Mission of Honor by Tom Clancy, Steve Pieczenik, Jeff Rovin Page B

were told not to speak!” someone yelled from behind. It did not sound like the man who had brought him here. This was some other tormentor. Perhaps they had brought in someone who was proficient with a switch. Many villages had people like that, men who were skilled at corporal punishment. “Nod if you understand the instructions.”
    Father Bradbury was curled on his side. He nodded. He barely knew what he was doing anymore. His body was in agony, yet his mind was numb. His mouth was dry, but his hair and face were greasy with sweat. He was struggling mightily with his bonds yet he had never felt so weak.
    Only the priest’s spirit was intact. It had been shaped and reinforced by over two score years of reflection, reading, and prayer. He needed that part of him to stay strong.
    The switch nipped the backs of his bound hands. Father Bradbury yelped and stopped moving them. He thought of restless young boys whose knuckles he had rapped in catechism class and apologized to God. He was pulled back onto his feet. His knees folded inward, but the priest did not fall. The powerful hands continued to hold him.
    “You must believe me,” said the gentle man in front. He was leaning close again, his voice even more compassionate now. “I do not wish to hurt you. On my soul, I do not. The creation of pain is a black deed. It hurts you, and it attracts the attention of evil spirits. They watch us. They then they attempt to influence us.
    That is not what I wish. But for the sake of my people, I must have your cooperation. There is no time to debate this.”
    Father Bradbury had no idea what this man was saying. Everything around him was confusion.
    “Now,” the voice said as the man stepped away. “You will be taken to a telephone. We have been watching your seven deacon missionaries. We have the numbers of their cellular telephones. You will call them and tell these men to leave my country. When their departure has been confirmed, you will be permitted to leave our camp. Then you, too, will leave our Botswana. You and the other priests of a false divinity.”
    “He is not false,” Father Bradbury said.
    The clergyman braced for a blow that did not come. Then it came, just as he was relaxing. It struck his lower back. He felt the shock of the blow race up his back to his neck, and he whimpered loudly. No one said anything. There was no need. He knew the rules.
    The hands holding Father Bradbury were joined by another set of hands. They pulled the priest forward. He could not keep his wounded legs under him. He did not even try.
    The priest was dragged across the room. His legs were screaming, but he could do nothing to quiet them. His head was throbbing as well, not just from the blows but from thirst and hunger. One set of hands pushed him onto a stool. The edge of the seat brushed his leg where he had been hit. It burned terribly, and he jerked away. The men settled him back down. Another man untied the bottom of the hood. It was lifted to just above the priest’s mouth. As warm as the evening was, the air felt wonderfully cool on his face.
    “There is a speakerphone in front of you,” said someone close to Father Bradbury. This was the man who had originally captured him. “The first person we are calling is Deacon Jones.”
    No one was holding the priest now. He slumped forward slightly, but he did not slip from the stool. His feet were spread wide, and his hands were still bound behind him. His arms served as a counterbalance to keep him from falling. His legs and hands burned furiously where he had been struck. His arms shook. Tears slipped from the edges of his eyes. His parched lips were trembling. He felt violated and forsaken. But Father Bradbury still had one thing, neither pain nor promises could take from him.
    “You will tell him to return to the church, collect his belongings, and go home,” his captor told him. “If you say anything else, we will end the call, and you will be beaten.”
    “Sir,”