That took Rodgers by surprise. He smiled slightly. The driver was very well organized. Rodgers also felt a flash of vindication. He had been right to select Maria for this assignment. She had obviously made a big impression on this man.
'Go ahead,' Rodgers said.
'She left me with a camera and a computer diskette,' the man said. 'She said I should send you the photographs she took. She also said you might know where to find jfcomputer.'
284
OP-CENTER
'I do,' Rodgers informed him. 'Where are you now?'
'I am at a pay telephone at Nhabe, two blocks from the eastern bank of the Thamalakane River.'
Rodgers brought up the map of Maun. 'That's perfect,' Rodgers said. 'Do you know the multifaith chapel in the center of Maun?'
'Of course,' Lebbard replied. 'It's to the west of the Mall. The Chapel of Grace.'
'Right,' Rodgers said. 'Go there. I'm going to call someone who will get you access to a computer. Do you know how to use the software?'
'Maria told me to insert the diskette,' Lebbard said. 'She said there would be instructions telling me what to do next. I have read maps for years. I am very good at following directions.'
'I'm sure you are,' Rodgers said. 'Go there, Mr. Lebbard, while I make a few calls.'
'I will,' Lebbard replied. 'Sir, Maria did not tell me who she works with. She is Spanish, but you sound American. Are you with the United Nations?'
Rodgers did not want to respond without knowing how his answer would be received. 'What if we were?' Rodgers asked. 'Would that make you happy?'
'It would make me very happy, sir,' Lebbard replied. 'When I was a young child, nurses from the United Nations came to my village. They gave us injections against smallpox and polio. They gave us food. They gave me the first chocolate I ever tasted.'
Rodgers thought for a moment. He wanted Paris Lebbard to be happy. But he did not want to lie to an ally.
'We are not the United Nations, Mr. Lebbard. But we have worked with them,' Rodgers said.
That seemed to please the Botswanan. Rodgers was glad.
Maybe he had the makings of a diplomat after all.
FORTY-FIVE
Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 6:20 P.M.
Father Bradbury had not bothered to turn on the lantern when the soldiers returned him to the room. The priest knelt by the foot of the cot and prayed. When he was done, he sat on the edge of the cot. He peered into the darkness. He let his mind move through the rich past and the uncertain future. Whichever way he looked, however, he came to the same place.
Life was about choices.
Years before, Father Bradbury had decided that the most dangerous thing in the world was to have a choice. When he was an altar boy, thirteen-year-old Powys Bradbury had found himself in a rectory fire. A spark had jumped from the fireplace while he was stoking it. An open Bible caught fire, a burning page fell on the rug, and within seconds, the room was ablaze. The youth looked around. There was no time for guilt or selfreproach. He tried to decide what Father Sleep would want saved.
Photographs? Books? Earthenware that had been dug up from Bethlehem? Black smoke began to cloud around the boy. Young Bradbury's throat began to thicken. After a few strained breaths, it was nearly impossible to inhale. His eyes teared, and he could not see. That was when he found it easy to prioritize. Bradbury needed to get out.
Forty-nine years ago, Powys Bradbury had a choice whether to risk his life or not. Now he did not have that luxury. Yet there were still choices to make. In a way, they were more important than deciding what to take from a burning rectory.
286
OP-CENTER
These choices were not about whether to escape. They were about how to accept his fate.
Neither Dhamballa nor the European had indicated that Bradbury's life was in jeopardy, but the soldiers and their leaders were breaking camp. The priest had already seen people rushing about. Now they were shouting and hurrying about. The departure was going to be hasty.
He was excess baggage.
The shadows around Father Bradbury seemed especially deep. At a time when he should be contemplating spiritual matters, he found himself thinking about physical things. He would have all eternity to contemplate the spiritual. This was the time to savor the shell that God had given to him, to enjoy the wonder of the senses: the simple act of breathing, a gift passed from the nostrils of God Himself through Adam; the beauty of the heart working at its steady, dependable pace; all of it functioning in miraculous unison. It was, on reflection, a masterpiece of the Creator's art. One that no man had the right to destroy.
Yet men kill and torture each other every day, he thought. That was why people such as Father Bradbury were needed. Only the peace of God could stop violence.
The priest began to pity the cultists who might be ordered to kill him. They were indirectly causing the suffering
