The priest was told to say that he was being well cared for. Then he was to give the deacon missionaries their instructions. He was to tell each missionary that he would join them soon at the diocese in Cape Town. He was to reveal absolutely nothing more.
Deacon Jones answered the phone. The young man was excited and relieved to hear from the priest. In as clear and firm a voice as he could generate, Father Bradbury instructed the missionary to return immediately to the compound, pack, and go to Cape Town. **>
'What is it?' Deacon Jones asked. 'What is happening?'
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'I will explain when I see you,' the priest replied. He felt a reassuring squeeze on his shoulders.
'As you wish,' Jones replied.
The deacon had never disputed the priest's judgment. Nor did Deacon March. Nor did any of the other deacon missionaries.
When Father Bradbury was finished making the calls, he was taken to a wicker chair. His legs were stiff, and his lower back was tight. It was difficult to sit. He jumped as the edge of the seat scraped behind his knees. That was where he had been struck the day before. The priest waited for the mask to be removed and his hands to be untied. Instead, he heard another chair moved beside him.
'You will be given water and food now,' said the man who had done most of the talking. 'Then you will be allowed to sleep.'
'Wait!' said the priest. 'You told me I would be released-'
'You will be set free when your work is finished,' the man assured Father Bradbury.
'But I did as you asked!' the priest protested.
'For now,' the man said. 'You will be asked to do more.'
Father Bradbury heard a door shut. He wanted to scream, but he did not have the energy or the voice. He felt betrayed, foolish.
A canteen was once again pressed to the priest's lips.
'Drink it or else I will,' the gruff-voiced man said from beside him. 'I have things to do.'
Father Bradbury put his mouth around the warm metal. He drank as slowly as a thirsty man could. Then he sat while the man fed him pieces of banana, papaya, and melon. He sat and he thought.
Reason returned along with some of his strength. As Father Bradbury began to think back through the events of this morning, he began to feel extremely uneasy. He realized that he may have made the greatest mistake of his life.
He may have just been used to start the flood that was going to wash over Botswana.
FOURTEEN
Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 6:00 A.M.
Paul Hood was shaving when Bob Herbert called. The intelligence chief was already at Op-Center. They had spoken about Edgar Kline just a few hours before. Hood told Herbert that they should give the Vatican representative any support he required.
'What did I interrupt?' Herbert asked.
'Just scraping my face,' Hood replied as he finished up. 'What's up?'
Op-Center's director pulled the hand towel from his bare shoulder. He wiped his cheeks and chin. He felt a sad pang as he thought back to when his young son Alexander used to watch him do this. He would not be there the day Alexander started shaving. How the hell did that happen?
Herbert's soft, Southern accent brought Hood back to the moment.
'I just got a call from Ed Kline,' Herbert said. 'Powys Bradbury has been working the phones.'
'The priest?' Hood said.
'Father Bradbury, yes,' Herbert replied.
'Is he all right?'
'They don't know,' Herbert told him. 'He telephoned each of his deacon missionaries, the guys in the field, and told them to pack up and go back to the diocese in Cape Town.'
'Are they sure it was him?' Hood asked.
'Yeah,' Herbert said. 'One of the deacons asked him something about a conversation they had a few weeks* ago. The caller knew what the two of them had spoken about.'
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'Did Father Bradbury give a reason for recalling the missionaries?' Hood asked.
'None,' Herbert said. 'Apart from saying he was okay and would catch up with them in Cape Town, the preacher didn't tell them anything else. Nothing about where he was, where he would be, or what comes next. Kline got the records of calls that were placed to the missionaries' cell phones.'
'And?'
