"Yeah, I love it here," Herbert informed him. "They'll have to blast me out of this place, too."
There was a short, pained moan on the other end. "I can't believe you said that, Robert," Kline told him.
"Why not?" Herbert asked. "That's how they got me out of the Central Intelligence Agency."
"I know. But still," Kline replied.
"me, you've spent too much time with the wrong people," Herbert teased. "If you don't laugh at yourself, the only option is to cry. So where do you want to meet?"
"I'm staying at the Watergate," Kline told him. "I should be there about eight o'clock."
"Fine. I'll meet you at the bar," Herbert said. "Sounds like we need to put some hair back on your cheek."
"Would you mind meeting me in my room?" Kline asked. The South African's tone was suddenly more serious.
"Okay, sure," Herbert said.
"I'll be in the same room I had back on February 22 of '84," Kline told him. "You remember which one that was?"
"I do," Herbert told him. "You're getting nostalgic."
"Very," Kline said. "We'll order room service."
"Fine, as long as you're picking up the check," Herbert said.
"Of course. The Lord provides," Kline said.
"I'll be there," Herbert told him. "And don't worry, me. Whatever it is, we'll fix it."
"I'm counting on that," Kline told him.
Herbert hung up. He glanced at his watch out of habit and immediately forgot what time it was. He was thinking about Kline.
Kline had not stayed at the Watergate in 1984. That was how they used to communicate room numbers or house addresses of terrorists. The date signified the number. In this case, February 22 meant that Kline was staying in room 222. Obviously, the VSO operative did not want Herbert asking for him. That meant he was not traveling under his real name.
Edgar Kline did not want a record of his being in Washington, D. C. That was also why he was not staying in the permanent rooms the Vatican kept at Georgetown University. If he did, he would be photographed by the campus security cameras. There was also a chance he might be recognized by someone he had worked with.
Herbert wondered what kind of crisis could require such precautions. He brought up the White House database on the travels of world leaders. The Pope was not planniflg any trips abroad in the near future. Perhaps there was a plot against the Vatican itself.
Whatever it was must have come up suddenly. Otherwise, Kline would at least have let Herbert know he was coming.
In any case, Herbert could use a good scrap right now. The CIOC action had left him frustrated. And it would be nice if he could help an old friend and colleague in the process.
While Herbert pondered the problem, he happened to glance down to his right to the pocket in his wheelchair, to something he had forgotten because he had been distracted and annoyed for most of the day.
To a possible answer to his question.
Chapter Nine
The hut was bank-vault dark, and the air was as stuffy and still. The swamp gave up the heat it had accumulated during the day. It was no longer as open-oven hot as it was under the sun. But it was still humid, especially inside the small hut. However hot he was, though, Henry Genet was certain of one thing. The stubborn Father Bradbury was warmer.
Dressed only in briefs, the bald, five-foot-nine-inch Genet sat down on the forty-eight-inch canvas cot. The bed was surrounded by a heavy white nylon lace mosquito net that hung from a bamboo umbrella and reached to the wooden floor. Genet pulled it shut. Then he eased onto his sunburned back. It had been too hot to keep his shirt on, and the sun had managed to find him, even through the thick jungle canopy. Beneath him was a foam mattress and pillow. They were not the king-size bed and down pillow to which he was accustomed, but both were surprisingly comfortable. Or maybe he was just tired.
The trappings were completely alien to the Belgian native. So was this remote swamp, this distant nation, this vast continent. But the fifty-three-year-old was thrilled to be here.
He was also thrilled to be doing what he was doing.
The son of a diamond merchant, Genet had lived in and around Antwerp most of his life. Situated on the busy Scheldt River, Antwerp was Europe's chief commercial city by the mid-sixteenth century. The importance of the Belgian city declined after its sacking by the Spanish in 1576 and the subsequent closing of the Scheldt to navigation. Its significance to modern times dates from 1863. Kings Leojpold I and Leopold II undertook a massive industrialization program and a modernization of Antwerp's port. Today, it is a very modern city and a major center of finance, industry, and the diamond trade.
For all of that, Henry Genet did not miss it.
Despite the history, the culture, and the conveniences, Antwerp existed for finance. So did most of Europe these days. So did Genet. Though he loved acquisition, it had ceased to become a challenge. That was why he had put together the Group. The others were as bored as he was. And boredom was one of the reasons they had come here.
In Botswana, the mentality was far different than it was in Antwerp. For one thing, the age of things in Africa was measured in eons, not in centuries. The sun witnessed the rise and fall of mountains and plains, not improvements in buildings and streets. The stars looked down on the slow workings of evolution, not the life span of civilizations. The people had a monolithic patience that was unheard of in Europe.
Here, Genet had found himself thinking bigger thoughts but with European impatience.
As ancient as this world was, it was also fresh and uncomplicated. There was a clarity of purpose. For the inhabitants it was dance or die. The predators had to kill their prey. The prey had to elude the predators. That simplicity also suited Genet's partner Beaudin. Unlike Europe, where there were attorneys and financial institutions to protect him, the risks here were intense and exciting.
It had been two days since Genet first arrived to oversee the expansion of the ministry. What he had discovered was that even sleeping here was a challenge. The noises, the heat, the mosquitoes that lived in the shallow waters on the shore of their little island. Genet loved being challenged like this.
Especially when the Belgian diamond merchant knew that, if he needed it, escape was just a few dozen yards away. Genet could always use the Aventura II to fly back to his private airstrip and then to civilization. He wanted excitement, but he was not delusional.
Not like Dhamballa. He was an idealist. And idealists, by their nature, were not realists.
Genet used the edges of his pillow to wipe sweat from his eyes. He turned gently onto his belly so the perspiration would run out on its own. Then he thought about Dhamballa, and he had to smile. This operation could not have been easier from conception to launch. And for all Dhamballa's ideas, for all his insights about faith and human nature, he had no idea what any of it was really about.
Eight months before, Dhamballa had been associated with Genet in a much different capacity. Then, the thirty-three-yearold Botswanan was known as Thomas Burton. He was a sifter in a mine Genet visited each month to do some of his buying. Sifters were men who stood beside the mining flumes-long wooden troughs with running water. These troughs were located inside the mines where the lighting could be kept constant. There were screens at different intervals. The water went through without a problem. Small rocks and dirt were trapped by the screen. If the sifters did not see any diamonds, they moved the screen so the detritus could be washed along. Each successive screen had a finer mesh than the one before. And each successive sifter was trained to spot diamonds of decreasing size. Even diamond dust had value to scientists and industrialists. Those people used the dust in microtechnology as prisms, cutting surfaces, or nano-thin switches. The diamond dust was removed from the sand by a fan operator, who blew the fine powder away from the significantly heavier grains.