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 fin4 none. The man had been shot in the heart and the head. The dead man's
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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.
"Senor 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. Este Men, 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 ^vith a large
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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 goT
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 fait from the airplane. He was not only expendable, he was a liability. When
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the local authorities checked, Maria was sure they w
ould 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."
"I see," he said. "What about the person you came here to meet?"
"He's in that cab," she said.
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"You mean the bleeding man?" Paris asked.
"Yes."
"And you don't want him to know you are here?" Paris asked.
"That's right. And I don't think he was really hurt," Maria added.
"I am puzzled," Paris said. "You came to meet someone who you don't want to meet. And now you think he isn't hurt even though he is bleeding."
"Please just drive, Paris," Maria said. "It will be easier on both of us."
"Of course," Paris said. "I will do whatever you ask." He sat tall. He gripped the steering wheel tightly. He was trying to regain some of the professional dignity his questions and confusion had cost him.
Seronga's car pulled onto the road. A moment later, so did the taxicab of Paris Lebbard.
"You know, I can always call and ask where they are going," Lebbard said helpfully. He held up his cell phone.
"If you do that, and Emanuel answers, it may be the last thing he says," Maria informed him.
"I see," the Botswanan said. He fell silent and slouched slightly. His dignity had vanished again.
As for Maria, she felt vindicated. And fired up. She wished that she were driving the car herself. Or better yet, she wished she was on her motorcycle. Or on horseback. Doing something where she was able to move. Burn off some of her energy.
For the moment, though, Maria would have to contain herself and do something that would give her deep satisfaction of a different sort.
She had to call Op-Center with an update.
THIRTY-SIX
Washington, D.C. Friday, 8:40 A.M.
Since the Striker debacle in Kashmir, Mike Rodgers had not spoken very often with Colonel Brett August. When the two men did chat, it was over the telephone or on-line. It was never in person. They simply did not want to look into each other's eyes. They never said that was the reason. They did not have to. They knew each other too long and too well.
And they never mentioned the death of nearly everyone in the unit. The risk of death came with the uniform. The ultimate responsibility for those deaths came with the stripes. There was no official blame. Officially, there was no mission. There was just guilt. Though the two men had to look ahead, the loss still hurt. It hurt them every moment they were not busy. They both knew it would hurt until they could no longer feel a damn thing.
Ironically, by avoiding the subject, each man had to think about it more. He had to consider what to say, what not to say. That served to reinforce the loss and sense of failure both August and Rodgers were feeling. They each took the hit because they did not want to inflict it on the other.
Colonel August had accepted a temporary transfer to the Pentagon. He was stationed in Basement Level Two for SATKA. That was the multiservice department of Surveillance, Acquisition, Tracking, and Kill Assessment. August worked as a liaison between the Pentagon and his former coworkers at NATO. He studied data that came from potential combat regions and helped to determine the force necessary to contain the struggle or crush it. The desirability of such a response was left to his superiors. It was not an assignment Au-
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gust would have selected for himself. But he had run an unauthorized covert operation in Kashmir. Even though he prevented a nuclear war between India and Pakistan, someone had to take the fall for exceeding mission parameters. The Pentagon picked him. It could just as easily have been Rodgers.
August knew he could have turned this assignment down. He could have requested a transfer back to NATO. But implicit in the Pentagon position was a promise. If Colonel August stayed off the radar for at least half a year, there would not be a military or congressional investigation into his actions in Kashmir. Members of all the elite forces took exceptional risks in their work. They were not only the first ones into enemy territory. Sometimes they were the only ones into a region like Iran or Cuba. Groups like Striker conducted recon, sabotage, search and rescue, and ran surgical strikes. The military could not afford to undermine their morale. Away from the attention of the media, the so-called "centurion line" looked after their own.
Being hidden in an underground data processing center was absolutely not August's favorite place to be. That was why he had called Mike Rodgers. Not to complain but to stay connected. To talk to someone in a place where things were not simply discussed. They happened. August knew that his lifelong friend would understand.
The men chatted about their work and about people they both knew. August told him that he had bumped into Colonel Anna Vasseri, who worked on the president's Intelligence Oversight Board. Years before, in Vietnam, August had gotten himself an unofficial reprimand for writing new lyrics to the old standard, "The Anniversary Waltz." He called his version "The Anna Vasseri Waltz." Then-Private Vasseri wrote for Stars and Stripes at the time. The lyrics speculated about what happened during a night she had spent just outside Saigon with another private who worked on the newspaper. A storm and flash flood had stranded them on top of a small hill. When they were rescued the next morning, all they had with them were the blankets and bottle of Jack Daniel's they^ had taken out with them.
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"Has she forgiven you?" Rodgers asked.
"No," August replied. "Which doesn't surprise me. From the look of her, that was probably the last time her uniform was off. What the hell was the name of that cat mummy we saw in the British Museum?"
"Bast," Rodgers replied. He did not know where the hell in his memory the name was stored, but there it was.
"Right," August said. "Bast. Well, this woman is wrapped as tight as that cat mummy."
Rodgers whistled when he heard that. It was good to look back at happier times. And at mistakes that did not cost so damn much.
Rodgers also talked a little about the team he was putting together. He did not tell August he had already put three members in the field. August would not have approved of that. Experienced lone wolves could be more dangerous to each other than inexperienced team players. But circumstances did not always give a leader the luxury of choice. With the help of the operatives themselves, Rodgers and Paul Hood had made that choice.
The
conversation was interrupted by a call from the outside. Rodgers told August he would be in touch later in the week. Maybe they would get together for dinner. It was long overdue.
Rodgers punched the button to switch phone lines. "General Rodgers," he said.
"General, it's Maria," the woman said. She did not use her last name because she was calling on a nonsecure phone line. "The American bishop was just assassinated."
"How did it happen?" Rodgers asked.
The general fought his first, involuntary reaction. The one that went back to stories his grandfather used to tell about jinxed platoons during World War I. Units where the new lieutenant or the guy about to be mustered out or the sergeant who just had a kid always died. Rodgers refused to believe that Op-Center was cursed.
"It was right after the plane landed," she said. "The airport guard shot the bishop in the back of the head as he entered
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the terminal. A Cessna taxied over, and the killer ran toward it. Then the pilot opened the door and shot him. The guard died on the tarmac, and the plane took off. I managed to take a few digital photos of the tail markings."
"Can you download them?" Rodgers asked.
"As soon as I can get to a computer," Maria told him. "I'm in a taxi right now."
"Was anyone else hurt?" Rodgers asked.
"No," she said. "Most of the people in the terminal ducked behind chairs and counters. That's how I was able to see what happened next."
"Which was?" Rodgers asked.
"There were two deacons waiting for the bishop. They ran onto the field to try to stop the killer. One of the deacons had a gun."
"Was he one of the Spanish representatives?" Rodgers asked.
"No," she replied. "Both deacons were black men."
Rodgers had seen the file on the Grupo del Cuartel General, Unidad Especial del Despliegue. None of the soldiers was black.
"I'm almost certain one of them was the man whose photograph was in the file," Maria added.
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