Mission of Honor (16 page)

Hood punched in the telephone number Fujima had left on Herbert’s voice mail. The head of the Japanese Intelligence and Analysis Bureau was in a meeting. He left it to take Hood’s call.

“Thank you for calling back, Mr. Hood,” Fujima said. “I’m honored the director of OpCenter would call personally.”

The intelligence officer’s voice was calm and respectful, and his manner was unhurried. But that did not mean anything. Japanese officials were always calm and unhurried.

Hood decided to get right to the matter at hand. He did not have time to get into what Martha McCall used to call the “plastic bouquet liturgy,” the back-and-forth exchange of insincerely sweet compliments that typified initial conversations with most Japanese officials.

“Your call interested me personally,” Hood replied. “You had questions about Henry Genet?”

“Yes,” Fujima replied.

“Let’s see if I can help you,” Hood prompted.

Fujima was silent for a moment. Within seconds the men had gone from empty, free-flowing compliments to the taciturn dance of intelligence personnel. This business was unlike any other Paul Hood had ever encountered. When the Japanese intelligence officer spoke, it was with care and precision.

“We have been watching Mr. Henry Genet because of several recent investment and business undertakings,” Fujima began. “Over the past few months, he has increased the hiring of personnel in Botswana. At least, that is what it says on the tax forms filed in Gaborone.”

“But you don’t believe it,” Hood said.

“I do not,” Fujima said.

“What kind of personnel is he supposed to have hired?” Hood asked.

“Diamond buyers, security personnel for his purchases, scouts for new purchases-“

“In other words, the kind of employees that would not raise any flags,” Hood said.

“Yes,” Fujima agreed. “Yet we saw no evidence of such personnel in our surveillance.”

Hood was curious what kind of surveillance the Japanese were using. HUMINT resources might be helpful to OpCenter. Yet even if Hood had asked, Fujima would not have told him. Putting the man on the spot would have served no purpose. Sometimes a man gained respect by not asking things he wanted to know. That was certainly true when dealing with the Japanese.

“During that same period, Genet has also withdrawn nearly one hundred million dollars from banks in Japan, Taiwan, and the United States,” Fujima went on. “Genet has used some of that money to lease large tracts of land and invest in factories in both China and North Korea.”

“That could simply be an investment decision,* Hood said.

“The Chinese economy is expected to grow exponentially over the next twenty years.”

“A reasonable assumption,” Fujima agreed. “Except that Mr. Genet established several international holding companies to share the ownership of the property and apparently to conceal his involvement.”

“What are the names of the companies?” Hood asked.

“The only one we know is called Eye At Sea,” he replied. “It’s incorporated in Holland and lists its business as venture capital. We believe that Mr. Albert Beaudin is part of that investment group. He should not have to conceal his participation. It is not illegal for Frenchmen to invest in China.”

“Where in China has Genet leased land?” Hood asked.

“The property is in Shenyang in the Liaoning province,” Fujima replied. “Are you familiar with that region of China, Mr. Hood?”

“I am,” Hood said. “That’s where the Chinese manufacture their advanced J-8 II fighter jets.”

“That’s right,” Fujima said. “And that is why the purchase concerns us. They have a highly skilled, relatively inexpensive labor pool there. An international munitions manufacturer could make a great deal of money using that talent. Obviously, it’s an area of enterprise that Japan must watch closely.”

“Of course,” Hood said. “Do you have any indication that Albert Beaudin himself was involved in the purchase or that he is looking to expand his operations into China?”

“None, Mr. Hood,” Fujima admitted. “But we cannot ignore those possibilities.”

“Of course not,” Hood said.

Hood went back to the computer file on the Beaudin corporate structure. He reviewed the biographies of each individual. The entries were short and did not show the common origins, traumas, national agenda, or even ages that typically formed the basis for what was classified as PIGs-political intervention groups. Hood had always felt that was a fitting acronym for groups that backed terrorists, rebels, and coups.

“Have the other members of Beaudin’s team made any significant financial transactions?” Hood asked.

‘To date, we have only been watching Mr. Genet and Mr. Beaudin,” the intelligence officer replied. “But you were in finance, Mr. Hood. Consider some of the names on Beaudin’s board. Richard Bequette. Robert Stiele. Gurney de Sylva. Peter Diffring. Are any of them familiar to you?”

“They weren’t until now,” Hood admitted.

“You have files on them?” Fujima asked.

“I have very thin files,” Hood said. “I’ll forward them when we’re done. They all appear to be low-profile French, Belgian, and German financiers.”

“These are extremely low-profile gentlemen,” Fujima agreed. “But directly they control nearly one billion dollars. Indirectly, through partnerships and through individuals who follow their investment leads, they control four to five billion dollars.”

That sum was greater than the gross domestic product of Botswana.

“I am not convinced that we’re witnessing the unfolding of a master plan,” Fujima went on. “Nonetheless, I was hoping you might have some information on Genet, Beaudin, or their colleagues. We cannot ignore the potential for at least a financial assault on international economies.”

Fujima’s use of the term “at least” suggested his greater worry: that the European money, along with Beaudin technology, would be used to enhance the already formidable Chinese military machine. It was a justifiable concern.

What troubled Hood more was whether the events in Botswana were connected to the activities of Genet. Shaking up the flow of diamonds from the south of Africa would be significant to a portion of the world economy, but it would not be enough to help wage a “financial assault.”

Hood received an instant message from Bugs Benet. Emmy Feroche was on the line. Hood wrote back and asked him to have her hold on.

“Mr. Fujima, I’m going to look into these developments for you,” Hood said. “Bob Herbert or I will keep you informed. I hope you will do the same.”

“I will,” Fujima promised. 

The Japanese intelligence officer thanked him. Hood told Bugs to forward the personnel files of the Beaudin board to Mr. Fujima. Then he grabbed the call from Emmy.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Emmy,” Hood said.

“Not a problem, Paul,” she said. “It’s great to hear from you! How has life been?”

“Eventful,” he replied.

“I can’t wait to catch up,” she said. “God, it’s amazing how ‘Let’s stay in touch’ can turn into ‘Has it really been that long?’ “

“I know,” Hood said. “How is the world of white-collar crime?”

“Overall, it’s very busy,” Emmy told him. “At the moment, it’s completely insane.”

“Why?” Hood asked.

“We’re checking to see if there were any improprieties in several major stock deals,” Emmy told him. “Have you ever heard of a German stockbroker named Robert Stiele?”

Hood felt a chill. “It so happens I have,” he replied. “What did he do?”

“Stiele quietly pulled the trigger on some major deals early this morning, Euro time,” she said. “He dumped one hundred and fourteen million dollars in blue-chip stock holdings, companies that were doing well, and put the money into three separate, privately held operations.”

“Do you have their names?” Hood asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “The first one is VeeBee Ltd., the second one is Les Jambes de Venus-“

“And the third is Eye At Sea,” Hood said.

“Yes!” Emmy replied. She was obviously impressed. “How do you know that?”

“I can’t tell you,” Hood said.

“Well, Mr. Wizard, what can you tell me?” she asked. “Look into Albert Beaudin,” he said. “Why?”

“Can’t tell you that either,” Hood said, “what are you doing about Stiele?”

 “We’re trying to find out if Mr. Stiele knows something about the blue chips that we don’t.”

“I wouldn’t worry about the blue chips,” Hood said. “This is about Stiele. He needed to get liquid.”

“Why?” she pressed.

“That,” Hood replied, “is a damn good question.”

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Thursday, 6:00 P.M.

It was ironic. After being given food and rest, Father Bradbury’s own tactics were used against him.

The priest had recalled the missionaries, as instructed. Then he was taken outside. He was not bound or hooded, and it felt strange to see the morning light, to feel fresh air on his face. He was allowed to use the little island’s outhouse. After that, he was not returned to “the cage,” as his captors called it. He was taken to a small hut. The window was shuttered, the walls were made of logs, and the roof was corrugated tin. Near the ceiling, a series of four small holes had been cut two feet apart in the walls on every side. They provided the small room’s only light and ventilation. The door was bolted from the outside, and the floor was concrete. But there was a cot against the back wall, and Bradbury was given bread and water. After saying grace, he ate and drank greedily.

The air was humid and extremely hot. Following his modest meal, Father Bradbury stood on the cot and sucked the relatively cool morning air through one of the openings. Then, his eyes heavy, he lay down on his belly. He put his head on the towel that passed for a pillow. He reeked of dried perspiration and the smells of the swamp. Marsh flies scouted his sticky hands and cheeks. But the heat, the stench, the bugs, all of that vanished when the priest shut his eyes. He was asleep within moments.

The next thing Father Bradbury knew, he was being awakened by a firm tap on the shoulder and a gruff, unfamiliar voice.

“Get up!”

It was now very dark in the room and he had no idea how long he’d been asleep. The voice seemed to be coming from far away. The priest felt incredibly groggy. He was not even certain he was awake. He did not want to move, let alone stand.

Someone tapped him again. “Come on!” the voice said.

Father Bradbury tried to face the speaker. His arms were asleep, and it was a moment before he could move. He finally looked over at a shadowy figure. It was someone he did not know.

The man reached down and grabbed Father Bradbury’s upper arm. He gave it a sharp tug. Obviously, the priest was not moving swiftly enough. Father Bradbury pushed himself off the cot and stood unsteadily, and his vision swirled from having gotten up too quickly. Still holding him, the man led the clergyman through the open door. The skies were blue black as they walked across the warm soil toward a hut. The structure was about thirty yards away. Father Bradbury had not seen Dhamballa’s hut from the outside. The last time he was pulled in this direction, he had been wearing a hood. But he saw half-dragged footprints in the soil. They were probably his. And they led to this structure.

The island seemed deserted. There was only the one soldier to escort the priest. That did not surprise Father Bradbury. Even if he had the strength, where would an unarmed man go? Especially with predators hiding in the murky waters and along the moss-shrouded shoreline.

But flight was not what Father Bradbury had in mind. Sometimes the best escape was to change the prison itself.

“Whom do I thank for giving me food and allowing me to rest?” the priest pressed.

The man responded with silence. The priest was undeterred.

“May I know your name?” Father Bradbury asked.

The man still did not answer him.

“I am Powys Sebastian Bradbury-“

“Quiet!”

“I’m sorry,” Father Bradbury replied.

The priest had not really expected the man to say anything.

Nonetheless, now that he had the strength, the clergyman wanted to try to engage these people in conversation. When talking to parishioners or taking confession, Father Bradbury found that trust often grew from the most banal or innocent exchanges. It was easy to evolve a conversation. To progress from learning a person’s name to discussing the weather to asking how they’re feeling. Now that the priest was rested and thinking more clearly, establishing a personal connection with his captors was a priority. It might not guarantee his safety or gain his release, but it might give Father Bradbury a clue as to what the Botswanans were planning. It might also tell him whether he should continue to participate.

But conversation was like a spear with two heads. If a man pushed too hard, he could impale himself on the backside.

The priest was taken inside the hut. Dhamballa was there. He was sitting on a wicker mat by the far wall. His back was to the door. There was a candle in front of him. It gave off a tart smell, like burning rubber. It was the only light in the room. There was a wooden bucket behind the man. Father Bradbury could not see what was inside.

The soldier sat the priest in a folding chair in the center of the room. Then the young man closed the door and stood beside it. There was a tray on the dirt floor to Father Bradbury’s right. On it were a cell phone, a plate of fruit, a pitcher of water, and a glass.

“You may drink or eat, if you wish,” Dhamballa said. He spoke without turning around.

“Thank you,” Father Bradbury said. He filled the water glass and took a banana.

“You did both,” Dhamballa remarked.

“Yes.”

“But I gave you a choice,” Dhamballa pointed out.

The priest apologized. He put the banana back.

“You kept the water,” Dhamballa said.

“Yes.”

“People will always choose drink over food,” Dhamballa said. “Do you know why?”

“Thirst is a more commanding need, I would say,” the priest replied.

“No,” Dhamballa told him. “Water is the companion to air, earth, and fire. Men always return to the four elemental forces to nurture life, to find the truth, to understand themselves.”