foot-high mooring was made of bald cypress that had been carved in the shape of a tornado. The image personified the mighty loa Agwe, the divine force of the sea.
Two armed guards patroled the island at all times. As Seronga and his team neared the southern shore, the sentries turned bright flashlights on them. Seronga and his men stopped.
"Bon Dieu," Seronga said.
"Pass," said a voice as one of the flashlights snapped off.
Seronga had uttered their password, the name of their guardian deity. One of the guards left to inform Dhamballa that the team had returned.
The men walked ashore. Seronga quickly removed his boots, watching as the soldier carrying Father Bradbury set him on the shore. The priest fell back, wheezing through the mask, unable to move. The militiaman stood over the prisoner, while another soldier bound his hands. When they were finished, Seronga walked over. He grabbed Father Bradbury under an arm and hoisted him to his feet. The priest's robes were thick with sweat.
"Let's go," Seronga said.
"I know your voice," the priest gasped.
Seronga tugged on the priest's slender arm.
"You are the leader," the priest continued.
"I said let's go," Seronga replied.
Father Bradbury stumbled forward, and Seronga had to hold him up. When the clergyman regained his footing, the men started walking slowly through the warm, soft soil. Seronga directed the priest toward the main hut.
"I still do not understand," Father Bradbury went on. "Why are you doing this?"
Seronga did not answer.
"The mask," Father Bradbury implored. His voice was breathy and weak. "At least won't you remove it?"
"When I have been instructed to do so," Seronga replied.
"Instructed by whom?" the priest persisted. "I thought you were the leader."
"Of these men," Seronga said. He should never have answered the man. Additional information gave him new avenues to poke and prod.
"Then who are we going to see?" Father Bradbury asked.
Seronga was too tired to tell the priest to stop talking. They were almost at the hut. Though the Batawana native was leg weary, seeing the hut gave him strength. It was more than just the soft, welcoming glow through the wood slats. He was renewed by the knowledge of who was inside.
"Forget about me," the priest said. "Have you no fear of God's judgment? At least let me save your soul."
His soul. What did this man know? Only what he had been taught. Seronga had seen life and death. He had seen Vodun power. He had no doubt about what he was doing.
"Look to your own soul and your own life," Seronga advised.
"I have done that tonight," Father Bradbury replied. "I am saved."
"Good," Seronga told him as they reached the hut. "Now you will have a chance to save the lives of others."
Chapter Six
For most of his career, Mike Rodgers had gotten up with the sun. There were soldiers to drill, battles to fight, crises to settle. Lately, however, Rodgers's world had been quiet. There were reports to file about the mission to Kashmir, dossiers to review for possible new Strikers, and endless sessions with Liz Gordon. There was no reason to be in early.
Also, it was difficult to sleep. That made it damned difficult to get up as early as he once had. Fortunately, the decor and the caffeine at DiMaggio's Joe brought him up to something resembling full speed.
Rodgers parked and walked toward the building. The rain had stopped. He carried his rolled-up newspaper, whacking it in his open hand. The blows smarted. The general was reminded of basic training, when he was taught how to roll newspaper tightly to form a knife. Another time, the DI showed them how to use a crumpled piece of newspaper or napkin to disable someone. If hand-to-hand combat were inevitable, all a soldier had to do was toss the scrap to one side. An opponent would always be distracted. During that moment-and a moment was all it took-the soldier could punch, stab, or shoot an adversary.
Rodgers entered the small, brightly lit reception area. A young female guard stood in a bulletproof glass booth just inside the door. She saluted smartly as Rodgers entered.
"Good morning, General," the sentry said.
"Good morning," Rodgers replied. He stopped. "Valentine," he said.
"Go right in, sir," the guard replied. She pressed a button that opened the elevator door.
Valentine was Rodgers's personal password for the day. It was left on his secure GovNet E-mail pager the night before. Even if the guard had recognized Rodgers, he would not have been allowed to enter if his password did not match what was on her computer.
Rodgers rode the elevator to the basement. As he stepped out, he bumped into Bob Herbert.
"Robert!" Rodgers said.
"Morning, Mike," Herbert said quietly.
"I was just coming to see you," Rodgers said.
"To return some of the DVDs you borrowed?" Herbert asked.
"No. I haven't been in the mood for Frank Capra," Rodgers said. He handed Herbert the Washington Post. "Did you see the article about the kidnapping in Botswana?"
"Yes. They caught that item upstairs," Herbert told him, refolding the newspaper.
"What do you make of it?" Rodgers asked.
"Too early to say," Herbert answered truthfully.
"The uniforms don't sound like the men were Botswana army regulars," Rodgers went on.
"No," Herbert agreed. "We haven't had any reports of paramilitary activity in Botswana, but it could be a new group. Some idiot warlord who's going to turn Botswana into the next Somalia. Or the soldiers could be expatriates from Angola, Namibia, any of the countries in the region."
"Then why take a priest?" Rodgers asked. He was uncharacteristically anxious, tapping a foot and toying with a button on his uniform.
"Maybe they needed a chaplain," Herbert said. "Or maybe the priest heard someone's confession, and they want to know what was said. Why are you all over this, Mike?"
"There's something about the size of the group and the timing of the attack that bothers me," Rodgers said. "Why send so many soldiers to kidnap a single, unarmed man? And in daylight, no less. A small squad could have picked him up in the middle of the night."
"That's true," Herbert agreed. "But you still haven't told me why this is important. Do you know anyone over there? Do you recognize something about the abduction scenario?"
"No," Rodgers admitted. "There's just something about it-" He did not finish the thought.
Herbert's eyes were on the general. Rodgers was restless. His eyes were searching, not steady as they usually were. There was an unhappy turn to his mouth. He looked like a man who had put something down and couldn't remember where.
Herbert flipped over the newspaper and glanced at it. "You know, now you've got me thinking," the intelligence chief said. "If this is a paramilitary unit that's been dormant somewhere, maybe they chose this target as a way of announcing themselves without having to face a firefight. If it's a new group, maybe they wanted to give their people some field experience. Or maybe they just miscalculated how long it would take to get to the church. Didn't that happen to George Washington during the Revolution?"
"Yes," Rodgers said. "It took him longer to cross the Delaware River than he had expected. Fortunately, the Brits were all asleep."
"That was it," Herbert said. "So there could be trouble percolating somewhere in southern Africa," Herbert said. He slid the newspaper into the leather pocket on the side of his wheelchair. "I'll make calls to our embassies, see if this smells dangerous to anyone. Find out if there's any additional intel. Meanwhile, Paul was asking if you were in yet."