crises to settle. Lately, however, Rodgers's world had been quiet. There were reports to file about the mission to Kashmir, dossiers to review for possible new Strikers, and endless sessions with Liz Gordon. There was no reason to be in early.
Also, it was difficult to sleep. That made it damned difficult to get up as early as he once had. Fortunately, the decor and the caffeine at DiMaggio's Joe brought him up to something resembling full speed.
Rodgers parked and walked toward the building. The rain had stopped. He carried his rolled-up newspaper, whacking it in his open hand. The blows smarted. The general was reminded of basic training, when he was taught how to roll newspaper tightly to form a knife. Another time, the DI showed them how to use a crumpled piece of newspaper or napkin to disable someone. If hand-to-hand combat were inevitable, all a soldier had to do was toss the scrap to one side. An opponent would always be distracted. During that moment-and a moment was all it took- the soldier could punch, stab, or shoot an adversary.
Rodgers entered the small, brightly lit reception area. A young female guard stood in a bulletproof glass booth just inside the door. She saluted smartly as Rodgers entered.
'Good morning, General,' the sentry said.
'Good morning,' Rodgers replied. He stopped. 'Valentine,' he said.
'Go right in, sir,' the guard replied. She pressed a button that opened the elevator door.
Valentine was Rodgers's personal password for the day. It was left on his secure GovNet E-mail pager the night before. Even if the guard had recognized Rodgers, he would not have been allowed to enter if his password did not match what was on her computer.
Rodgers rode the elevator to the basement. As he stepped out, he bumped into Bob Herbert.
'Robert!' Rodgers said.
'Morning, Mike,' Herbert said quietly.
'I was just coming to see you,' Rodgers said.
'To return some of the DVDs you borrowed?' Herbert asked.
'No. I haven't been in the mood for Frank Capra,' Rodgers said. He handed Herbert the Washington Post. 'Did you see the article about the kidnapping in Botswana?'
'Yes. They caught that item upstairs,' Herbert told him, refolding the newspaper.
'What do you make of it?' Rodgers asked.
'Too early to say,' Herbert answered truthfully.
'The uniforms don't sound like the men were Botswana army regulars,' Rodgers went on.
'No,' Herbert agreed. 'We haven't had any reports of paramilitary activity in Botswana, but it could be a new group. Some idiot warlord who's going to turn Botswana into the next Somalia. Or the soldiers could be expatriates from Angola, Namibia, any of the countries in the region.'
'Then why take a priest?' Rodgers asked. He was uncharacteristically anxious, tapping a foot and toying with a button on his uniform.
'Maybe they needed a chaplain,' Herbert said. 'Or maybe the priest heard someone's confession, and they want to know what was said. Why are you all over this, Mike?'
'There's something about the size of the group and the timing of the attack that bothers me,' Rodgers said. 'Why send so many soldiers to kidnap a single, unarmed man? And in daylight, no less. A small squad could have picked him up in the middle of the night.'
'That's true,' Herbert agreed. 'But you still haven't told me why this is important. Do you know anyone over there? Do you recognize something about the abduction scenario?'
'No,' Rodgers admitted. 'There's just something about it-' He did not finish the thought.
Herbert's eyes were on the general. Rodgers was restless. His eyes were searching, not steady as they usually were. There was an unhappy turn to his mouth. He looked like a man who had put something down and couldn't remember where.
Herbert flipped over the newspaper and glanced at it. 'You know, now you've got me thinking,' the intelligence chief said. 'If this is a paramilitary unit that's been dormant somewhere, maybe they chose this target as a way of announcing themselves without having to face a firefight. If it's a new group, maybe they wanted to give their people some field experience. Or maybe they just miscalculated how long it would take to get to the church. Didn't that happen to George Washington during the Revolution?'
'Yes,' Rodgers said. 'It took him longer to cross the Delaware River than he had expected. Fortunately, the Brits were all asleep.'
'That was it,' Herbert said. 'So there could be trouble percolating somewhere in southern Africa,' Herbert said. He slid the newspaper into the leather pocket on the side of his wheelchair. 'I'll make calls to our embassies, see if this smells dangerous to anyone. Find out if there's any additional intel. Meanwhile, Paul was asking if you were in yet.'
Rodgers's expression perked. 'Did he hear from the CIOC?' the general asked.
'I don't know,' Herbert said.
'He would have told you if he had,' Rodgers said.
'Not necessarily,' Herbert said. 'He's supposed to brief his number-two man first.'
'That's according to the Good Book,' Rodgers said. The Good Book was what they called the National Grists Management Center Operations Book of Codes, Conduct, and Procedure. The CCP was as thick as the Bible and almost as idealized. It explained how life should be lived in a perfect world.
'Maybe Pope Paul's found religion after all these years,' Herbert said.
