Mission of Honor

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Upon getting into the taxi, Leon Seronga told the driver to head out along the Nata Road. Seronga told him they would be taking the highway toward the town of Orapa. The driver pulled away from the curb. As he drove, he used his cell phone to call his dispatcher in Maun.

Seronga was oblivious to the driver's conversation. The airconditioning grumbled loudly beneath the dashboard. The muffler hacked under the car. Seronga heard none of that either. His senses had shut down to everything but lingering shock over the assassination. It held him like nothing he had ever experienced. He had seen men killed before, but he had never been caught by surprise like this. And he had never been faced with a greater crisis.

Someone obviously wanted to frame Dhamballa, possibly draw him out to defend himself, Seronga thought. Until this moment, he had not realized how truly vulnerable Dhamballa was. Not necessarily to physical attack but to being undermined. His ministry could end before it had truly begun.

In time, support for the Vodun leader would have grown exponentially. That was when Dhamballa intended to take a very strong public stand on the question of outsiders influencing or controlling Botswanan religion, culture, and industry. But that would not happen for many months. At the moment, Dhamballa was not yet well enough known to become a martyr for the Botswana cause. If he were connected to the attacks against the Church and blamed for the death of the bishop, their cause would be irredeemably lost.

Protecting Dhamballa over the next few htiurs and days was only part of the problem. There was also the matter of finding out who was actually responsible for the killing. In Seronga's mind, anyone from government moles to the Spanish soldiers to the Vatican itself would have had cause to kill the bishop. But whoever was behind it, the result would be the same. National opinion would come down heavily on the side of aggressive action. To show that they were still in control of the nation, the government would be forced to redouble their efforts to find Father Bradbury and crush the Vodunists. The Brush Vipers would have to try to prevent that. They would have to stop the government, find the real perpetrators, and protect Dhamballa.

There was also a separate issue: what to do about Father Bradbury. Releasing the priest would invite prosecution as well as the inevitable return of the missionaries. Their work would be undone and resistance to it strengthened. The priest might just have to disappear the way the two deacon missionaries had.

Dhamballa had always wanted his ministry to be a contest of native esteem and ideas. Not bloodshed. Seronga had hoped that would be possible. His heart told him that peace and tribal allegiances were incompatible, whether they were local tribes or international ones. Still, he had hoped that Dhamballa could unite people in a Vodun Botswana. The nation would be joined out of pride, not economic necessity or the fear of military reprisals.

The old taxi pulled onto the empty, sun-baked highway. As he sped up, the driver regarded the men in the rearview mirror. "May I ask you something, Eminences?" the driver asked.

When Seronga did not answer, Pavant gently nudged him in the side. Seronga looked at his surly companion. Pavant motioned forward with his eyes. Seronga noticed the driver's questioning gaze in the rearview mirror. The man must have asked him something.

"I'm sorry, I did not hear you," Seronga said. "Would you mind saying it again?"

"I said that I would like to ask you something, Eminence!" the driver said loudly.

"Of course," Seronga replied.

"Do you need medical care?" the driver asked.

"Excuse me?"

"A doctor," the driver said. "I only ask because I noticed that there is blood on your sleeve."

"Oh," Seronga said. "Thank you, no."

"If you are hurt, I have a first aid kit in the trunk," the driver went on.

"This isn't my blood," Seronga told him. "A passenger was shot by a guard. I tried to help him."

"A passenger?" the driver said. "Was it serious?"

"He died," Seronga said.

"Ah," the driver said. "I wondered why people ran out. As you can imagine, I could not hear very much inside this car."

"I do not have to imagine," Seronga replied.

"Did you know the victim?" the driver asked.

"I did not," Seronga answered truthfully.

"What a sad world we live in," the driver said. He shook his head and concentrated on his driving.

"How would you make it better?" Seronga asked.

"I do not know," the driver admitted. "Maybe everyone should have children. Then we would want to stop shooting each other. Or maybe we should spend time making children. That would keep us too busy to shoot." He glanced in the mirror. "I am sorry, Eminence. That is something you are not permitted to do. But you are not the one who needs to learn peace."

If he only knew, Seronga thought. The driver returned to driving, and Seronga went back to thinking.

He had been talking to Dhamballa a great deal over the past few weeks, learning about the Vodun faith. It just now struck the Brush Viper that they had experienced the Vodun ideal of veve. A perfect, symmetrical pattern. Death in, death out. The blood of two deacons had allowed Seronga and Pavant to get into the situation. And the blood of the American bishop had given the Brush Vipers an excuse to get away from the airport.

To get away and do what? Seronga asked himself.

That was the real question. The attempt to kidnap the Amerlean clergyman had been a disaster. Neither Seronga nor Dhamballa nor any of their advisers had anticipated this outcome. A kidnapper did not expect an assassin to hit the same target at the same time.

Seronga had never failed before. He did not like the way it felt. It was distinctive by the stillness it radiated. An individual who failed suffered a system-wide internal crash. The skin felt dead. Failure slowed the heartbeat and respiration. The mouth stayed shut, the jaw powerless. The brain sat motionless, unable to get past the event. Nothing moved, nor did it want to.

But the brain has to move, Seronga told himself. There was too much to do. And there would not be time to procrastinate.

Seronga turned back to the side window. He stared out at the flat, sun-washed fields of grass toward the distant mountains. They seemed so far away. Everything did. A half hour before, Seronga had been poised to turn up the pressure on the Church. Now the scenario had changed. Seronga wanted to talk to Dhamballa, but he could not call. They were out of range. Not that it was crucial. Louis Foote monitored radio broadcasts from Gaborone at the Okavanga camp. He would hear about this soon enough and inform Dhamballa. Hopefully, the Belgians would help put together a plan of action. Still, he would have liked to inform Dhamballa himself.

Seronga wondered briefly if he should call Njo to alert him, at least, that they would be arriving alone. He decided against it. It had always been the plan for Njo to get them out of Maun as fast as possible. The only difference now was that they would not have a captive. And they would not be running from anyone. At least, not anyone they knew about.

Now that Seronga had opened his mind, thoughts flew at him. He wondered about the plane that had taken off. Where was it going? Who owned it? He thought about going back to the tourist center and talking to the Spaniards. Perhaps they had gathered additional information. But that would be too risky. The bodies of the two deacons could have been found and identified. Or they might check with the hospital in Maun and find out that he had never gone there.

No, he decided. It is best to get to Dhamballa.

Beside Seronga, Pavant was simply angry. He was breathing heavily through his nose, his hands fisted in his lap. He obviously had things to say but did not want to discuss the incident in front of the driver.

After they passed the exit for the Maun police barracks, Seronga told his driver to cut over to the Central Highway.

"Are you sure you want to do that, Eminence?" the driver asked. He was an elderly man with white hair and sun-cracked skin.

"I am," Seronga replied tersely.

"That will not take us to Orapa," the driver said. "It will take us to Maun, Tsau, and Shakawe."

"I know," Seronga replied. "I changed my mind. I've decided I would like to go to the church in Maun."

"Ah, I see," the driver said apologetically. "I will take you there. But then I must charge you for two zones, Eminence."

"We will pay for the longer trip," Seronga assured him. "Just take us there, please."

"Of course," the driver replied. He called his dispatcher to let him know the change of destinations.

After the taxi had gone a few miles, Seronga noticed the driver glancing repeatedly into his rearview mirror. A minute later, the driver picked up his cell phone. Seronga leaned forward slightly and listened. The driver called a number and spoke in colloquial Setswana. It was a language that native Botswanans used to speak with longtime friends. Otherwise, they spoke English. That was how the driver had spoken to Seronga.

"What are you doing, Paris?" the driver asked.

Seronga could not hear the other man's response.

"I know you are working," the driver said. "But why are you taking this route?"

The Brush Viper turned casually and glanced back. There was another taxi behind them. It was one of three other cars on the deserted road.

"Oh," the driver said in response. Then he chuckled. "I thought you were following me."

Seronga did not like the sound of that. '

The driver and his friend chatted for a few moments more. When the driver hung up, Seronga leaned closer to the front.

"May I ask why you called the other taxi?" Seronga said.

"Paris Lebbard turned off the Okavanga road at the same time we did," the driver told him. "It is unusual for two people to take this route to Maun. I asked Paris why."

"What did he tell you?" Seronga asked.

"He said that he was engaged to show someone around for the day," the driver replied. "He thought this would be a scenic route. It isn't, though. Maybe he is just trying to add extra miles."

"Did Mr. Lebbard say who his passenger is?" Seronga asked.

"A Spanish woman," the driver told him.

Seronga did not like that, either. "Did he say anything else?" the Brush Viper asked.

"Nothing else, Eminence," the driver said. His voice was beginning to show some concern. As if he had done something wrong. "Do you wish me to call him back and find out more?"

"No," said Seronga. He did not want to risk giving her any information. "Just drive on. Don't worry about it."

"Yes, Eminence."

Seronga sat back. The blood on his sleeve was beginning to dry. It occurred to him that he had rarely felt caked blood. When men died in the field, either they were quickly taken away or left behind. If they were left behind, they were invariably eaten by carnivores. It was strange, the things an old soldier had not experienced after all these years.

He returned to the problem at hand. A Spanish woman, he thought. It could mean nothing. She might be a tourist. Or she could be part of the military group that had gone to the tourist center. Perhaps Seronga and Pavant did not get away as clean as they had imagined.

Pavant obviously had the same thought as Seronga. The younger man leaned toward him. The driver would not be able to hear them over the clank of the air-conditioning and rattling muffler.

"We should stop and let the other driver pass," Pavant whispered.

"No," Seronga said.

"What if they are following us?" Pavant demanded.

"We can watch them better if they don't suspect what we're doing," Seronga told him.

"We can watch them better if they are in front of us," Pavant said.

"We will do it this way," Seronga insisted. "If they are following us, they will stop in Maun. We will take care of them there."

Seronga slumped down. The back of his black shirt was thick with perspiration. It clung to the air-chilled vinyl seat. Seronga felt the coolness. It moved along his arms and up the back of his neck. He began to come back to life. But he was revived by more than that. Seronga was encouraged at having a possible target, a potential link to whoever was behind this.

If so, there was another job still to be done.

And this time, he would not fail.