. Thirst and hunger returned. But whether it was to make him brave or more pious, Father Bradbury knew one thing.

God had showed him the edge of eternity for a reason.

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 6:42 P.M.

Dhamballa shut the door of his hut. He was surprised to notice that his forearms were weak, his fingers shaking, as he turned on the lantern. He felt disoriented and alone.

The Vodun leader did not want to believe what the soldier had told him-that Leon Seronga had ordered the killing of the priest. The man Dhamballa knew would not give such a command. Not only was it bloodthirsty, it was against everything the peaceful revolution they had worked to achieve stood for.

Yet, do you really know Seronga? Dhamballa thought ruefully. He is an officer, and officers yearn for promotions, for power.

But Dhamballa must not think about that now. It was time to put the material world aside and let the gods speak.

Dhamballa removed a tiny chest from inside his desk. He set it down on the mat, knelt beside it, and raised the lid. Carefully, he removed a white cloth. He set it on the mat and unwrapped it. There were five chicken bones inside the cloth. A source of sustenance and fertility, the chicken was sacred to Vodunists. These were bones that Dhamballa had dried himself when he began studying the art of the houngan. He had baked them in the sun and in heated sand, drawing out all the moisture and making them hard, like ivory.

He reached into the chest and removed a pouch. He undid the drawstring and took out a pinch of cornmeal. This powder, known as ma-veve, represented a direct connection with the healthy and fertile earth. He spread the powder over the cloth, then steepled three of the bones on top of it. Only the largest of the bones was marked. It bore notches in the surface from top to bottom. Then he palmed two others and gently rolled them between his palms. He closed his eyes. The noise of the breaking camp seemed distant. The rolling of the bones often put the Vodunist in a trancelike state. Dhamballa’s own houngan mentor had once told him that the man was the real medium. The bones were simply a totem to focus and guide the spirit of the houngan. During this brief journey, they did not provide detailed information about the future. Rather, they read currents in the river of human endeavor. They foretold where the currents would lead. The details were for a houngan to discover through deed and meditation.

Dhamballa released the bones. While they were still airborne, the gods breathed upon them. The Vodun leader could feel the breath as it rushed past him. The two tossed bones struck the other three.

Dhamballa opened his eyes. He studied the pattern in which the bones fell. They confirmed his fears.

Until tonight, the bones had landed in patterns that suggested peaceful trials for himself and his adversaries. Trials of religious resolve, of philosophy, of endurance. They pointed to the moon or sun to tell whether the ordeals would come during the night or day. They pointed east, west, north, or south to tell him from which direction the challenges were coming.

But something had changed.

The house of bones had fallen with all of the pieces crossing one another. That meant chaos was in the offing for the Vodun leader.

There were two more throws to make. The first toss told him how the future would be if the currents went unchanged. The second toss was a look at whether the events might be changed. If the bones landed exactly as before, then the future was fixed. First, there was something he must do.

Dhamballa picked up the largest of the bones. This was the bone with the hash marks cut in its surface. He tugged a hair from his head and carefully worked the strand through a small slit in the base of the bone. Then he wound the rest of the hair through the other notches cut in the bone. There were slashes representing the eyes, the heart, the stomach, and the loins. Dhamballa fit the free end in a slit on the top of the bone. When the Vodun leader was done, he picked up the rest of the bones and tossed them all again.

The other four bones landed on top of the bone with his hair.

The gods were telling Dhamballa that there was only one way to prevent the chaos. He must take the entire burden upon himself. He must deal with the issues and come up with the solutions.

The Vodun leader scooped the bones into his hand. He gave them a final throw. This last toss would tell Dhamballa whether it was possible to find a solution to the chaos. It would also suggest whether that solution could be peaceful or whether violence was inevitable. He did not bother praying. The gods were there to advise, not listen.

He leaned forward as the bones came to a stop. If none of the bones had touched, then peace was possible. That was not the case. Two of the bones lay by themselves. That meant some participants did not want to confront Dhamballa or each other. Two other bones lay crossed atop the element representing Dhamballa. The gods were telling him that while a peaceful solution was possible, those participants would be against it.

He bent and looked more closely at the cloth. The smallest bone was lying directly across the heart of the Dhamballa bone. That told him something significant.

His gravest enemy was also the unlikeliest one. Until now, he would have thought that was Leon Seronga. But if the prince had not betrayed him, it had to be someone else. Genet was gone and would not be present at the mine. Yet he and his partners stood to lose a great deal if Dhamballa failed. They were going to become Botswana’s exclusive diamond merchants on the international market. They would have half of the 500 million dollars the diamonds would generate.

Dhamballa picked up the bone with his hair. He carefully removed the strand and tossed it aside. In its present form, it was an effigy, a crude doll that could impact his own life. If he broke the bone or shut it in darkness, those afflictions would be visited upon him. After shaking the cornmeal from the cloth, Dhamballa rewrapped the bones and placed them back in the chest. In a moment, he would leave the hut to join his soldiers. First, he knelt on the mat and sought to find his center. He could not allow anger or fear to unbalance him.

Dhamballa had not expected events to unfold as they had. But one of the fundamental teachings of Vodunism is that nothing is guaranteed. Even prophecy and magic can fail if the practitioner is careless or distracted.

This is the situation that exists, he thought.

He would not have the time to build a larger following. To get enough attention so that the media would be watching. To present a strong, unified force to the government. To demand that the people of Botswana not be led to the worship of new gods. To insist on the control of industry by Botswanans, not foreigners. He did not even know if the leader of his soldiers had betrayed him.

Nothing is guaranteed, but one thing is certain, Dhamballa told himself. He had to go to the mine. He had to preach as he had planned. There was still a chance that he could rally the loyal. Perhaps he could start a fire that would bring others to their side. With luck, they could draw sufficient numbers to hold off the military in a peaceful way. If they failed, Dhamballa would be assassinated. Even if he were not shot, it was Thomas Burton who would be arrested and tried. His words would be stifled by the leaders, his cause twisted by government attorneys. It would be years before the Vodun movement would have another chance to present its case to the people.

And for Dhamballa, there would be no other chance at all.

Washington, D.C. Friday, 12:00 P.M.

Matt Stoll had once told Paul Hood about the electron factor. It was knowledge that Hood thought he would never use. Like so many things, however, he was wrong.

The science lesson had been given two months ago. The senior staff had taken Hood to dinner for his birthday. It was Ann’s idea to have the post meal celebration at a bar near Ford’s Theater. Bob Herbert, Stephen Viens, and Lowell Coffey joined them at a booth in the empty tavern. Stoll went, even though he was not a drinker. He said he liked watching other people drink.

“Why?” Ann asked.

“I like seeing who they become,” Stoll said.

“That sounds a little condescending,” Ann remarked.

“Not at all,” Stoll replied. “It’s inevitable. Everyone and everything has two natures.”

“You mean you, too?” Herbert asked.

“Sure.”

“The old Superman, Clark Kent thing?” Herbert asked.

“There’s the timid or the heroic, the benevolent or the bestial, countless yins and yangs,” Stoll said.

“Oh yeah?” Herbert remarked. He raised his beer in the direction of the Capitol. “I know some people who are just stinking rotten all the time, thank you very much Senator Barbara Fox, you disloyal, budget-cutting Ms. Hyde.”

“She was also a loving mother,” Stoll replied.

“I know,” Herbert said. “We helped her find out what happened to her daughter. Remember?”

“I remember,” Stoll said.

 “That’s something she seems to have forgotten,” Herbert said.

“No. It’s the duality that is a fact of life,” Stoll insisted. “It’s the result of physics.”

“Physics?” Hood asked. “Not biology?”

“Everything comes down to physics,” Stoll told him. “I call it the ‘electron factor.’

“Is this your own theory?” Herbert asked.

“It’s not a theory,” Stoll replied.

“No. He said it’s a ‘fact of life,’ ” Ann said, grinning and slapping Herbert on the wrist. “Facts are not theoretical.”

“Sorry,” Herbert replied. “All right, Matthew. Tell us about the electron factor.”

“It’s simple,” Stoll replied. “When an electron is doing its thing, spinning around the nucleus of an atom, we don’t know it’s there. It’s just a cloud of force. But when we stop an electron to examine it, what we’re studying is no longer an electron.”

“What is it?” Hood asked.

“Basically it’s a ‘Hyde’ electron,” Stoll said. “An electron is defined by what it does, not what it looks like or how much it weighs. Remove it from its natural habitat, from its orbit, and it becomes a particle with nothing to do.”

Stoll went on to say that everything in nature had that double personality. He said that people could be one thing or another at any given time. Loving or angry, awake or asleep, sober or drunk. But not both. He said he enjoyed watching the change. He wanted to see if there would ever be someone who could be two things at the same time.

“Sure,” Herbert said. “How about annoying and boring?”

Stoll pointed out that those were not occurring at once. It was obvious that the scientist was annoying Herbert. Therefore, Herbert was not bored. As for Stoll boring someone else, that was purely speculative. And if he were boring them, then he was not annoying them.

Ann was sorry that she had brought the subject up. She ordered another chocolate martini. Herbert ordered another Bud.

Hood continued to nurse his light beer. He was fascinated.

Hood remembered the conversation now because he was that electron. The stationary electron. The one without a purpose.

Hood stood in the small washroom at the back of his office. The door was shut. Physically, he was as isolated as he felt. He rubbed water on the nape of his neck and looked in the mirror on the small medicine cabinet. Incredibly, there was only one decision he had to make at the moment: whether to go to the local greasy spoon or the pizzeria for lunch. And Hood was not even that hungry. It was simply something to do.

Isolated and useless, he thought, at forty-five years of age.

Mike Rodgers was running the field operation. Bob Herbert was handling the intelligence gathering and liaising with Edgar Kline. Matt Stoll was on top of the ELINT. Liz Gordon would be refining her profile of Dhamballa and Leon Seronga.