that. Someone who was in the right hemisphere. Someone who speaks Spanish and can talk to the soldiers, if necessary.'
McCaskey heard Herbert's words. They all made sense. But logic aside, he could not get past having been left out of the loop. This was his wife they were talking about sending into a potential combat situation.
Which was why Herbert did it this way, McCaskey told himself. Herbert had just said so. To avoid involving her in a debate like this. To keep the high emotions away from Maria.
Reason told him that what Herbert had done was*Smart and
150
OP-CENTER
professional. There were human interests, national interests at risk. But there were still conflicting personal and professional stakes. McCaskey could not think of a previous time when he had felt like this.
McCaskey continued to regard Herbert. As he did, something else eased into the equation. Something unexpected. McCaskey found it in Herbert's gaze. Those lively Southern eyes did not reflect the same hard determination McCaskey had seen a moment before. There was something new.
There was pain.
It was then that the realization hit McCaskey. It struck him hard across the chest, almost taking his breath away.
Bob Herbert was reliving his own fears, his own trauma. Everything McCaskey was feeling, Herbert must have felt each day he and his late wife were in Beirut. Yet then as now, Herbert had put his nation first. He had done his duty, despite the cost.
The furnace inside Darrell McCaskey shut down. A minute before, he had felt completely alone. That was no longer the case.
'I don't like this,' McCaskey said, his voice low. 'But I will say this much. You certainly called on one of the best undercover ops in the business.'
Herbert seemed to relax slightly. 'That I did,' he acknowledged.
McCaskey took a long breath, then looked from Herbert to Hood. 'I told Mike I'd do some prep work in case his people went to Africa. I need to find out if there's anyone they might be able to hook up with over there.'
'Great,' Hood said. 'Thanks.'
McCaskey turned from Hood to Herbert, then quickly left the office. Though McCaskey's manner was calm, he was far, far from being at peace.
TWENTY-TWO
Maun, Botswana Thursday, 11:01 P.M.
The door of the church living quarters did not have a lock. There was no need for one. As Father Bradbury used to say, 'Lions cannot turn knobs, and human guests are always welcome.'
Tired from their journeys, Deacons Jones and Canon had retired at ten. Jones had spent over two hours on the telephone discussing his call from Father Bradbury. He had reported it, first, to a priest in Cape Town. Then he recounted the conversation to Archbishop Patrick himself. A few minutes later, he was telephoned by a security officer from the Vatican. After that, the deacon missionary received a call from a man named Kline in New York. Deacon Jones was glad for the many years he had spent memorizing lengthy passages of scripture. He was able to repeat the conversation accurately, word for word, to each man with whom he spoke. Yet except for the first priest in Cape Town, no one seemed to share his delight at having heard from Father Bradbury. The archbishop and especially the two men from the Vatican acted as if he had been phoned by the devil himself. Deacon Jones could not figure out why. Nor would anyone explain it to him. The conversation was brief, and it had seemed innocent enough.
The men from the Vatican both told him not to speak to anyone else about Bishop Max. He agreed.
Jones* did not let the confusion trouble him. Ignorance was determined by how much information one had. It was not a measure of intelligence or character. At peace with himself, he went to the washroom, brushed his teeth, put on his pajamas,
152
OP-CENTER
and returned to the sleeping quarters. He and Deacon Canon took linens from the closet.
There were four twin beds in the long, sparsely furnished room. Two of the beds were situated near windows. The deacons made those and opened the windows. Jones took the bed away from the veranda. Canon was a heavy sleeper. If any of the tourists took a late-night stroll, he would not hear them.
Jones knelt beside the bed and said his prayers. Then he gently parted the fine-mesh mosquito net and slid inside. The window was to Jones's right. The breeze was warm but soothing. It was good to sleep on a mattress with a clean, white sheet. In the field they usually slept on bedrolls, canvas cots, or patches of grass.
Deacon Jones fell asleep quickly.
There was a sharp prick at the top of the clergyman's throat. It felt like the bite of a female deerfly, which slashes the flesh and drinks the blood. Jones did not know if minutes or hours had passed. He did not want to know. He was groggy, and all he wanted to do was get back to sleep. He kept his eyes closed and went to brush the fly away.
His hand struck metal.
Jones opened his eyes with a start. It was not a fly at his throat. It was a knife. Behind it was a big, dark figure. The mosquito net had been neatly pulled aside, and the intruder was standing holding the tip of the knife firmly under Deacon Jones's chin. From the corner of his eye, Jones could see that the door was slightly ajar. He also saw someone standing over Deacon Canon.
