Hood looked over at Plummer. 'Suggestions, Ron?'
'I have two,' Plummer replied. 'First, Op-Center should move with considerable caution. We have domestic as well as international issues to consider. Anything we do has to be extremely low profile, invisible if possible.'
'I agree,' Herbert said.
'Having said that,' Plummer went on, 'we can't afford to let this blow up. As long as we have an exit strategy for our personnel and our involvement, we should give Mr. Kline any and all the intelligence support he requires.'
'If we get involved, give me your nightmare meltdown scenario on the international side,' Hood said.
'That's easy,' Plummer said. 'Someone who reports directly to us is apprehended in Botswana spying on the activities of a Botswana citizen. There's no way the United States
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can pick on a religious movement in a small African nation and come out of it looking good.'
'If the French are involved with Dhamballa, you can be certain we'll get all the attention we don't want,' Herbert said.
Hood's gaze shifted to Herbert. 'Bob, how do we prep for that?'
'That depends on Mr. Kline,' Herbert said. He looked at the Vatican security officer. 'Ideally, we would send someone in with the bishop. Possibly disguised as a cleric. But I have a feeling his credentials would be checked by someone in the media.'
'That's correct,' Kline said.
'But there is another way in,' Herbert said.
'How?' Kline asked.
'We can put someone in with the Spanish 'tourists,' ' Herbert said. 'Edgar, do you think there would be a problem with that?'
'There could be,' Kline admitted. 'I'm told that Major Jose Sanjulian doesn't work with outsiders.'
'Brett August might be able to help us there,' Hood told him. 'The colonel has maintained a very good relationship with officers from most of the NATO countries.'
'If the UED commander doesn't protest, I'm certain the Vatican will have no objections,' Kline told him. 'Who did you have in mind for the undercover operation?'
'A woman who just retired from Interpol and is probably entitled to a few weeks of vacation,' Herbert replied. 'Maria Corneja-McCaskey.'
r
SEVENTEEN
Maun, Botswana Thursday, 4:30 P.M.
The bus to Maun Center arrived at foui o'clock. It had dropped off forty-two tourists and would wait for an hour before returning. Anyone who missed this bus would have to wait until eleven A.M. the following morning to leave the tourist center. Taxicabs were expensive, and there were very few of them after dark. Outside the city or off the highway, the uncertain terrain was not conducive to nighttime driving. Car rentals were mostly for foreigners who were driving the highways directly to Gaborone or the other major city, Francistown.
Thirty-eight-year-old Deacon Eliot Jones had arrived at the Church of the Holy Cross shortly after two P.M. It had taken him more than a day to make his way northwest from Tonota on the Zimbabwe border. It was necessary to ride his bicycle to Francistown and catch a tour bus that went west, around the Makgadikgadi Pan. Then he had to wait at the salt pan tourist center for another bus that took passengers to Maun. From Maun, he had to catch the bus to the tourist center, where the church was located. There, he and Deacon Canon would link up. They would make preparations to leave Botswana.
That order did not sit well with him. He did not like the idea of being bullied from his flock. Souls mattered more than his flesh. His work was to help save souls, not his own skin.
Several times during his trip, he had tried to phone Father Bradbury. The calls were not answered. Deacon Jones was deeply worried about his old friend and mentor.
Just minutes after he finally reached the church, he received a call from the archdiocese in Cape Town. There was a change
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of plans. Jones was to go to Maun the following afternoon. Only he would not be flying to South Africa. He was to wait for the arrival of Bishop Victor Max from Washington, D.C., and bring him back to the church. The personal secretary of Archbishop Patrick in Cape Town also instructed Jones to bring one other deacon with him. Patrick did not want the thirty-five-year-old bishop left alone when the deacon had to buy tickets, food, or collect his luggage.
Jones was delighted to hear that the church would not be abandoned. Perhaps the new bishop would allow Jones to stay. The deacon was also excited because he had never met an American bishop. Though the men would only be together for a few hours, Jones was looking forward to it. Foreign clergy often had different perspectives, different ideas. Americans on the whole were always more direct and often better informed. Perhaps the bishop would have news about Father Bradbury or comforting insights about what was happening in Botswana. If the archdiocese in Cape Town knew any more about the crisis than Deacon Jones did, they were not saying anything.
Apart from Deacon Jones, Deacon Samuel Holden Canon had made the longest journey. His ministry encompassed a string of villages on the 6,000-foot-high Tsodilo Hill, which stood where Botswana, Namibia, and Angola all met in the northwest. He had taken a mule, jeep, and bus to get to Maun. Because of his late arrival, the
