Mission of Honor

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Leon Seronga and Donald Pavant woke with the sun. By eight, they had been up for nearly three hours and were anxious to catch the bus to Maun. Seronga did not like sitting still.

He also did not enjoy impersonating a deacon. Seronga knew they could not simply assume the identities of Deacons Jones and Canon while they were here. The director of the center had certainly met them. What was more, the director had seen Seronga when he came for Father Bradbury. The man had seen him from a distance, but he still might recognize him. Seronga came up with a cover story in case they needed it. He hoped, instead, that he and Pavant could simply remain out of sight until the bus arrived.

It was not to be.

Nearly a dozen of the tourists went to the church that morning. Though the door was unlocked, no candles had been lit. No clergyman was in attendance. Shortly after eight A. M., the center's director, Tswana Ndebele, went to the deacons' residential quarters. Donald Pavant opened the door. He stepped through the doorway onto the veranda.

The creases of Ndebele's sun-baked skin deepened with surprise. "Who are you?"

"Deacon Tobias Comden of the Cathedral of All Saints," he replied. "And you are-?"

"Tswana Ndebele, the director of the center here," Ndebele replied. He was guarded, suspicious.

"I am happy to make your acquaintance," PavagJ said pleasantly. He bowed slightly. He did not want to offer his hand.

His skin was rough and calloused. They were not the hands of a missionary.

Ndebele pulled on his curly white beard. "The Cathedral of All Saints," he said. "I am not familiar with that church."

"It is a very small church in Zambia," Pavant replied. The soldier did not specify where the mythical church was located. If Ndebele decided to look it up, he would have a lot of ground to cover. "We came in during the night."

"We?" Ndebele asked.

"Deacon Withal and myself," Pavant said. The soldier stepped aside so the tour director could see into the room.

Ndebele leaned forward. He peered into the darkness.

Seronga was curled on the bed. His back was facing the door. Tucked in the waistband of his vestments was a Walther PPK with a silencer. It was there in the event that Tswana Ndebele came over to the bed for a chat and recognized him from the abduction.

Accustomed to the brilliant morning light, the tour director could not make out details inside the quarters. After a moment, he stood back.

"How did you gentlemen get here, Deacon?" Ndebele asked.

"We came by Jeep," Pavant informed him. "Deacon Withal did most of the driving. That's why he is still sleeping. We got in very late."

"I did not see a Jeep," Ndebele said. His mouth twisted suspiciously at one end.

"Deacon Jones and Deacon Canon took it shortly after we arrived," Pavant replied.

Ndebele reacted with open surprise. "They left in the dark to drive to Maun? They know better than that. There are no roads, no lights."

Lying on the bed, Seronga felt his heart speeding up. This was not going well. He hoped that he would have a clear shot at the tour director. The last thing they wanted was for him to go away unconvinced.

"The deacons said they knew the way," Pavant told him. "It was felt that two sets of deacons should go to meet the bishop.

The kidnappers might still be watching. We will take the tour bus."

Seronga waited. He listened closely. Lying there, pretending to sleep, was one of the most difficult things Seronga had ever done. There was nothing so frustrating as having one's fate in the hands of another.

After a long moment, Ndebele nodded. "Well, that is probably a good idea," he said.

Seronga relaxed. There was conviction in the tour director's voice.

"Forgive all of the questions," Ndebele went on. He sounded a little ashamed now. "We have all been as anxious as zebras since Father Bradbury was taken away. We jump at any unfamiliar noise or a change in routine."

"I understand completely," Pavant replied. "Now, was there something you needed?"

"Deacon, I came back here because some of our guests wanted to light candles," Ndebele said. "I wanted to find out if that would be all right."

"Of course," Pavant replied.

"Father Bradbury usually lit the first ones each morning," Ndebele said. "Not being Catholic, I didn't know if that's the way it has to be."

"It will be all right if they do it," Pavant replied. "Unfortunately, I cannot join them. We were instructed to remain as invisible as possible. If the kidnappers are watching, we do not want them to move against us."

"Of course not," Ndebele replied. "Though two of them did ask if they might be able to meet with you privately."

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Pavant replied.

"I understand. I will tell them," Ndebele said. "They are Spanish and very devout. I will ask them not to bother you on the bus, either. Maybe I will tell them that you only speak Bantu."

"If you like." Pavant smiled. "I appreciate your help."

"I will do anything to help the church of Father Bradbury," Ndebele said. ^

The director left, and Pavant shut the door. Seronga turned around. The Brush Viper commander sat on the edge of the bed. Pavant walked toward him. His easy manner and benevolent expression both vanished.

"I'm proud of you," Seronga said. "You handled that situation like a true diplomat."

"How would you know?" Pavant asked.

"I did not have to shoot him," Seronga replied. He removed the gun from his waistband and put it on the bed.

Pavant shook his head. "I hate words. They do not solve things. They only put action off."

"Well, my friend, that was all we needed to do this morning," Seronga pointed out.

"So you say," Pavant said. "All those gentle words about deacons, priests, and the bishop. I made myself sick. We should bring this place down, to finish the threat completely."

"Why spend energy to pull down what will fall on its own?" Seronga asked his partner.

"Because these need to play a role," Pavant said, shaking his fists. "They have been idle while outsiders cut the heart from our people, our nation. My hands need to be active."

"They will be," Seronga said. "To build, not to destroy."

As he spoke, Seronga had gone to his backpack and removed several maps. He unfolded them on the bed. Then he sat down with Pavant to review the route that would take them from Maun back to camp. They had already arranged for one of Dhamballa's followers to meet them at the airstrip.

Donald Pavant was still angry. Seronga could see it in the harsh turn of his partner's brow, in the tense set of his mouth. He could hear it in Pavant's clipped words. Growing up on the floodplain, Seronga had seen all kinds of predators. He had watched insect-eating plants, crocodiles, lions, and hyenas. He had observed aggressors from hounds to bees. None of them had the quality that too many humans possessed: the ability to hate and for that hate to feed the predatory instinct. Even when he had been forced to kill, Seronga had always been motivated by positive forces. The desire to hunt with his father. The hope of seeing Seretse Khama become president. The need to protect his nation's borders.

Some men are driven by dreams, while others run from their nightmares, Seronga thought.

However, Seronga did have one hope: that when the struggle was over, all Botswanans would be united. He prayed that they would be moved by something that had been missing from their lives for too many years. By something greater than animal needs.

By Dhamballa and perhaps the gods themselves.