calling card. The caller had the correct ID number to enter the private OpCenter telephone directory. Once there, the caller was able to input Mike Rodgers's name and receive the correct extension. Without the ID, the caller had to go through the switchboard. That enabled the electronic operator to trace the call. The system kept crank calls to a very low minimum.
But the caller was not Maria.
The man on the phone identified himself as Paris Lebbard. Rodgers did not recognize the name, but the accent sounded almost Egyptian.
'What can I do for you, Mr. Lebbard?' Rodgers asked. The general said nothing more. Maria's cards had'beenlost or sto-
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len. If that were the case, Rodgers did not want to let the caller know who he had reached or who she was.
'I am your friend Maria's driver,' Lebbard said. 'In Botswana. She gave me her calling card and your number.'
'Is Maria all right?' Rodgers demanded.
'She nodded to me that she was,' Lebbard replied.
'She nodded? I don't understand,' Rodgers said.
'That was our signal,' Lebbard said. 'I dropped her off to meet the man from the airport. Then I parked around the corner and sneaked back. I watched as she spoke with the man. If she had not nodded, I would have gone to the police station to report a kidnapping.'
'I see,' Rodgers said. The general experienced the same gut-burning fire he had felt in Kashmir. The one that told him he may have acted recklessly. The desire to get Maria on-site backup had gone from necessary to desperate.
'She told me you would be concerned, sir,' Lebbard added. 'But I like her very much. And I know she has a husband who loves her. I also know she is trying to keep peace in Botswana. If I had any doubt about her safety, I would have gone for assistance at once.'
Rodgers was not entirely convinced. But the general had to take his cue from the people in the field. And right now, Paris Lebbard was the only person in contact from the field.
'Thank you, Mr. Lebbard,' Rodgers said. He swung toward his keyboard and prepared to type. 'Can you tell me what the man looked like?'
'It was dark, and I was too far to see his face,' Lebbard said. 'But he was dressed like a Christian clergyman.'
'Where did they go?' Rodgers asked.
'They walked to his truck, which was parked on Bath Street,' Lebbard said. 'Then they drove away.'
'When did Maria leave with the man?' Rodgers asked.
'Less than five minutes ago,' Lebbard said.
'Can you describe the truck?' Rodgers asked.
'Yes,' the driver reported. 'They drove right past me. It was a Chevrolet. Maybe ten years old. The cab looked olive
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green. It was dented, with a lot of rust. It had a canvas back and no markings on the side.'
'Were you able to get the license number?' Rodgers asked as he typed up the description.
'No,' Lebbard said. 'It was covered with mud.'
'Do you have any idea where they went?' Rodgers asked.
'That is difficult to say,' Lebbard replied. 'The truck did not get on the highway but took local roads.'
'Meaning?' Rodgers asked.
'The driver does not want to be followed,' Lebbard said. 'At night, on the dirt roads, he will pass only villages. He will know if anyone is tailing him.'
'Which direction was the truck headed?' Rodgers asked.
'North,' Lebbard replied. 'Though there is one thing.'
'What's that?' Rodgers asked.
'It has not rained here for over a week,' the driver said. 'There was not only mud on the license plate of the truck. It was also on the fender, tires, sides, and flaps. It was dark mud. That's the kind of mud you find in and around the swamps to the north.'
Rodgers made a note of that. He immediately E-mailed the description of the truck, its location, its heading, and its possible destination to Stephen Viens at the National Reconnaissance Office. There was a chance the NRO might pick the truck up by satellite. He also sent a copy of the E-mail to Aideen Marley.
'This is very helpful,' Rodgers told him. 'Was there anything else, Mr. Lebbard?'
'Yes,' the driver went on. 'Maria gave me other instructions.'
