The priest ran around the church. His sandals clopped on the stones of the walk. At the front of the church was a rose garden that he had planted himself. He had put them there so they would have the early morning sun. The church protected them from the late morning on. Father Bradbury reached the courtyard that fronted the tourist center.
The sixty-three-year-old director of the center was already standing outside. Native Maunan Tswana Ndebele was still dressed in his underwear. He was also wearing a look of tempered rage. His bare arms were raised ear high. About ten feet behind him, one of the tour guides and several tourists were grouped together just outside the door of the main office. They were all facing the open gate. Their hands were also lifted. None of them moved.
The priest noticed several bullet holes in the oak door frame. He turned toward the gate.
The gate was made of iron bars that resembled Batawana spears. The door had been swung inside, and over four dozen men were assuming positions along the inside wall of the courtyard. They were dressed in camouflage uniforms with black berets. Each man carried a firearm. They did not wear insignias or chevrons of rank. They were not government soldiers.
'No,' Father Bradbury muttered. 'Not here.'
The group looked like any of the small, organized militias he had read about in his newspapers. During the past decade, they had caused revolutions in Somalia, Nigeria, Ethiopia, the Sudan, and other African nations. But there had been no rebels in this land since the 1960s. There was no need. The government was democratically elected, and people were generally content.
The soldiers were approximately two hundred feet away. The priest walked toward them.
'Father, don't!' Ndebele warned.
The priest ignored him. This was an outrage. The nation was run by a lawfully elected government. And this reserve was holy ground, not just the home of a church but a place of peace.
The militiamen finished filing into the courtyard. They stretched from the parked vehicles on the west side of the entranceway to the satellite dish on the east. One of the men walked forward. He was a tall, lean man with long dreadlocks and a resolute expression. His rifle was slung over his right shoulder. He wore a belt with extra rounds, a hunting knife, and a radio. He was obviously the leader of the unit. Not because of what he carried but because of how he carried himself. His dark eyes glistened even brighter than the sunlit sweat that covered his forehead and cheeks. He walked on the balls of his feet with his knees slightly bent. He did not make a sound as he crossed the coarse dirt of the parking area.
'I am Father Powys Bradbury,' the priest said. His voice was soft but firm. The two men continued to approach one another. 'Why have armed men come to our compound?'
'To take you with us,' the leader replied.
'Me?' Bradbury demanded. The priest stopped just a few feet from the taller man. 'Why? What have I done?'
'You are an invader,' the man told him. 'You and your kind will be driven out.'
'My kind?' Father Bradbury said. 'I am no invader. I have been living here for eleven years-'
The leader interrupted with a sharp gesture to the men behind him. Three of the soldiers jogged forward. Two of them seized Father Bradbury by his forearms. Tswana Ndebele made a move as if to protest. The motion was met by the distinctive click of a rifle bolt.
Ndebele stopped.
'Everyone stay where you are, and there will be no casualties,' the leader declared.
'Do what he says,' Father Bradbury shouted. He did not struggle, but he did look toward the leader. 'I tell you, you have the wrong man.'
The leader did not respond. The two men continued to hold the priest in his place.
'At least tell me where you're taking me,' the white-haired clergyman implored.
The third militiaman went behind the priest. He pulled a black hood over Father Bradbury's head. He tied it tightly around the clergyman's throat. Father Bradbury gagged.
'Please don't hurt him!' Ndebele cried.
Father Bradbury wanted to reassure the director that he would be all right, but he could neither turn nor yell. It was all he could do to breathe in the tight, stifling mask.
'You don't have to do this!' the priest gasped. 'I'll go peaceably.'
Hands pushed roughly against Father Bradbury's shoulder blades. He stumbled forward. Only the men holding his arms kept him from falling. They tugged him up and ahead. The priest went with them.
Father Bradbury said nothing more. It was all he could do to breathe. The heat was terrible, and the darkness was unnerving. He also did not want to show fear to these men.
But Father Powys Bradbury could not hide his fear from God. And it was to God whom he spoke silently as the militiamen led him from the compound. The priest silently recited his morning prayers and then prayed for himself. He did not ask God for salvation but for strength. He also prayed for the safety of the friends he left behind and for the souls of those who had abducted him. Then he prayed for one thing more.
He prayed for the future of the land he had come to love.
THREE
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 7:54 AM.
It was a dark, rainy morning and DiMaggio's Joe was not as jammed as usual. That was fine with General Mike Rodgers. He had been able to find a parking spot directly outside the coffee bar. And he spotted a small, clean corner table on the inside. He walked to the back of the room, slapped his damp cap and his copy of the Washington Post on the empty table, then got in line.
