Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  “That’s very likely,” Seronga agreed. “Don’t worry about it, Donald. We’ll get through this.”

  Seronga turned back to the airfield. So did Pavant.

  The men watched as the jet taxied and the two screaming engines were shut down. Before the dust had settled, the ground crew was already rolling over the silver white stairway. A fuel truck growled and pulled away from the control tower. There was a fire truck parked beside it with a small Red Cross emblem on the door. The firefighter was also probably a medic. That was the extent of the rescue services in Maun.

  The door to the main cabin was opened. A moment later, the door to the luggage bay came down. A tractor rolled over, tugging four stainless-steel carts. Working swiftly, two men hoisted the bags onto the luggage transport. To the right, someone boarded the Cessna. He had obviously been waiting for the jet to come in. Either he was waiting for a passenger or waiting for clearance. Meanwhile, the passengers began filing out. They moved slowly down the wind-buffeted stairway with their carry-on bags. They were a diverse mix of families, businesspeople, and tourists of all ages and nationalities.

  The bishop was one of the last people off the plane. At least, Seronga assumed it was the bishop. He was the only passenger wearing a simple black shirt and slacks with a white collar. His vestments and other belongings would have to come through customs.

  The man in black waved to Seronga. Seronga waved back.

  “Come on,” Seronga said to Pavant.

  Pavant grabbed Seronga’s arm. “Wait,” he said. “I just thought of something.”

  “What?” Seronga asked impatiently.

  “What are we supposed to do when we greet the bishop?” Pavant asked. “Do we have to kiss his ring?”

  “I don’t know,” Seronga admitted.

  “We’d better do it,” Pavant suggested. “Something like that could expose us to the bishop or the Spaniards.”

  “No,” Seronga said. “Let’s not worry about protocol. If we miss any formalities, we can apologize later. We’ll explain that we wanted to get him inside the shuttle, where he will be relatively safe.”

  The two men left the observation area and went to the other side of the control tower. The Spaniards passed them going the other way. The soldiers did not make eye contact. Seronga stole a glance back. The Spaniards looked at the fence. Then they turned toward the tower and took pictures with a digital camera. That made sense. The soldiers were doing more than checking the crowd and planning a possible rescue. They were trying to get images of the people waiting for the airplane. If anything happened, they would be able to upload the images to Spain and have them checked against file photographs.

  Seronga turned unhurriedly. He took another swallow of water. He wondered if he was in any of those security files. Probably not, he decided. He had never done anything to merit international attention. He also wondered how the deacons wore this damn outfit in the field. Maybe they were like the flagellants he had once heard about, the ancient Catholics who scourged themselves as a form of penance.

  As if being a man or woman of principle was not punishment enough, Seronga thought. Whether one was Catholic or Vodun, a patriot or a rebel, a hunter or a conservationist, to do what you believed was right, against all reason, was a terrible burden. Seronga wondered, in passing, if the bishop was a man like that. Would he go passively like Father Bradbury, or would he struggle? There was another what if, another imponderable.

  Seronga and Pavant reached the front of the control tower. The two men entered the packed terminal. They headed toward the airstrip doorway. As they made their way through the crowd, Seronga turned sideways to sidle through two large groups. In fact, he wanted to see if the Spaniards had entered the terminal. They had. They were only a few steps behind him. Seronga wondered, suddenly, if the bishop knew the soldiers were here. Not that it mattered. Whatever it took, Seronga was determined to accomplish his mission.

  The bishop was just making his way inside. He smiled and waved again when he saw Seronga. As the clergyman crossed the threshold, the security officer suddenly turned toward him. The guard’s pistol was drawn. He put it against the back of the clergyman’s neck.

  An instant later, he fired.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:07 P.M.

  Seronga watched helplessly as Bishop Max died.

  The clergyman’s head jerked back, even as his body was propelled forward. The first thing that died were his eyes. Seronga could see the light go out of them. A moment later, the bishop fell facedown on the tile floor. Blood ran with ugly speed from a hole at the base of his skull. The guard’s pistol had been so close that its flash had blackened the flesh around the wound.

  In an instant, the terminal became a madhouse.

  People have the same reaction when anything dramatically unexpected occurs. There is a moment of paralysis after the fact. If the danger passes, such as a car accident or an explosion, people tend to resuscitate slowly. The mind tells them there is no longer a risk. It gives them a long moment to process the situation, to adjust to the disorientation. If the danger persists, such as a fire, flood, or storm, the mind steps aside. It recognizes the danger and allows instinct to override the shock. People are free to seek a safe haven. The only ones who routinely suppress both instincts are professional bodyguards, such as members of the Secret Service. At the first sign of trouble, they are trained to launch themselves between the problem and the desired effect.

  Gunfire is not like a bomb blast or car crash. It usually comes in a stream. When the airport guard fired his pistol, self-preservation took control of most of the people in the terminal. They cried, they shouted, and they ran. There were three exceptions.

  One exception was the guard himself. After firing the single shot into Bishop Max, the big man turned and ran onto the airstrip. That told Seronga two things. It told him that the guard was an inexperienced assassin. It would have taken only a moment to put two or three more bullets into the body. People had been known to survive a single head wound. Additional shots would have made sure that the bishop was dead. The single shot also told him that it did not matter if the clergyman actually died, only that he was violently assaulted. Otherwise, a professional would have been engaged to do the job.

  The small plane that had been preparing for takeoff was taxiing toward the terminal. The guard was running to meet it. The door on the passenger’s side was open.

  The second person who did not need time to recover was Leon Seronga. He had been lucky. The gunman became the focus of his attention. That kept Seronga from going into a traumatic pause. Within an instant of the bishop having struck the floor, Seronga was running after the guard.

  Seronga did not know exactly why he ran. He himself could be shot and killed. He knew that his cover as a deacon would almost certainly be undermined. But he had to try to catch the gunman. Not simply for justice. It was more personal. Someone had prevented the Brush Viper from completing the mission he had been sent to do. Seronga had to know why. He also had to try to find out who wanted the American bishop dead.

  Seronga pushed the panicked passengers aside as he rushed past. He reached the tarmac as the guard made his way to the oncoming Cessna. There was a man in the wildlife observation tower. He did not have a clear shot at the plane or the guard. The larger aircraft was in the way. Seronga noted the identification number on the rear end of the fuselage. Not that he really thought it would help him. The plane would fly low to avoid radar. It would land in a field, and someone would probably hide it. Repaint it. Seronga would never see a plane with this number again.

  The guard glanced over his shoulder. He could not have heard Seronga’s footsteps over the howl of the airplane engine. It was probably just a precautionary glance. The guard did not stop when he saw the oncoming Brush Viper. He simply pointed his pistol over his left shoulder and fired several quick, wild shots behind him.

  Seronga dropped to the tarmac. He lifted his body slightly and thrust his hand
down the front of his loose-fitting shirt. Reluctantly, he drew his weapon. Seronga could not afford to die here. The authorities would find out who he really was. They might tie the Brush Vipers to Dhamballa. That would hurt the Vodun cause. If the Spaniards asked, Seronga would tell them that he carried the weapon to protect himself from wild animals. Perhaps they would believe him. Not that it mattered. He would not be going back to the church.

  The guard turned back toward the plane. Seronga got up. As he rose, he heard a muted pop-pop from the cabin of the Cessna. The guard slowed, and then his right leg folded. A moment later, he dropped to his knees. The back of his white shirt began to show a red stain.

  No! Seronga screamed inside.

  Of course a nonprofessional was hired to kill the bishop. Whoever was behind this never intended for him to leave.

  Seronga began to run to the plane. An instant later, there was another pop. The guard twisted to the right and fell to his side. There was a red blotch in the center of his forehead. The pilot was a professional. He had not been satisfied with a single bullet.

  Puffs of dirty white gunsmoke drifted from inside the cabin of the Cessna. They were quickly dispersed by the propeller. The pilot tossed his revolver onto the empty passenger’s seat and leaned toward the door. He pulled it shut. Seronga did not get a good look at the man. Earlier, he had only seen the man from behind, which was obviously what the pilot had intended.

  The airplane swung toward the airstrip. The Cessna was picking up speed. Once it had lifted off, he did not want to fire. It was a tough shot. But if he happened to disable the pilot or the plane, the Cessna could easily tumble toward the tower.

  Seronga reached the body of the guard. He dropped beside it and felt for a pulse. He was not surprised to find none. The man had been shot in the heart and the head. The dead man’s eyes were open. Seronga passed his hand over the guard’s face to close them.

  Pavant ran up behind Seronga. He helped his fellow Brush Viper up.

  “Are you all right?” Pavant asked.

  Seronga nodded. He quickly put his gun back in its holster.

  “We’ve got to get away from here,” Pavant told him. “There will be questions we cannot answer.”

  “I know,” Seronga replied. His left hand was covered with blood from the guard’s face. He tore open his shirt and wiped the blood on his arm.

  “What are you doing?” Pavant asked.

  “We’ll tell people I was hurt and that you have to get me to the doctor in Maun,” Seronga said.

  “That’s a good idea,” Pavant said.

  Pavant put his arm around the “wounded man” for support. They turned and started hobbling toward the terminal. Sergeant Vicente Diamante and Captain Antonio Abreo were running toward them. Both of the soldiers were holding their M-82s. The weapons were clutched close to their chests, concealed from the people in the terminal.

  “What happened?” Diamante asked as they neared.

  “The guard shot at me,” Seronga said. “He grazed my arm.” Diamante stopped in front of Seronga and Pavant. Captain Abrero continued on toward the body of the guard.

  “Let me see the wound,” Diamante insisted. He reached for Seronga’s bare and bloodied arm.

  The Brush Viper twisted his body slightly. “It is not serious,” Seronga assured him.

  “It is badly grazed, that is all,” Pavant added. “We will take a taxi to the hospital. I will bandage it on the way.”

  “Are you certain?” Diamante asked. His eyes shifted toward his partner as the captain reached the body.

  “Yes,” Seronga replied. “Sergeant, tell me. How is the bishop?”

  Despite the fact that he wanted to get away, Seronga felt that was a question the deacon would have asked.

  “The wound was mortal,” the sergeant replied. “I’m sorry. We tried to position ourselves as close as possible—”

  “I saw what you were trying to do,” Seronga interrupted. “There was nothing you could have done to prevent this.”

  “Let’s go, Seronga,” Pavant said.

  They began walking back toward the terminal. Diamante walked backward, alongside them.

  “One more thing, Deacon,” Diamante said. “Did you happen to get a look at the pilot or notice the serial number of the aircraft?”

  “I’m sorry, I did not,” Seronga replied. “After the guard fired at me, I covered my head. Forgive me.”

  “That’s entirely understandable,” Diamante said.

  The sergeant headed off to join his partner. The men continued toward the terminal. Suddenly, Diamante stopped and turned.

  “Señor deacon!” the sergeant yelled.

  “Yes?” Seronga said.

  “The tour director told me your name was Tobias,” Diamante shouted after him.

  “It is,” Seronga said. What had they done wrong? Something inside his belly began to burn.

  “The deacon just called you ‘Seronga,’ ” the Spaniard said.

  Seronga felt Pavant’s fingers dig into his side. Neither man had caught the slipup.

  “You are mistaken,” the Brush Viper replied. “He said ‘lion.’ That is my nickname.”

  “I see,” Diamante said. “I’m sorry. Esté bien, be well,” he added. “I will see you later at the church.”

  Seronga and Pavant continued toward the terminal. He was glad Diamante had been distracted enough to believe that and not to notice that part of his shoulder holster was visible through his torn shirt. He pulled the ripped fabric higher to cover it up.

  “I’m very sorry for what happened out there,” Pavant muttered as they reached the door. “That was very careless of me.”

  “Now we’ve all apologized for something,” Seronga said. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  The body of the dead bishop had been covered with a large shawl. The thick weave was soaking up the dead man’s blood. It was the white and black zigzag pattern of the Kava tribe of northeastern Botswana. The tribe members were mostly Vodun.

  No one in the terminal was the same person they had been just a few minutes before. They would never be the same. They would be unable to forget the moment, the shock, the sights, smells, noises.

  People were either subdued or animated. Strangers had become instantly bonded by the tragedy. Some were frightened, others relieved. A few people were talking. Others were standing around, quiet and unmoving. Some were tearfully hugging new arrivals. Still others were trying to get a look at the body. The short, lanky ticket agent was doing his best to keep people away. The statuesque woman from the refreshment stand was helping. A Spanish soldier asked if he could help Seronga, but the Brush Viper insisted he was all right. He had only been grazed. Seronga and Pavant were able to slip through the terminal without being stopped.

  But they were noticed.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:18 P.M.

  A third person had moved when the guard fired at the bishop.

  It was Maria Corneja.

  The woman had left Paris Lebbard sitting at the curb in his taxi while she went into the terminal. She saw the shooting. It was done in close quarters with eyewitnesses who could have ID’ed the killer. An amateur. She saw the deacon run onto the airfield, pursued by two swarthy men. All three men moved like soldiers. She did not need a cast list to know who everyone was.

  Maria followed the Spaniards toward the tarmac. The plane was airborne before she could reach the field. Instead of continuing outside, she doubled back to the cab. She grabbed her camera and snapped several digital pictures of the airplane in flight.

  Lebbard had jumped from the cab when he heard the shots. He ran toward Maria.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “A passenger was shot,” she said. “Go back to your taxi. You’ll be safer there.”

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” she told him. “Just go!”

  Paris did as she commanded. Meanwhile, Maria waited. She listened
to random pieces of conversation. The assassin was the airport security guard. Maria was not surprised to hear that he had been gunned down. If he had not been shot on the tarmac, she had half expected to see his body fall from the airplane. He was not only expendable, he was a liability. When the local authorities checked, Maria was sure they would find a bank box stuffed with cash. It would probably be American currency. A down payment for murder. The woman did not know local law, but she was willing to bet the money would be confiscated by investigators. And, in time, the cash would find its way into other bank boxes.

  Maria stood beside the front door. She watched as the deacons emerged from the terminal. She noticed two things at once. First, the man with blood on his arm was only pretending to be wounded. Maria had seen people who had been shot. A gunshot wound was body wide. It could be seen in the victim’s posture, in his expression. It was reflected in the concern of others. This man’s pain stopped short of his eyes. And his companion was not doing much to support him. He seemed more anxious to get out of the terminal than anything else. Second, the way the man was leaning, there appeared to be a bulge under his left arm. That was where a holster would be for a right-handed man.

  Maria walked alongside them as they headed toward the curb. She coughed to get the man’s attention. He glanced over. It was the same face from the photographs she had seen.

  It was Leon Seronga.

  Maria headed back to the cab. She watched as Seronga and his partner got into a taxi. Then she got into her own cab.

  “Paris, do you see the white car at the front of the line?” she asked.

  “Yes, that is Emanuel’s car,” he said.

  “I want you to follow it,” she said.

  “Follow it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Maria said. “Keep a car or two between you, if possible.”

  “We may not encounter any other cars on the road,” Paris pointed out.

  “Then keep a two-car distance,” she said. “I don’t want it to seem as if you are following it.”