Dhamballa did not respond. He stood still, glaring impatiently at Father Bradbury.
"Your Eminence, my freedom is not why I've called," said the priest. "I have been asked to tell you something."
"All right," the archbishop said. "I'm listening."
"My hosts insist that they were not responsible for the death of the American archbishop," Father Bradbury said.
"Do you believe them?" the archbishop asked.
"I have no reason to doubt what they have told me," Father Bradbury replied.
"Do you have reason to believe them?" the archbishop pressed.
The priest regarded the dark-eyed Vodun leader. "They have fed me and given me shelter and water," Father Bradbury said. "They do not seem to want blood upon their faith."
"I see," said Archbishop Patrick. "If they are good men, as you say, then when may we expect your safe return?"
The priest was still looking into Dhamballa's eyes. There was no hope, no answer to be found in them.
"Soon, I pray," the clergyman replied.
Dhamballa took the handset from Father Bradbury. He hung it up.
"Thank you," Dhamballa said. But the hardness in the Vodun leader's eyes was unchanged.
"Good," the European said. "Since that is done, I'm going out to see about the preparations."
The French-sounding man left. Father Bradbury turned away from Dhamballa. The priest leaned on the table, his
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shoulders slumping. He shook his head sadly. After a moment, he slipped his hands into his pockets and turned back. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but firm.
"Please," Father Bradbury said. "I do not know what you're planning. I do not want to know. But I recognize fear, Dhamballa."
The Vodun leader said nothing.
"You're afraid, and so is your friend," the priest said as he cocked his head toward the departing European. "Talk to me. Not as a prisoner but as a friend," he implored.
"As a confessor?" Dhamballa asked.
"If you like."
"I do not like," Dhamballa replied.
"Dhamballa, I don't care what your plans are for me," the priest said. "But I am worried about your followers. They are my countrymen, too, and I care very much about them."
"If you care about Botswana, then make no trouble for me," Dhamballa replied.
"I've tried to be cooperative, have I not?" the priest asked.
"As the termite who looks out from your wall and says, 'But I did not eat your table,' " the Vodun leader replied. "Sabot, Alfred!"
"Don't you understand?" Father Bradbury said. "More can be accomplished through talk than through fighting. Don't force a confrontation you cannot win."
The soldiers came back into the room. They awaited instructions. Dhamballa looked at Father Bradbury.
"We are the ones being forced," Dhamballa told the priest. "We've been forced from our roots and now we've been forced from a measured, peaceful plan. At the moment, Father, we have nothing to lose."
Dhamballa told the soldiers to take the priest back to his shack. Then he left the hut.
Father Bradbury sighed as the men took hold of his arms. He did not struggle as they led him out. The sun had gone down. The men moved the priest quickly across through the thickly shadowed twilight. Activity around the island, seemed more intense than it had a few minutes before. Perhaps that
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was because everything was now being done by lantern light. Battery-powered lanterns were suspended from tree limbs and hooks on the hut walls. Each soldier had a brilliant glow around his station. Their open jackets fluttered lightly in the gentle air that rolled in from the swamp.
The angels of Vodun at work, Father Bradbury thought.
The priest was returned to the shack. Once again, his left ankle was chained to the cot. Father Bradbury remained standing as the men left. They locked the door behind them. The priest listened. When he was sure they had gone, he reached into his pocket.
Father Bradbury had counted the footsteps from Dhamballa's hut to his own. By his measure, it was about two hundred steps. That was about fifty yards. It might be too far.
The priest reached into his deep pocket. He would know in just a few seconds. He had to act quickly if he was going to prevent a disaster from befalling these people. The darkness in the hut had shielded his actions. But it would not be very long before Dhamballa noticed what Father Bradbury had done.
Leaning close to the light of his own lantern, Father Bradbury looked down at the telephone receiver. The priest had placed his hand on the cordless unit when he turned his back to Dhamballa. It had been easy to step close then and conceal the fact that he was slipping it into his pocket.
Now he put it to his ear. He was not too far from the receiver. There was a dial tone.
His heart pumped blood to his brain and made his senses hyperalert. Even his fingers seemed more alive than before as he hit Redial and pressed the phone to his ear.
The irony of what he was doing did not escape him. The soldiers had seemed like angels to him. Now he was a tactician, a de facto warrior. Father Bradbury did not even recognize his own somber voice as he spoke to the archdiocese secretary and asked to be put through to Archbishop Patrick.
A moment later, the priest's feet were set on a path from which there was no turning back. He prayed it was the right one.
FORTY-ONE
Gaborone, Botswana Friday, 4:40 P.M.
As the South African Airways 747 was making its final descent into Gaborone, the chief flight attendant went to the front of the cabin. He announced gates for connecting flights. If passengers were bound for Cape Town in South Africa or Antananarivo in Madagascar, their flights would be departing on time. If they were headed to Maun, there was an indefinite delay.
As the flight attendant made his way back to the galley, Aideen stopped him.
She asked what the problem was in Maun.
"The airfield has been closed," the middle-aged attendant informed her.
"What's the problem?" Aideen asked.
"They did not tell us," the attendant replied.
"We've got family waiting for us," Aideen lied.
"I'm sure an announcement will be made at the terminal," the attendant said. Smiling politely, he excused himself.
Aideen glanced over at Battat. His mouth twisted unhappily.
"Maybe they've got some kind of animal infestation up there," Battat suggested. "Migrating storks or gazelles or an insect swarm. Something that will pass quickly."
"I'm pretty good at interpreting airport-speak," she said. "This was the kind of announcement they make when there's an ongoing situation like a fire or a bomb threat. I was also watching the flight attendant. I really don't think he knows why there is a delay."
"But he would know if it were weather- or animal-related," Battat said.
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"Exactly," Aideen replied.
Ten minutes after the jet touched down, Aideen was standing outside the gate in the big, open terminal. She accessed her cell phone voice mail. There was a message from Mike Rodgers. He had left Aideen the access code to the generalpurpose voice mail box at Op-Center. Obviously, General Rodgers had not wanted to leave information on the automated answering system of her cell phone. If someone else accidentally entered her code, they would be able to get the information. That could compromise security.
The message told Aideen why the Maun airport had been shut down. It also instructed her to get to the village as soon as possible. Maria Corneja was chasing a pair of Brush Vipers with no backup. Rodgers's message included Maria's cell phone number.
Aideen put the cell phone away. She quickly briefed Battat. There were security officers by the gate and along the corridors. Aideen did not want to act suspiciously. Since one airport was attacked, she assumed that others would be on heightened alert. She pointed at overhead signs while she
and Battat spoke, acting as if they were discussing which way to go.
Battat did not seem surprised by the killing. Aideen asked him why.
"There seems to be a lot more to this situation than what we've been told," Battat said.
"In what way?" Aideen asked.
"The Belgians, the Chinese, the Japanese, the Vatican, us," Battat said. "There are too many people interested in a very small battleground. It's like Vietnam."
"A stage for superpowers," she said.
"That would be my guess," he remarked.
"Why?" she asked.
"I'm not sure," he replied, "but I'll bet Dhamballa or people close to him have some of those answers."
Aideen told Battat to go ahead and rent them a car. They only had carry-on luggage. She said that she would take the wheeled bags through customs and meet Battat in front of the airport.
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The young woman pulled the two bags through the modern, air-conditioned terminal. She was edgy, unsettled, but she did not know why. It was more than just the dangerous business at hand. There was something about the environment that bothered her.
She looked around.
For one thing, she had noticed a sharpness about the security personnel that she had not seen in her travels through the United States or Europe. Their posture was perfect, and their uniforms were crisp and immaculate. They were alert, yet their expressions were calm, almost spiritual. She had read in the Op-Center files that Botswana was like the Middle East. Church and state were not separate. Religion was an integral part of the national, political, and individual character.
That was an alien concept to the young woman. And it created a subtle, unpleasant disconnect. Aideen did not even believe in her own Protestant faith. Not because she did not want to. She had never trusted anything that could not be sensed or measured. She realized that she did not know how to deal with these people. That scared her.
The gates fed into a narrower corridor that took passengers to customs. As Aideen entered the hallway, a flash of light caused her to turn to her right, to the west. As she walked, she looked out the large, double-pane picture windows. The view was epic. The bottom half of the sun rippled as it neared the absolutely straight horizon. Aideen had never seen the sun so large or so crimson. Ahead, to the north, were sharp-edged mountains. They were blue gray and featureless except where the setting sun struck snow-topped peaks. For just a moment, the amber rays sparked and danced off one cliff, then another. It was like a distant cascade of flame.
A bloodred sun and a mountain of fire, Aideen thought. If she were spiritual, if she were superstitious, those would be troublesome omens.
Aideen rounded another corner and found herself in the luggage claim area. Beyond the three crowded carousals was the customs area. It was already jammed with people who had
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brought only carry-on luggage. Aideen looked for Battat and did not see him.
Good, she thought. He was able to get through before the crowd hit. They would be on their way to Maun shortly.
Aideen crossed the baggage area and entered the customs hall. She selected one of the four lines and stood in it. It was a dramatic change from the quiet of the plane and the open terminal.
Strange languages assaulted her. The sights were both familiar and new. There was American-style clothing from suits to T-shirts as well as bright, traditional African attire. There was movement everywhere. People fanned themselves with ticket folders and open hands. Children ran tight circles around their mothers as if they were maypoles. On the other side of the customs counters, vendors sold newspaper, candy, and beverages from small pushcarts.
As she waited, Aideen was surprised to find her confidence returning. Then she realized why. Despite the new sights and sounds, she was back in a world she understood, a world like the one she left behind.
A world of organized chaos.
FORTY-TWO
Maun, Botswana Friday, 5:22 P.M.
The streets were darkening quickly as the rattling taxi arrived in Maun. Leon Seronga was glad it was dark. Only the main road had streetlights. Neither Njo Finn nor his truck would be visible to casual passersby. Finn had said he would park on a narrow side street near the town's movie theater. The doors did not open until six-thirty. No one would be there now. After six-thirty, Finn would have moved to the soccer field at the north end of the town. Only a few people were out there at night, kicking a ball by flashlight or lantern. There was a small picnic area where Finn could have parked and waited, unseen.
Seronga had not wanted to go to the soccer field. If he did, others might see what he was going to do.
The Brush Viper had the taxi driver drop them in the square at the center of town. The shops were winding down their activities. Buses were growling down the main thoroughfare. The newer green buses were carrying tourists back to Gaborone. The older ones, lopsided and rusty with patchwork paint jobs, were bringing villagers back to remote areas of the floodplain.
The old Maun theater was across the street. Seronga saw Finn's truck parked in the shadows.
"Are you certain you will not need me for anything else, Eminences?" the driver asked.
"I am certain," Seronga said. The Brush Viper walked around to the window and paid the man. The fare-was seventy pulas, the equivalent of twenty'Seven American dollars. Se-
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ronga gave the driver twenty-five pulas above the amount on the meter.
The driver looked up. He smiled widely. "Thank you, Eminence. You are very generous."
Despite the pressure of the moment, Leon Seronga took a long look at the man's face. He looked at flesh baked by years of heat. At eyes bloodshot from long hours and a long, hard life. But what a magnificent face it was. The face of a man, a pillar of this nation, of their race. These were the people that the Brush Vipers were fighting for. Hardworking Botswanans.
"You deserve this and more," Seronga replied warmly.
The taxi pulled away. Leon Seronga stepped onto the sidewalk and joined Pavant. The other Brush Viper was standing behind a telephone booth, away from the lights of the taxi. He was scowling as he watched for the taxi with the Spanish passenger.
"It's coming," Pavant said.
Seronga stood beside him. They looked down the two-lane road. There were a few bicyclists. They were probably local workers on their way home. There were virtually no cars left on the road. The taxi was approaching slowly. Its identification number glowed red in the plastic display on top of the vehicle.
"I want you to do something," Seronga said. "Cross the street in front of the taxi. Act as if you're in a hurry, but make sure they get a good look at you in the headlights."
"And then?" Pavant asked.
"Go to the alley and wait behind the truck with Finn," Seronga said. "I'll stay here. If the woman follows you, I'll come in after. If I don't think she's coming in, I'll join you in a few minutes."
"Do we want a hostage or a casualty?" Pavant asked.
The question was asked casually, but it was not a casual question. Seronga considered their options. A woman's life was at stake. But Seronga also had to consider the future of Botswana.
"If she enters the alley, do what it takes to silence her and get us out of here," Seronga told him.
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"What if she decides to stay in the taxi and follow us?" Pavant asked.
"Then we'll wait until we're outside of town and take them," Seronga said. "I don't think she'll do that, though."
"Why?" Pavant asked.
"Right now, the woman does not know that we're aware of her," Seronga replied. "She does not know about the truck. She has to try to find out why we're here."
Pavant nodded in agreement. He waited until the taxi was a little closer. Then he walked briskly into the street. The taxi stopped as he crossed. Pavant turned toward the driver. The
Brush Viper's face was clearly illuminated by the headlights as he passed.
Meanwhile, Seronga had stepped away from the battered old phone booth. He stood in the recessed doorway of a bakery that had closed for the night. The taxi slowed some fifty meters ahead. It pulled to the curb on the same side of the street as the movie theater. A woman got out. She spoke with the driver for a moment. Then she strolled back toward the theater. The taxi left. The woman went past the movie theater for about thirty meters. Then she turned and walked back.
Seronga was anxious to get going. He lowered himself to his left knee. He withdrew the nine-inch hunting knife from its leather sheath on his right shin. He shielded the exposed blade with his left hand. Seronga did not want to risk it glinting in a streetlamp or passing headlights. He rose slowly and held the knife behind him. He watched to see what the woman did.
She passed the movie theater again. This time, she looked across the street. Seronga did not care whether she saw that someone was there. What mattered was that she not see him clearly. The woman would have to come to Seronga to find out whether he was a deacon, whether he was with the other man. Fighting a defensive battle was easier than fighting an offensive one. The attacker always led with strength. Once that strength was exposed, weaknesses were also revealed. That was where the defender struck.
The woman passed below a streetlight. This^was the first time Seronga saw her face. She looked to be in her mid-
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thirties. She did not appear to be anxious. She also did not appear to have any backup. Perhaps the woman did not expect to find trouble here.
Or maybe she's smarter than I gave her credit for, Seronga thought.
The woman stopped and looked at the handwritten card propped in the box-office window. She glanced at her watch. She was acting as if she were waiting for someone to show up.
To take her to a movie, Seronga realized.
The woman had only seen one deacon. She must have seen both of them in the taxi. Maybe she was waiting for the second to arrive. Or maybe she was going to wait until people began arriving for the film before she went into the alley.
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 09 - Mission of Honor Page 27
