Mission of Honor (21 page)

“A Moslem from the Jewish state helping the Church,” Hood mused. “I like that.”

“So does he,” Rodgers told him. “That’s why he offered to drop what he was doing and join the team. I told him I’ll let him know if that’s necessary. I also talked to Zack Bemler in New York and Harold Moore in Tokyo. They’re tied up for the next few days. After that, they said they’d be happy to work with us. But with Maria on the way and the other three ready to go, I feel we have a strong team to field.”

Hood agreed. Those four intelligence operatives had exceptional abilities. Hood had to trust that their collaborative skills would surface when they were required.

When Rodgers was finished, Hood brought the general up to date on his conversations with Edgar Kline and Emmy Feroche. In the middle of that briefing, Stephen Viens called.

“Paul, I think you should come to Mart’s office,” Viens said.

“What have you got?” Hood asked.

Viens replied, “Your missing link, I think.”

Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 12:05 A.M.

According to the beliefs of Dhamballa’s Vodun faith, midnight was the most spiritual part of the day. It was the hour I when the body was weakest and the soul the strongest.

More importantly, it was a time of the greatest darkness. The Vodun soul shunned the day. Day was for the flesh so it could be warm and work. So it could be nourished. Then there was early night, a time dominated by firelight. That was the time for group prayer, for singing, drumming, and dancing. A time when animals were sacrificed to honor the loas. Revelers were asking the gods for health, wealth, and happiness in life. Occasionally, the celebrations led to pairings that created new , life. It was a holy thing for children to be conceived within the energy and love of a celebration.

Yet all of that, too, were needs of the flesh. And the flesh was a prison for the soul. Daylight was also an inhibiting force. In the dark, the soul could enjoy a sacred, private communion with the earth. It could leave the material world and visit the ! black places of its forebears. Like the souls of the living, the souls of the dead dwelt beneath the surface.

Each midnight, before retiring, Dhamballa made time for I this personal reconnecting with the voices of the past. That I was how Dhamballa first became aware of his destiny. A Vodun priest, Don Glutaa, had guided him through a visit to the spirit world. There was not always a revelation, but he always came out of this journey with a reminder of why he was here: to serve as a mortal bridge between the Vodun past and future.

Dhamballa lay on his back on the rough wicker mat. He was dressed only in white shorts. His eyes were shut, but he was not asleep. The hut was dark, save for the very faint glow of a ceremonial candle. The wick was made from rushes that burned like a cigarette. It smoldered rather than flamed, releasing smoke rather than light. The short, squat candle had a slightly rounded bottom. It was not made from wax but from tallow. Dhamballa had created the candle himself before corning to the swamp. He had gone to the ancient cemetery of Machaneng. There, he mixed shavings of belladonna and pinches of dried ergot with the melted fat of a male goat. He had blended them in the eye socket of a human skull, the traditional way to make the Lights of Loa, the light of the possessing spirit. The herbs were necessary to relax his body and open his mind. The tallow was employed to capture the spirits of the dead. Burning the candle released those spirits so they could guide him through the home of the dead.

The candle sat at the top of Dhamballa’s bare chest, just above his breastbone. The tallow pooled below his chin, reinventing the shape of the candle. This act was important to the Vodun faith. It symbolized what was about to occur. The dead were going to give something to the living. The living would use it to make into something new.

The pungent yellowish smoke snaked into Dhamballa’s nostrils with every breath. His breathing grew slow and shallow. As he inhaled the fumes, the young man felt more and more as if he himself were made of smoke. He felt as though he were floating just above the mat. Then, like fire and air, his spirit wafted downward, through the weave of the mat.

Into the earth, he thought, home of the eternal spirit.

Dhamballa began to move, snakelike, through the thickly packed soil of the earth. He descended faster and faster. If and when the spirits wished, they would stir from cracks in the boulders and from places beneath the stones. They would come to him to make their knowledge available.

Almost at once, Dhamballa knew that this night was different than other nights. The spirits came quickly tonight, faster than ever before. That meant they had something important to share with Dhamballa. The Vodun priest stopped his descent so the spirits would not have to pursue him. It was for the living to wait for the honored dead.

Dhamballa did not select those to whom he wished to speak. Rather, the spirits approached Dhamballa. They came to tell him what he needed to know. They did not tell him in words but in images, in symbols.

The spirits began to tell Dhamballa about the future. They showed him a hen become a rooster. Then they brought him a calf, bloodied and torn but not yet dead. One was a mothering force that became a potential rival. The other signified a child that would be tested before it could mature.

The spirits left. Dhamballa moved on.

The holy man drifted farther into the earth. He moved now through larger caves and fissures. Finally, he came to a large pit. He floated past the rim and saw a great horned snake coiled below him. The gods were speaking to him now. This was a rarity. Dhamballa swam toward the huge rust-colored beast. The reptile opened its mouth. Dhamballa floated inside. Save for the serpent’s red tongue, everything was black. Suddenly, the forks of the tongue became white wings. Flocks of sparrows rose from beneath him. Dhamballa watched as the birds soared upward. The first ones to reach the sky became stars. Soon there were thousands of points of light. He watched with delight but only for a moment. As birds were still rising, the stars became sand and rained to earth. The grains pelted the birds, ripping them to pieces. The downpour formed a sprawling, endless desert of sand. Here and there were small oases of dead birds and blood.

Dreams of greatness are going to be tested, the holy man thought. And those who follow the dreams will be tested as well.

Suddenly, a lion with a fiery mane burst from beneath the sand. Dhamballa recognized him immediately. It was Ogu Bodagris, the spirit of war. His fangs and claws raked the empty skies. New stars appeared, blood red and expanding. They formed faces. Familiar faces. Soon everything was red. Dhamballa moved away from the flood. Slowly, the flood grew to a dull orange. Dhamballa’s eyes were open now. He was staring into the flame of the candle.

Perspiration rolled thickly down the holy man’s neck and forehead. Some of the sweat was caused by the heat of the smoldering wick. Some of it was due to the close, humid warmth of the night. But most of it came from inside. From fear. Dhamballa was not afraid of the unknown. Faith, courage, and the Vodun arts were all he needed to survive life’s countless mysteries and the troubles they caused. What frightened him was the known. Especially the duplicity of men. Even at that, Dhamballa did not fear for his own safety. If he died, his spirit would join his ancestors. What worried him was the fate of his followers. Many of them would lose their way so early in his ministry. He also feared for those who had not yet been returned to the ways of their people.

Dhamballa raised the candle from his chest. It came away easily because of the perspiration. He sat up slowly. The day had been tiring. Now the vision had left him drained.

My allies are my enemies, Dhamballa thought.

Someone close to him was going to betray him. What he did not know was who, exactly. Or how. Or when. It could be someone he already knew. It could be someone he would meet during his next sermon or holy ceremony. All he knew was that it would happen very soon.

Dhamballa put the candle in a clay bowl on a small ledge beside the window. The white canvas shade was down. He used the hemp drawstring to raise it. The flame kicked up for a moment, dancing as the hot, muggy night air rolled in. Then it died to its customary glow. With the breeze came the sounds of the swamp animals. The bullfrogs sounded like unhappy dogs. The night birds seemed to be laughing or sighing. The occasional hiss of a snake. It was deceptively loud because the sharp sibilation cut through every other sound. Almost at once, the wings of small white moths began to flash around the candlelight. Beyond the dark treetops the stars shone clear and large.

Dhamballa had always known that one day there would be conflict. He knew he would have to fight for the diamond mines. He did not mind selling the gems to outsiders to build his nation. But the earth was the home of the dead. Only the faithful should be permitted inside.

Still, Dhamballa did not expect to have to face the matter so soon. The first thing he would have to do was make certain that Leon Seronga and the Brush Vipers were among those he could trust. Without them, the holy man would have to look elsewhere for strength of arms. Perhaps the spirits would guide him. Perhaps they would not.

He suddenly felt very alone.

Dhamballa lifted a ceramic pitcher and cup from the floor beside the mat. He poured himself water flavored with mint leaves. He drank slowly and chewed on the leaves as he stared at the sky.

The stars in Dhamballa’s vision had told him of an impending future. The stars suspended in front of him told a different tale. They reminded Dhamballa of his forebears. Of the men and women who had looked up at the sky when the world was young. The stars spoke of a time when the spirits of men were few, and wisdom had to come directly from the gods themselves.

The stars gave him the courage to do what those men had done. To trust in the visions. To believe in the prophecies. And to find ways of making them come true.

Dhamballa had been given a remarkable gift. He had been given both the blessing and the curse of Vodun enlightenment. It was a blessing because he had the ideas and the voice to inspire a nation, to lead a people who had become fragmented. Who had lost their way. It was a curse because he would not be able to lead those people by spirituality alone.

He was a man of peace, yet he was going to have to fight a war.

A war in which, he feared, not all of the magic would be white.

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:47 P.M.

As they headed toward Matt Stoles office, Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers bumped into Liz Gordon. The psychologist was chomping hard on her nicotine chewing gum. She had recently given up smoking and was having a tough time of it. She asked to talk to Paul.

“Is it personal?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. Her broad shoulders swayed, and her medium-length brown hair bobbed hard as she walked and chewed.

“Can we talk while we walk?” Hood asked.

“We can do that,” the woman told him. “I’ve always been good at multitasking.”

Hood smiled. “What can I do for you?”

“My half brother, Clark, is a poli-sci major at Georgetown,” Liz said. “They’re dealing with contemporary urban issues. He was wondering if you could talk to his class about your term as mayor.”

“When?” Hood asked. It was jarring to shift gears from the global to the local. Liz was obviously better at multitasking than he was.

“Sometime within the next two weeks?” she asked.

“Sure, I’ll do it,” Hood said with a wink. “Too bad everything is not that easy.”

“Thanks. Is it the Vatican problem?” Liz asked.

Hood nodded. “As a matter of fact, you might want to tag along if you have the time.”

“Be happy to,” she said.

Matt Stall’s space was different from the other offices.

When he first came to OpCenter, Stoll had commandeered a small conference room. He proceeded to fill it with a haphazard arrangement of desks, stands, and computers. As OpCenter’s computing needs grew, the original disarray remained where it was. They were like old oak trees a village had grown around.

There were now four people working in the rectangular space. Stoll and Viens now worked back to back in the center of the room. Mae Won sat at the far end, and Jefferson Jefferson sat near the door. When Hood was in Los Angeles, all the eccentrics he knew worked in the film business. Scientists were a serious, conservative bunch. Now it was the movie people who wore short hair and understood complex mathematics and the computer programmers who were the oddballs. Mae, who was born in Taipei, had a ring through her nose and orange hair. J2, as they called Jefferson Jefferson, had no hair and a tattoo of a tree on his scalp. When the mood struck him, J2 added new branches and leaves to the tree.

In the 1990s, these individuals would never have made it past the first interview for a position with the federal government. Now, government agencies could not afford to lose good tech people to private or especially foreign employers. This was particularly true of intelligence and investigative operations. What the people looked like was less important than what they could do or the new technologies they might come up with. In their spare time, Mae and J2 were working on what they called omni ink. Paper saturated in their ink would change its display via pixel-sized micro transistors activated by wireless signals. The electronic charge would cause the ink colors to change in nanoseconds, allowing for immediate news updates, constantly changing want ads, and even on-demand help with crossword puzzles. Hood was not sure their pet name “oink” would work for the new technology. But the question might be irrelevant. He knew from the duo’s employment contracts that while any patents would be issued in their names, the government would have a shot at developing and marketing the product. As Hood walked through the door, he could not help but wonder, suddenly, if J2 would try to apply oink technology to tattoos.

Viens glanced over as the trio entered the room.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Hood said. “What have you got for us, Mr. Viens?”