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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.”

SIX
    Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 10:18 A.M.
    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