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  Denzelle cracked up, gave his bishop some skin, took that first-class ticket, called his boss, Gregory Williams, to make sure these plans corresponded with those of the Bureau, and got ready to leave for Mozambique.

  The flight over the ocean was as long, tedious, nerve-racking, and tiring as Denzelle had feared it would be. He was miserable, ready to go back home, and just plain ornery when he reached his final destination. When he had to go through customs they started giving him a hard time.

  At one point during the ordeal, Denzelle stood in the middle of the floor and said, “Father, give me strength,” for all to hear.

  When he pulled out his Bible and a white handkerchief, and started reading Scriptures in his preacher voice, they rushed him through before Denzelle got so upset he started preaching and then decided to take up a collection.

  He had just collected his bags and gone through them to make sure everything was just as it should be when a well-dressed African man walked up to him.

  “You are Rev. Flowers, are you not?” Chief asked him politely.

  “How did you figure out I was me?” Denzelle questioned. He wondered how this man, who looked as if he could have been a bouncer at the roughest club on Chicago’s South Side, worked for the Seventeenth. He didn’t look like a dedicated churchgoing man. And he certainly didn’t look like anybody’s preacher or presiding elder, either.

  Chief said, “Wait here a minute, Reverend,” and picked up Denzelle’s luggage. He nodded at Denzelle to follow him to the car, then stopped and looked Denzelle up and down, taking in his black leather blazer, expensive American jeans, long-sleeved gray T-shirt, and high-priced athletic shoes. Chief especially liked the shoes because they looked like something an NBA star, or rap stars like Run D.M.C., would wear. Then he said, “Rev. Flowers, do you see anybody standing in this place dressed like you—an all-American black man in those fancy NBA shoes?”

  Denzelle looked around and had to admit that he was pretty visible in the crowd. He had BORN IN THE USA stamped all over him.

  “Come on, Reverend, I need to get you to the compound. You have to be tired after such a long flight.”

  Denzelle nodded wearily and reached down to pick up one of his bags. Chief waved him away.

  “Let me get this.”

  He followed Chief to the Land Cruiser and hopped in on the passenger side. Denzelle was so tired. He didn’t think he’d make this ride to wherever they were going on his first trip to Mozambique without falling into a deep sleep. And that wasn’t an option, since he didn’t know Chief, didn’t know where he was, other than in Mozambique, and certainly didn’t know where the heck he was going. For all Denzelle knew, the headquarters for the Seventeenth District could be in Zimbabwe, Zambia, Botswana, the Congo, Sierra Leone, or anyplace in Africa.

  Chief dug around in a cooler, pulled out a cool bottle of Coca-Cola, and popped off the top with a pocket knife.

  “Here, Reverend, take a few swigs off of this. It’ll keep you awake until we get to the Gospel United Church district house. I also have some imported Evian water in the cooler.”

  Denzelle took the bottle and drained it in less than a minute.

  “Thanks, man,” he said.

  “Chief.”

  “Huh?”

  “Chief. That’s what everybody calls me.”

  Denzelle wanted to ask Chief what his real name was so bad, but changed his mind when he happened to catch a glimpse of the man’s biceps. They looked like something on Mr. T on The A-Team.

  “Okay, thanks, Chief. In fact, thank you for picking me up. I didn’t know what to expect when I got off of that plane.”

  “I bet you didn’t,” Chief told him and turned out of the parking area.

  Denzelle knew he was safe with Chief. It wasn’t because Chief looked all that safe. He was safe because he wasn’t someone Chief would want to bother—which made him curious, since he knew that Chief was one of Bishop Hemphill’s top employees.

  He stared at the road and took in all the sights. Africa was something to see. There was no place like it on Earth. Denzelle took in the scenery for as long as he could. His eyes were so heavy and he was so tired. Before he knew it, Denzelle was sound asleep.

  Chief thought the young preacher was pretty good folk, even if he was over here to get the scoop on what the bishop was up to. He could tell that this preacher was not going to let the bishop roll up in that conference in the United States with some mess that would harm folks in that church they were so enamored of.

  He laughed softly, so as not to wake Rev. Flowers. The bishop had good reason to be nervous about this man coming to his home. Rev. Flowers was a federal agent—a very good federal agent, capable of taking the bishop out with one swipe.

  The young preacher’s holdup getting through customs didn’t just happen. Chief paid the customs officers a handful of Benjamins to get as much information on Rev. Flowers as quickly as possible. Chief knew that Bishop Hemphill didn’t even suspect that this man was the FBI agent he was so worried about. He just thought he was coming to spy on him for their head bishop—and he was. But this Denzelle Flowers was also coming to put a case together for some far more dangerous folk than a bishop capable of moving you to another district, or casting you out to the never-never land of being “on location.”

  For bishops, being located was worse than being a cop forced on leave by Internal Affairs. A located bishop’s hands were tied. He didn’t have a district, he was stripped of power, and he couldn’t earn money. A bishop had to have a district or special Episcopal assignment to get paid. And about the only thing a located bishop could do in the Gospel United Church was put on a fancy purple clerical shirt and run around trying to look important.

  Chief laughed some more. He was going to enjoy watching this play out. And he wished he could go over to America to witness the finale. This fact-finding trip was only the beginning.

  The car stopped and Denzelle popped up, hand resting on the inside of his jacket, body poised for an altercation. If Chief hadn’t known he was FBI before, he sure knew it now. Chief couldn’t help but wonder what it must feel like to walk around with a double calling. He was about to ask the young preacher this question, but changed his mind when he remembered how fast Rev. Flowers was able to locate a gun practically in his sleep.

  Denzelle was happy when Chief turned down a street and drove to an impressive stone wall that went around what had to be several acres of land. He was exhausted, hungry, and anxious to get to his room, take a warm shower, and then go to bed.

  Chief pulled up to the gate and waited until two men came and swung it open. He drove into the compound, which didn’t look like any of the other houses on this street. This place was incredible. Denzelle hopped out of the Land Cruiser as soon as Chief turned the engine off, and stood in the courtyard turning around in a circle, taking it all in, when it occurred to him that folks were watching him curiously.

  But he couldn’t help himself because the courtyard was lovely—storybook-quality lovely. This landscape put the terrain of an English country manor to shame. Brick archways took you from the main house to a series of lovely shaded spots all over the carefully tended grounds. While the outside of the house practically yelled “English aristocracy,” the house on the other hand was on the order of a fancy Italian villa in the Tuscan hills. Denzelle couldn’t help but wonder what the heck the inside of the house looked like—a French chateau?

  He wondered how much all of this cost. It couldn’t be anywhere close to cheap, or even budget chic, with these three overpriced European styles clashing with every blink of the eye. Denzelle had seen the before pictures of the Seventeenth District’s bishop’s quarters. They hadn’t looked anything like this. In fact, if his eyes served him right, Denzelle didn’t think this house was on the same plot of land, or even in the same neighborhood.

  Three of the fifteen staff members came out to greet their American guest. The cook, a woman close to Denzelle’s age, was standing there eyeballi
ng him as if he were something good to eat. He rested his hands below his belt buckle, hoping to steer her eyes in another direction. It only made her look harder. The heat from that woman’s eyes was so intense, poor Denzelle feared he had contracted some kind of sunburn disease. The woman saw him blushing and mumbled, “Little American boy,” loud enough for him to hear.

  He almost forgot himself and grabbed at his American goods, thinking, You let this “little American boy” get a hold of your behind, and you’ll be mumbling all right… you’ll be mumbling my name.

  “I do believe, Reverend,” Chief said, “That you have made quite the impression on that cook. If I were you, I’d lock my door tonight.”

  Denzelle raised an eyebrow. He was about to blurt out, “I ain’t no punk, bro,” but changed his mind when it occurred to him that this Chief person would probably miss the best part of his retort.

  “So where’s Bishop Hemphill?” Denzelle asked, glad that the cook had gone inside with the rest of the staff.

  “Inside waiting for you.”

  “Well, okay,” was all Denzelle said. He couldn’t get over being treated like this. But then, he shouldn’t have been surprised. This wasn’t exactly a goodwill trip. Why would the bishop want to come out to greet somebody who had been sent to find out as much dirt on him as possible?

  They walked inside the most opulent house Denzelle had ever been in. It was a treat to the eyes but highly inappropriate. He had seen some beautiful countryside on the way in, but he had also seen a lot of poverty. And if his memory served him right, this was one of the districts Bishop Jennings had targeted to receive additional money to fund economic development, along with health and human services projects.

  But judging from this setup, about the only thing being funded and developed was Bishop Hemphill’s bank account. Denzelle now understood why the bishop lived in a compound surrounded by a stone wall with razor-sharp barbed wire at the top, and armed security guards walking around with Uzis hanging on thick straps from their shoulders. This place looked like something owned by the Mafia instead of the church. Don Corleone could have taken a few notes from Rucker Hemphill about luxury, safety, and security.

  There was no way that Bishop Hemphill could live like this and serve the community. And what about all the preachers who worked for the Seventeenth Episcopal District? Were they getting paid? And if so, how much? Denzelle knew of preachers in some of the wealthiest districts back in the States who were not getting paid right. So it was hard to imagine that Rucker Hemphill was doing right by preachers who couldn’t even afford to call the folks back home to file a complaint against the bishop and how he was handling church business.

  One of the servants took Denzelle’s bags, while another one led him and Chief to the library, which looked like something out of an old Sherlock Holmes movie. There was mahogany paneling all around the room, floor-to-ceiling windows with gold brocade drapes framing them, and a Persian carpet that looked as if it could have taken you on a magic carpet ride for real, it was so expensive. A massive mahogany desk and burgundy leather chair sat in front of one of the four huge windows in the room. There was a gold brocade love seat, charcoal-colored velvet chairs placed around the room, and two black-gold-and-charcoal-colored tapestries covering two walls in the huge room.

  All the oil paintings were encased in gold-leaf frames. It was clear that they had been acquired. The cop part of Denzelle knew in his gut that not one of those pictures had been purchased properly. All the items were museum-quality pieces—and not for the “museum” started by your cousin Bootsy who used to be in the black power movement in his neighborhood back in the day.

  Fresh flowers in crystal vases were placed on the gold-and-glass end tables near the chairs, and the gold-and-glass coffee tables in front of the sofas. But the best feature in the entire room was the built-in bookshelves that lined an entire wall, with those fast-rolling ladders that reached up near the twenty-foot ceilings. Denzelle wished he were alone, so that he could get on one of those ladders and roll halfway around the room.

  “Pretty fancy, huh?” Chief asked solemnly.

  “Yeah it is. But is the rest of the house like this?”

  Chief nodded. Bishop Hemphill had never been one to half-step where his comfort was concerned.

  They both sat down on one of the couches. Denzelle hoped Rucker Hemphill, who he suspected was making him wait on purpose, would hurry up and come. He was tired and suffering from jet lag, and wanted to take a shower and get in bed.

  Chief hoped the bishop would hurry up and come, too. He was tired, and not in the mood for any of the bishop’s antics. Chief looked at his Rolex and searched for an excuse to get up out of here.

  Five minutes later Rucker Hemphill walked into the library wearing a black-gold-and-charcoal silk brocade smoking jacket over charcoal silk pajama pants, and charcoal Moroccan slippers. Denzelle thought Rucker looked as if he’d sneaked into the Playboy Mansion and stolen one of Hugh Hefner’s outfits. Hugh Hefner looked odd and eccentric in his getups. Rucker Hemphill, on the other hand, just looked crazy.

  Rucker adjusted the gold ascot he was wearing, and went and sat behind his desk. He didn’t make one effort to acknowledge his guests, and proceeded to shuffle through a pile of papers.

  Chief had seen the bishop do some ridiculous stuff but this was a bit much, even for him. He stood up and said, “Bishop, I need to go and check on your latest shipment. I’ll be back in the morning.”

  He turned to Denzelle and extended his hand.

  “Rev. Flowers, it has been a pleasure meeting you. I hope you enjoy your stay in Mozambique. And be ready by eleven in the morning. I’m taking you and Bishop Hemphill to my great-great-uncle’s farm.”

  Denzelle grasped Chief’s hand and said, “Looking forward to going with you tomorrow.”

  Rucker straightened out the stack of papers, moving the stack from the right side of the desk to the left side. He pushed his chair back, stood, and came from around the desk. He had to work hard not to bust out into a huge grin. He had been hoping for another trip to the farm for weeks, and couldn’t wait to get out there and see that woman.

  Chief knew exactly what to say to be able to leave. He watched Denzelle take in the bishop’s reaction as if he were one of those IBM home computers having information put in it to form a database. That preacher was good—dangerous, but good. Chief was happy that he and Denzelle didn’t have a reason to face off. He was starting to like the young American, and didn’t want to have to kill him.

  Rucker walked over to Denzelle, shook his hand, and welcomed him to the Seventeenth Episcopal District. This behavior was a 180-degree turnaround from the cold and imperious posture the bishop had taken just minutes ago. But once that greeting was done with, Rucker tried to come up with every excuse imaginable to send the good reverend up to his suite, so that he could have some time to talk to Chief, who he knew was ready to leave, about tomorrow.

  Denzelle didn’t miss a thing. And if he did nothing else while he was there, he’d be ready to go to this farm when Chief came a-calling. He knew in his heart that a lot of what he needed to know was out at that great-great-uncle’s farm. Denzelle had met Bishop Hemphill on only a few occasions when he traveled back home to the States. He had found the bishop to be pompous and particular. He didn’t even think the man was capable of smiling, and here the negro was grinning from ear to ear. Denzelle absolutely couldn’t wait to get “his self” out to that farm.

  SEVEN

  Denzelle was beginning to wonder if they were ever going get to this farm. It was so far out, he was certain they were on their way to the original middle of nowhere. Denzelle had almost left his pistol back at the compound. He was glad that he had not done that, and was strapped. A brother didn’t need to be out traveling like this without some backup. Being a federal agent came in handy when traveling. He could flash a badge and official papers and get his gear through just about any airport security system. Denzelle didn’t travel anywhere wit
hout his stuff. And sitting in this car driving all over Africa made him happy to have what was on each of his ankles.

  He couldn’t wait to get to this place to find out what had the bishop so excited about coming. He knew all about the so-called import business Bishop Hemphill was running. Hemphill told folks that it was to raise money. But Denzelle knew it was one of the cool and safe spots for a smuggling ring based in America and Europe. There was no way the business ventures Bishop Hemphill had described in his Episcopal reports to the denomination could support his lifestyle.

  The one thing that concerned Denzelle was whom Rucker Hemphill was working with. Smuggling was a very dangerous business, run by some pretty scary folk. And if the bishop was not careful he could find himself swimming in some deep, shark-infested water with a bucket of somebody’s blood thrown all over him.

  Denzelle’s boss, Greg Williams, had given him an extensive overview of the gun smuggling that had a direct link to Chief, and to some extent to Bishop Ottah Babatunde in Nigeria. Denzelle didn’t think that Bishop Hemphill was the sharpest knife in the drawer, and figured he probably didn’t know all the ins and outs of this business.

  This smuggling ring was proving to be far more lucrative than anything the FBI had previously thought it to be. And if the bishop, who was kind of stupid and full of it, was making the kind of money displayed in his lavish home, he had to be getting closer and closer to dealing with some people he would do well to leave alone.

  Denzelle was struggling to stay awake. He was tired and the breeze coming through the windows wasn’t helping any. He closed his eyes, his head went back, and then his neck jerked, bringing Denzelle out of the nap that had slipped up on him. He sat up straight and forced himself to snap out of that slumber, brain clicking, as he began to process some information.