Mission of Honor

Chapter Ten

The Watergate was Bob Herbert's favorite hotel. And not just his favorite in Washington. His favorite in the world.

It was not only because of the history of the hotel. The infamy attached to Richard Nixon and the break-in. Herbert actually felt sorry for the man. Virtually every candidate did what Nixon's staff had done. Fortunately or unfortunately, he got caught. That was bad enough. What affected Herbert was this smart man's too-slow uptake in the nascent art of spin control.

No, Herbert had a more personal connection with the hotel. It happened in 1983. He was still getting accustomed to life in a wheelchair, to life without his wife. His rehabilitation facility was several doors down from the hotel. After one frustrating session, Herbert decided to go to dinner at the Watergate. It was his first time out alone.

The hotel, the world, were not yet wheelchair-accessible. Herbert had a difficult time getting around. It was made more difficult by the fact that he was convinced everyone was giving him the "you poor man" look. Herbert was a CIA agent. He was accustomed to being invisible.

Herbert finally made it into the hotel and to a table. Almost at once, the diners at the next table engaged him in conversation. After a few minutes, they invited Herbert to sit with them.

The diners were Bob and Elizabeth Dole.

They did not talk about disabilities. They discussed the value of growing up in a rural area. They talked about food. They compared notes on TV shows, movies, and novels. It was one of those moments of kismet that transcended the practical value of what had transpired. The act of being asked to join the Doles made Herbert feel whole.

Herbert had come back often after that. The Watergate became a touchstone for him, a place that reminded him that a man's value was not in his mode of mobility but what was inside.

Of course, it did not hurt that they had installed ramps since then.

Herbert did not go directly to the elevators. He went to the house phones. There, he swung his laptop from the arm of the wheelchair and accessed the wireless Internet. As soon as he was on-line, he rang room 222. Intelligence people made enemies. Some of those enemies went to elaborate extremes to get revenge. Herbert wanted to make certain that it was Edgar Kline who had called and not someone trying to set Herbert up.

Kline picked up. "Hello?"

"Just making sure you're in," Herbert said.

"I got here five minutes ago," Kline replied.

"On what airline and flight?" Herbert asked.

If Kline were being held against his will, he might give Herbert misinformation to keep him from coming up.

"Lufthansa 418," Kline said.

Herbert did an Internet search for Lufthansa schedules. While he waited he asked, "What make of aircraft?"

"Boeing 747," Kline replied. "I was in seat IB, and I had the filet."

Herbert smiled. A moment later, the Lufthansa web site confirmed the flight. It was supposed to land at 3:45 P. M., but it had been delayed. "I'll be right up," Herbert said.

Three minutes later, Bob Herbert was rapping on the door of room 222. A tall man with a lantern jaw and short blond hair answered. It was Edgar Kline all right. A little more rotund and leathery around the eyes than Herbert remembered him, but then who wasn't?

Kline smiled and offered his hand. Herbert rolle^d into the foyer and shut the door before accepting it. He glanced quickly around the room. There was an open suitcase on the bed. Nothing had been removed from it yet. A tweed sports jacket was draped over the back of the desk chair, and a necktie was slung over that. Kline's shoes were at the foot of the bed. Those were the first things a man would have removed after a long flight. The arrival looked legitimate. Kline did not appear to be trying to put something over on him.

Now Herbert turned toward Kline and shook his hand.

"It's good to see you, Robert," Kline said.

Kline spoke with the same reserve Herbert remembered so well. And though he was smiling, it was the kind of smile a professional gambler gave to a newcomer or to a flip comment during a poker game: polite, practiced, not insincere but not very expressive.

"I'm glad to see you, too," Herbert replied. "We haven't been together since I left for Beirut, have we?"

"No," Kline said.

"So what do you think of the new me?" Herbert asked.

"You obviously haven't let what happened over there stop you," Kline observed.

"Did you think it would?" Herbert asked.

"No," Kline replied. He nodded toward the wheelchair. "Does that thing have afterburners?"

"Yeah, these," he said, holding up his powerful hands.

Kline smiled his polite smile and gestured toward the main room. It bothered Herbert more than it used to. Maybe it was just because the intelligence chief was older and more cynical. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe his veteran spy antennae were picking something up.

Or maybe you 're just flat out paranoid, Herbert told himself.

"Would you like a drink?" Kline asked.

"A Coke would be nice," Herbert said as he wheeled himself in. This was the first time he had been to one of the rooms. He stopped by the bed and watched as Kline went to the minibar. The South African turned the key and removed a can of soda.

"Would you like anything else?" Kline asked.

"Nope," Herbert said. "Just the Coke and an update."

"I promised you dinner," Kline said. "Shall I call for it?"

"I'm okay for now, and we know you just ate," Herbert said.

"Touche," Kline said.

"So," Herbert said. "Why are you here?"

'To talk to Cardinal Zavala here in Washington and Cardinal Murrieta in New York," he replied as he handed the Coke to Herbert. "We need to get more American missionaries into the field in southern Africa."

"Quickly, I assume?" Herbert said.

Kline nodded. Then his mood changed. The bright blue eyes lost a little of their light. The thin mouth tightened. He began to pace the room. "We're facing a potentially explosive situation in Africa, Robert," Kline said slowly. "And I do not mean just the Vatican."

"You're talking about the incident yesterday with Father Bradbury," Herbert said.

"Yes," Kline said. A hint of surprise crossed the poker face. "What do you know about that?"

"You first," Herbert said. He held up the can. "My mouth is dry."

"Fair enough," Kline said knowingly.

Bob Herbert never went first. Having more information than someone else, even an ally, was always a good thing. Today's allies could be tomorrow's adversaries.

"Father Powys Bradbury was abducted by a militia that was led by someone who we believe is Leon Seronga," Kline said. "Do you know that name?"

"Doesn't spark anything," Herbert said.

"Seronga is a former Botswana soldier who helped to organize the Brush Vipers," Kline said. "They were a very effective intelligence unit that helped Botswana break away from Great Britain."

"I know about the Brush Vipers," Herbert said. This was not what he had wanted to hear. If the Brush Vipers were back, in more than just name, it meant that what happened was probably not a small, isolated action. A "Seronga was spotted two weeks ago at the Botswana village of Machaneng," Kline went on. "He was attending a rally held by a religious leader named Dhamballa."

"Is that his real name?" Herbert asked as he unfolded his computer. "I mean is that a surname or a tribal name or an honorary title?"

"It's a variant spelling of the name of a god of the Vodun faith," Kline said. "We do not know more than that. And we do not have direct access to him. Nor is his image in our file."

"At least, not under that name," Herbert said.

"Correct."

"But this Dhamballa is the reason you had someone watching the rally," Herbert said.

"Yes," Kline admitted.

Herbert asked Kline for the spelling of the name. He made a note of it in a new computer file.

"We routinely watch all religious movements in Africa," Kline added. "It's part of the apostolic tool kit."

"Collecting intel about rivals," Herbert said.

"You never really know who your rivals are-"

"Or who they might be fronting for," Herbert said. Political activism often hid behind a new religious idea. That made it easier to sell to the masses.

"Exactly," Kline agreed. "We take digital pictures of events like these and load them into a master file. We like to know whether they originate at a grassroots level or elsewhere. Real religious movements tend to peak at a certain point and return to the underground. Sects concealing a political agenda tend to be well financed, often from abroad. They don't usually fade away."

"Making them more of a threat," Herbert pointed out.

"Yes, but not just to the Church's goals," Kline said. "They're a danger to the political stability of the continent. We take a very real interest in the lives, health, and well-being of the people to whom we minister. This is not just about the state of their immortal souls."

"I understand," Herbert assured him.

"After we ID'ed Seronga, we went back and checked photographs from previous Dhamballa rallies," Kline went on.

"Were these large rallies or small ones?" Herbert interrupted.

"Small at first, just about a dozen people at the mine," Kline said. "Then they began to grow as family members attended. He began holding them in village squares and in fields."

"Talking about?"

"The same things he discussed in the mines," Kline said.

"Gotcha," Herbert told him. "Sorry to interrupt. You were saying about Leon Seronga-?"

"That he was not the only member of the former Brush Vipers to have been present," Kline said.

"I see," Herbert said. "Which is really why you came to Washington. If this is the start of a new political action in southern Africa, you want Americans to help contain it."

"Let's just say I'd like you to participate in the process of containment," Kline said. "That can take many forms, though right now I need intelligence."

Kline seemed somewhat embarrassed by that. He should not have been. Herbert welcomed honesty. Everyone wanted America to become involved in international scuffles. The United States gave backbone to friends and took the heat from enemies.

"Edgar, do you have any idea why Father Bradbury was targeted?" Herbert asked.

"Not really," Kline said. "As I said, we lack information."

"Was there something special about his ministry?" Herbert asked.

"Father Bradbury presided over-forgive me. I mean, he presides over the largest number of deacon missionaries in the nation," Kline said. He shook his head and tightened his lips. "I can't believe I said that."

"It's a natural mistake," Herbert said. "I've probably done it a million times without being smart enough to catch it." He paused. "Unless you know something you're not saying."

"No," Kline said. "If we thought something else had happened, I would tell you."

"Sure," Herbert said. "Okay, then. Back to the stift-presiding Father Bradbury. Who has the next-largest number of deacon missionaries?"

"There are ten other parish priests, each with three or four deacon missionaries," Kline said. "They are all being watched."

"By?"

"Local Botswana constables and by undercover elements of the Botswana military," Kline said.

"Good," Herbert said. "And I assume no one at the Vatican has received a ransom demand?"

Kline shook his head.

"That means the kidnappers need him," Herbert said. "If kidnappers don't want money, they want the victim to do something for them. To sign a document, make a radio or TV broadcast, renounce a policy or idea. They may even want his dead body to scare converts or other priests. Do you have any idea where they've taken Father Bradbury?"

"No," Kline said. "And it wasn't for lack of trying. Within one hour, the Moremi Wildlife rangers were looking for the militia on the ground. The military was up in two hours doing an aerial search. They didn't find anything. Unfortunately, there's a lot of ground to cover. The kidnappers could have dispersed, hidden, or disguised themselves as a safari group. There are hundreds of those in the area at any given time."

"Did anyone talk to truck drivers, check with amateur radio operators?" Herbert asked.

"Both," Kline said. "The police are still talking to CB operators. It was silent running all the way. This was a wellplanned operation, but we have no idea to what end." The VSO officer stopped pacing and regarded Herbert. "That's everything I know."

"Pretty much in line with other neopolitical grab-and-runs I've encountered," Herbert said.

"I agree," Kline said. "This is more like the act of rebels than religious acolytes."

"One thing I don't see is Botswana complicity with this militia," Herbert said. "The economy is strong, and the government is stable. They would have nothing to gain by this."

"I agree again," Kline said. "So what does that leave us with? Are we facing some kind of religious-military hybrid? The Brush Vipers fought to obtain the independence Botswana now enjoys. Why would they want to be involved with a potentially destabilizing force?"

"I'm not sure," Herbert said. "But I agree with what one of my coworkers said. General Mike Rodgers was the one who called the incident to my attention this morning. I believe a message was being sent. That's why this Leon Seronga moved against the tourist office in daylight. They had the weapons and personnel to have massacred everyone. But they did not."

"What kind of message do you think he was sending?" Kline asked.

Now it was Kline who was fishing. Since this part was speculative, Herbert did not mind going first.

"It could be any number of things," Herbert said. "They may have done it this way to assuage the government. To show them that while they had weapons, they did not use them. That will probably encourage a more moderate response from Gaborone."

"A wait-and-see approach," Kline thought out loud.

"Exactly."

"Even though a Botswana citizen was kidnapped," Kline said.

"The term citizen is a legal one," Herbert pointed out. "To most Botswanans, a citizen is probably someone who can trace his ancestry back hundreds, maybe thousands of years."

"All right," Kline said. "That's reasonable. What else could the form of this kidnapping signify?"

"Well, it can also simply mean that Dhamballa is not strong enough to engage in military action but will if they're forced," Herbert said. "That might also soften the government's response. They pride themselves on being one of the most stable regimes on the continent. Gaborone will probably try to present this as an aberration. Something that can be handled. Maybe they'll want to wait and see what, if anything, happens next before stirring things up."

"But at some point, the Botswana military must move against them," Kline said.

"Not if Dhamballa's end game is a modest one," Herbert said. "And we don't even know that this is Dhamballa. We also don't know what the master plan may look like, but I researched some of our databases before coming here. The Brush Vipers were one of four paramilitary groups that used to operate in that region of Botswana. Do you know where they got their weapons from?"

"Not from the Botswana military, I hope," Kline replied.

"No," Herbert replied. "Worse. They came from someone we dealt with years ago."

"Who?" Kline pressed.

"The Musketeer," Herbert replied. "Albert Beaudin."