Thomas had worked at the very end of the trough line. And he had a voice that could be heard over the rushing water and the hum of the fan. Genet knew this because every day, promptly at two o'clock, Thomas would speak about the agesold teachings of Vous Deux or "You Two." While continuing to sift, the young man would extemporize on the beauty of life and death and their relation to the universe.
He would talk about the greatness of the snake, which cast off its skin and died without dying. He would explain how men could cast off death if they took the time to find their own "second skin."
The mine operators allowed Thomas to speak. The other sifters enjoyed hearing him, and they always worked more energetically after his ten- or fifteen-minute inspirational talks. During one visit, Genet listened to what Thomas had to say. He spoke about the gods and how they favored the industrious. He talked about "the white arts," the doing of good deeds, and how it spread light on those whom the practitioner loved. And Thomas spoke of the strength and character that was indigenous to the people of Botswana. It was all very general and very uplifting. It sounded to Genet as if Thomas's words could have come from any faith-Christian, Hindu, Islam.
It was only upon his return to Antwerp that Henry Genet discovered what Thomas Burton was talking about. Who and what he really was. As Genet drifted into sleep, he recalled how, over dinner, he had been discussing the speeches with five other businessmen. When Genet was finished, one of the men, Albert Beaudin, sat back and smiled. Beaudin was a seventy-year-old French industrialist who had his hand in a variety of businesses. Genet's father had invested heavily in several of his enterprises.
"Do you have any idea what you witnessed?" Beaudin asked.
"I don't understand," Genet told him.
"Do you know what you saw in Botswana, Henry? You saw a papa giving a sermon about Bon Dieu," the elderly industrialist explained.
"Who was doing what about whom?" asked Richard Bequette, one of the other merchants.
"A papa is a priest, and Bon Dieu is his supreme deity," Beaudin said.
"I still don't follow," Genet said.
"What you heard were lectures in Vodunism, the religion of white and black arts," Beaudin said. "Of good magic and evil magic. I read about it in National Geographic."
And suddenly Genet understood. Vous Deux was better known by its Anglicized name, voodoo.
Henry Genet and the other men at that meeting also understood something else. That what the Belgian had witnessed was like the mines he visited. The voodoo faith was deeper, older, and richer than most people knew. All it needed was for someone to tap its wealth. To speak directly to its traditional adherents and potential converts. To unleash its power.
Chapter Ten
The Watergate was Bob Herbert's favorite hotel. And not just his favorite in Washington. His favorite in the world.
It was not only because of the history of the hotel. The infamy attached to Richard Nixon and the break-in. Herbert actually felt sorry for the man. Virtually every candidate did what Nixon's staff had done. Fortunately or unfortunately, he got caught. That was bad enough. What affected Herbert was this smart man's too-slow uptake in the nascent art of spin control.
No, Herbert had a more personal connection with the hotel. It happened in 1983. He was still getting accustomed to life in a wheelchair, to life without his wife. His rehabilitation facility was several doors down from the hotel. After one frustrating session, Herbert decided to go to dinner at the Watergate. It was his first time out alone.
The hotel, the world, were not yet wheelchair-accessible. Herbert had a difficult time getting around. It was made more difficult by the fact that he was convinced everyone was giving him the "you poor man" look. Herbert was a CIA agent. He was accustomed to being invisible.
Herbert finally made it into the hotel and to a table. Almost at once, the diners at the next table engaged him in conversation. After a few minutes, they invited Herbert to sit with them.
The diners were Bob and Elizabeth Dole.
They did not talk about disabilities. They discussed the value of growing up in a rural area. They talked about food. They compared notes on TV shows, movies, and novels. It was one of those moments of kismet that transcended the practical value of what had transpired. The act of being asked to join the Doles made Herbert feel whole.
Herbert had come back often after that. The Watergate became a touchstone for him, a place that reminded him that a man's value was not in his mode of mobility but what was inside.
Of course, it did not hurt that they had installed ramps since then.
Herbert did not go directly to the elevators. He went to the house phones. There, he swung his laptop from the arm of the wheelchair and accessed the wireless Internet. As soon as he was on-line, he rang room 222. Intelligence people made enemies. Some of those enemies went to elaborate extremes to get revenge. Herbert wanted to make certain that it was Edgar Kline who had called and not someone trying to set Herbert up.
Kline picked up. "Hello?"
"Just making sure you're in," Herbert said.
"I got here five minutes ago," Kline replied.
"On what airline and flight?" Herbert asked.
If Kline were being held against his will, he might give Herbert misinformation to keep him from coming up.
"Lufthansa 418," Kline said.
Herbert did an Internet search for Lufthansa schedules. While he waited he asked, "What make of aircraft?"
"Boeing 747," Kline replied. "I was in seat IB, and I had the filet."
Herbert smiled. A moment later, the Lufthansa web site confirmed the flight. It was supposed to land at 3:45 P. M., but it had been delayed. "I'll be right up," Herbert said.
Three minutes later, Bob Herbert was rapping on the door of room 222. A tall man with a lantern jaw and short blond hair answered. It was Edgar Kline all right. A little more rotund and leathery around the eyes than Herbert remembered him, but then who wasn't?
Kline smiled and offered his hand. Herbert rolle^d into the foyer and shut the door before accepting it. He glanced quickly around the room. There was an open suitcase on the bed. Nothing had been removed from it yet. A tweed sports jacket was draped over the back of the desk chair, and a necktie was slung over that. Kline's shoes were at the foot of the bed. Those were the first things a man would have removed after a long flight. The arrival looked legitimate. Kline did not appear to be trying to put something over on him.
Now Herbert turned toward Kline and shook his hand.
"It's good to see you, Robert," Kline said.
Kline spoke with the same reserve Herbert remembered so well. And though he was smiling, it was the kind of smile a professional gambler gave to a newcomer or to a flip comment during a poker game: polite, practiced, not insincere but not very expressive.
"I'm glad to see you, too," Herbert replied. "We haven't been together since I left for Beirut, have we?"
"No," Kline said.
"So what do you think of the new me?" Herbert asked.
"You obviously haven't let what happened over there stop you," Kline observed.
"Did you think it would?" Herbert asked.
"No," Kline replied. He nodded toward the wheelchair. "Does that thing have afterburners?"
"Yeah, these," he said, holding up his powerful hands.
Kline smiled his polite smile and gestured toward the main room. It bothered Herbert more than it used to. Maybe it was just because the intelligence chief was older and more cynical. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe his veteran spy antennae were picking something up.