Free Mission of Honor by Tom Clancy, Steve Pieczenik, Jeff Rovin

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 planning 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.

NINE
    Okavango Swamp, Botswana Wednesday, 1:40 A.M.
    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 Leopold 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