'You mean, the idea that his wife is going in as a glorified translator instead of as a spy?' Rodgers said.
'Yeah,' Hood said.
'I don't think he'll believe that,' Rodgers told him.
'I don't think so, either,' Hood said. 'Okay, Mike. You get Aideen and Battat going. I'll go and talk to Darrell.'
Rodgers turned and left. Paul Hood went into his office. He sat heavily behind his desk.
Hood was tired inside and out. He also felt strange, though he did not know why. He was going to have that chat with Darrell. Then, because he needed to feel grounded, he was going to call home. He would see what kind of a day Harleigh and Alexander had. It would be refreshing to listen to problems that did not threaten to topple a government.
Home, Hood thought. Just thinking the word put tears in the back of his eyes. And he realized that was why he felt strange. This day had begun and now ended with Hood participating in disunions.
Paul Hood still thought of the house in Chevy Chase as home. It was not. He did not live there anymore. He pulled into the driveway on weekends to pick up the kids. Home was now a small apartment a half hour from Op- Center. It was a few bare walls and some furniture. Nothing personal except for a few photos of the kids and some framed letters from heads of state. Mementos from his days as mayor. Nothing with any real emotional history. Here he was, missing that terribly. At the same time, he was trying to stop Dhamballa from reclaiming his home. And he was helping to prevent Darrell McCaskey from starting a new life with ffis new wife.
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When Hood was mayor of Los Angeles, when he worked in finance, he built things. He built roads, housing, corporations, portfolios, careers. He started and nurtured his own family. What the hell was he doing now?
Keeping the world safe for other families, he told himself.
Maybe. Maybe that was a party-line crock. Maybe it was true. In any case, Hood had to believe it. Not just think it but be convinced of it. Otherwise, he would not be able to pick up the phone and call Darrell McCaskey. He would not be able to ask for help that would turn up the heat in an African floodplain where McCaskey's wife was already at risk.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Maun, Botswana Friday, 8:00 A.M.
Leon Seronga and Donald Pavant woke with the sun. By eight, they had been up for nearly three hours and were anxious to catch the bus to Maun. Seronga did not like sitting still.
He also did not enjoy impersonating a deacon. Seronga knew they could not simply assume the identities of Deacons Jones and Canon while they were here. The director of the center had certainly met them. What was more, the director had seen Seronga when he came for Father Bradbury. The man had seen him from a distance, but he still might recognize him. Seronga came up with a cover story in case they needed it. He hoped, instead, that he and Pavant could simply remain out of sight until the bus arrived.
It was not to be.
Nearly a dozen of the tourists went to the church that morning. Though the door was unlocked, no candles had been lit. No clergyman was in attendance. Shortly after eight A.M., the center's director, Tswana Ndebele, went to the deacons' residential quarters. Donald Pavant opened the door. He stepped through the doorway onto the veranda.
The creases of Ndebele's sun-baked skin deepened with surprise. 'Who are you?'
'Deacon Tobias Comden of the Cathedral of All Saints,' he replied. 'And you are-?'
'Tswana Ndebele, the director of the center here,' Ndebele replied. He was guarded, suspicious.
'I am happy to make your acquaintance,' PavagJ said pleasantly. He bowed slightly. He did not want to offer his hand.
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His skin was rough and calloused. They were not the hands of a missionary.
Ndebele pulled on his curly white beard. 'The Cathedral of All Saints,' he said. 'I am not familiar with that church.'
'It is a very small church in Zambia,' Pavant replied. The soldier did not specify where the mythical church was located. If Ndebele decided to look it up, he would have a lot of ground to cover. 'We came in during the night.'
'We?' Ndebele asked.
'Deacon Withal and myself,' Pavant said. The soldier stepped aside so the tour director could see into the room.
Ndebele leaned forward. He peered into the darkness.
Seronga was curled on the bed. His back was facing the door. Tucked in the waistband of his vestments was a Walther PPK with a silencer. It was there in the event that Tswana Ndebele came over to the bed for a chat and recognized him from the abduction.
Accustomed to the brilliant morning light, the tour director could not make out details inside the quarters. After a moment, he stood back.
'How did you gentlemen get here, Deacon?' Ndebele asked.
'We came by Jeep,' Pavant informed him. 'Deacon Withal did most of the driving. That's why he is still sleeping. We got in very late.'
