Mission of Honor (47 page)

“At least it will hold off the attack,” McCaskey said, “give our people a chance to get out.”

“Maybe,” Herbert said. “I agree with Edgar. And his point, I think the Botswana government feels it needs a show of force. A hostage situation will also cause questions to be asked about who the Americans are and how they got in. We can’t risk that.”

“Then call our team and tell them to cut loose,” McCaskey said. “What else is there to do?”

“Running through the wilderness while Botswana pilots are looking for people running through the wilderness may not be the best course of action,” Rodgers said.

“That is probably true,” Kline said, “though I don’t think they’ll shoot at people who don’t fit the profile of Brush Vipers.”

“Aideen will concoct some story about being out on safari,” Herbert said.

“They’ll have a Jeep to prove it.”

“Gentlemen, without saying anything about your people, I’ll do what I can to settle the situation,” Kline said. “I’ll call you as soon as I have an answer.”

“And try to make this order stick,” Herbert said.

Hood had moved to kill the call as soon as Kline finished. He obviously expected Herbert to say something. Rodgers did not think the VSO officer heard. Not that he cared one way or the other. Kline had not proved to be a particularly effective partner.

“So this is where we’ve ended up,” McCaskey said. He was not so much angry now as resigned. “They go forward, whatever the price.”

“For now,” Rodgers said. “Just for now.”

“We just have to acknowledge that at this moment there are risks in flight,” Herbert said.

“Darrell, you know what my orders are to Aideen,” Rodgers said quietly. “If anything goes wrong, they will pull out. I’m sure they can find a place to hole up until the crisis passes.”

“Maybe,” McCaskey said. “And maybe Aideen and Battat will do that. I’m not so sure about Maria.”

“They all will,” Rodgers said. “If it comes to that, I will order it.”

“More forcefully than you did before?” McCaskey asked.

“Yes,” Rodgers replied. “I deferred to the judgment of the individual running the mission in the field. The situation is different now. Anyway, you’re forgetting something important, Darrell.”

“What’s that?”

“Maria loves you,” Rodgers said. “She’s committed to you. She wants to come back to you. If this thing goes south, she’s not going to stay there just for the hell of it.”

“No,” McCaskey admitted. “She’s not suicidal.”

“She hasn’t been married to you long enough,” Herbert said.

Hood made a face. Herbert shrugged it off. But Darrell smiled for the first time in two days.

“I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of,” McCaskey went on. “We don’t know what they’re thinking in Gaborone. Father Bradbury may mean more to the Botswanans dead than alive. The air force can say they struck after he was killed. And Gaborone will use his death as an excuse to come down hard on any dissent in the future. If that’s the case, they won’t care who is with Dhamballa. The air force will go in and wipe them all out.”

“I’ll let Aideen know your concerns,” Rodgers said. “We can prepare for that. Maybe put some distance between our group and Seronga.”

“Mike, I’d like to do something else,” McCaskey said.

“What’s that?” Rodgers asked.

“I’d like to talk to Maria,” he said.

“I don’t think you should,” Rodgers said. “Every time we speak with them, there’s a chance we can be traced. We don’t want to give the Botswana Air Force a map to where our people are.”

“I’ll keep it short,” McCaskey promised. “Unless there’s some other reason you’re against it?”

“Frankly, there is,” Rodgers admitted. “I don’t want Maria getting upset or distracted. Not now.”

“How about encouragement?” he said. “Maybe she can use some of that.”

“Talking to you won’t be a neutral event,” Hood said. “You know that. Let’s see how this plays out, okay? Maybe we can revisit it later.” 

McCaskey looked as if he wanted to argue. He thought better of it. Instead, he got up to go.

“Darrell, about those Japanese who went to Botswana,” Hood said. “Any chance we can find out who they really are?”

“We’re talking to a guy in Tokyo who deals in fake passports for the entire Pacific Rim,” McCaskey said. “He wouldn’t have actually made these, but he thinks he can find out who did. We’ll get someone to talk to whoever that is, convince him to cooperate.”

“I can save you the trouble,” Herbert said. “My gut tells me these guys are working with Fujima.”

“That could be true,” Hood said. “Which brings us to the next obvious question. Why the hell are the Japanese so interested in Botswana?”

“I don’t know,” Herbert said. “But I am convinced of one thing.”

“Which is?” Hood asked.

Herbert replied, “That a bunch of people are keeping some very big secrets from us.”

Makgadikgadi Pan, Botswana Saturday, 12:30 A.M.

Maria Corneja knew that she should not think when she was tired. At those times, her thoughts were cynical, pessimistic. And that was not what she needed now.

But she could not help herself. She was what she was.

The woman was still perched on the back of the Jeep. The wind was keeping her alert as she looked out at the extraordinary blackness. As vivid as the stars were, their indifference bothered her. They were the same as they had been when apes with no ambition crossed the salt pan. They would be the same when the earth was a dead ball.

So what are we all doing this for? she wondered. The stars will burn, the world will turn, and life will go on, whether we succeed or not. If I were to leave now, nothing would change.

Except for one thing. However impassive the universe was, Maria still had to face herself in the morning. And she wanted to be able to do so with a sense that she had been true to herself. Unfortunately, she was not quite sure what that meant in this case. She did not believe that Leon Seronga was a bad man. As far as she could tell, his tactics had not been excessive. And his ambitions seemed to be moral. Unfortunately, they were also illegal.

Still, she wondered what she would do when it came time. Even though she had worked for Interpol, she had never been a company player. It had always been a question of right versus wrong. Fortunately, Interpol had usually been on the side of right.

Then there was Darrell. He was probably insane with anger, worry, and resentment. Maybe he was even a little proud of her, though that was probably buried deep. She refused to think about any of that. If she let herself be influenced by his emotions, her own would get fired up. This situation did not need more passion. It needed as much calm reason as she could summon.

As Maria’s mind probed the blackness, her eyes did the same. She was watching for the arrival of Dhamballa and the Brush Vipers. It was not announced by lights on the horizon but by Seronga’s truck speeding up. Within moments, he had pulled alongside the Jeep.

“My group is close by!” Seronga shouted. “They are less than four miles from here, at Lake Septone. We will meet them there.”

“Have all the Brush Vipers arrived?” Aideen asked.

“Yes!” Seronga told her. “They are deploying themselves among the rocks around the lake. You might want to pass that along to your superiors. They can inform Gaborone.”

“I wouldn’t advise that,” Battat said. “They might think it was provocative rather than defensive.”

Maria knew that it was both. Even if the Brush Vipers did not intend to challenge the choppers, their action suggested they were ready to do so. In Seronga’s position, she would have done exactly the same.

The truck pulled in front, and the Jeep followed. Obviously, Seronga was no longer concerned about the OpCenter team leaving. Perhaps he had decided to trust them. Decisions were easy when there were no options.

They reached the lake in less than ten minutes. It was not quite the fortress Maria had pictured. In the glow of the headlights she saw less than a dozen boulders the size of desk chairs. They were clumped here and there, where some ancient flood must have deposited them. The lake itself was less than a square mile. It did not appear to be very deep. Maria thought she could see reeds jutting out from the center of the water.

As they neared the lake, the truck driver killed his headlights. Only the parking lights remained on. Aideen did likewise. It was a strange sensation to be moving through near absolute darkness. Yet the vastness of the land did not go away. The sounds from the vehicles seemed to travel forever. It was different than a sound that echoed from a group of trees or a canyon wall. It just rolled out and diminished slowly.

The truck stopped. So did the Jeep. Several lanterns were turned on along the lake. People were approaching. Seronga switched on his own flashlight and walked toward them.

Battat sidled up to Maria. Aideen joined them.

“How do you want to handle this?” Battat asked.

“I think that’s up to Seronga,” Aideen said.

“Shouldn’t we be involved in the discussions?” Battat pressed.

“Yes,” Maria agreed. “Before they become carved in stone.”

She started forward briskly. The other two came after her. As they walked, it occurred to Maria that this was how warring tribes must have approached each other five thousand years before. She could not decide whether it was exciting to be a part of that history or whether it was sad because we had not advanced very much in all those centuries.

As they approached, Maria felt something in the air. It was an extremely low vibration, like the rumble from a subwoofer. It felt as if it were coming from the ground, but that was not the case. The ground was trembling slightly from whatever was causing her to shake.

What was just a hint of motion became more pronounced over the next few seconds. Maria stopped and looked up.

“Do you feel that?” she asked.

Aideen and Battat also stopped.

“I do now,” Battat said. “Feels like a tank.”

“Not a tank,” Maria said.

They heard a low hum. She looked among the stars. Finally, she saw one that was moving.

“A scout,” she said. “They sent out scout choppers.”

She started running toward the lake.

“Seronga!” Maria shouted.

“I see it!” he shouted back.

“No lights!” he cried even louder. “Everyone shut their lanterns!”

Along the lake, the lanterns snapped off. But as the light in the sky grew larger and the sound became louder, Maria had a feeling they were too late.

Makgadikgadi Pan, Botswana Saturday, 12:45 A.M.

Seronga knew what had to be done. He had one job, one goal. To save Dhamballa. And there was really just one way to achieve it.

The Brush Viper trotted toward the caravan. He shouted now and then to get his bearings. The other Brush Vipers would shout back. The roar of the rotors was not yet strong enough to drown them out. Their voices told him where he should be headed.

Seronga’s one job was to protect the future of Vodunism. That was the only place the pure heart and soul of Botswana still survived. It had to be kept alive. To do that, Seronga needed to make certain that Dhamballa was not captured or killed. That meant holding off the assault and getting Dhamballa out of here. What Seronga did not know was whether Dhamballa would agree.

Seronga reached the nearest of the boulders. Pavant and Finn arrived a few moments later.

“There are three others coming behind us,” he said as he moved past the guards. “Let them pass.”

The men said they would.

A dozen yards beyond them, he saw the flickering of a shielded cigarette lighter. The face of Nicholas Arrons was behind it. He was the driver of the van in which Dhamballa was traveling. Seronga ran toward him. When he was a few feet away, the light flicked off. Breathing heavily from the short run, Seronga stopped by the front of the van.

“Do you hear that?” Seronga asked.

“Of course,” Arrons replied. “A scout?”

“Very likely,” Seronga said. “Where is the decoy group?”

“They left the swamp double-time and caught up to us about a mile back,” Arrons replied. “They’re resting by the lake. At least, they were. I’m sure they heard the helicopter.”

“We’ll have to deploy them in case we’re strafed,” Seronga said.

“I ordered the rocket launchers deployed,” Arrons told him.

“No one fires unless we’re fired upon,” Seronga said.

“Those were my orders,” Arrons replied.

“Where is the priest?”

“He is in the other van,” Arrons said.

“Have Terrence bring him over,” Seronga said.

“The ordeal in the swamp was difficult for him,” Arrons said. “So was the drive here. He has not slept or eaten very much.”

“There will be time enough for that soon,” Seronga said. “Bring him to me now.”

“Yes sir,” Arrons said.

The soldier left, and Seronga stepped to the side of the van. Though they had been speaking by radio since Dhamballa broke camp, there was something different in Arrons’s voice now. It was as though he were hiding something.

Seronga knocked on the door, then pulled it open. Dhamballa was sitting cross-legged on a mat. The interior lights had been covered with duct tape. Only a faint, muddy light illuminated the inside.

Seronga bowed his head slightly. There was no formal way to greet a houngan, but Seronga felt he needed something to show his respect. He had settled upon this.

“I’m glad you are safe, Dhamballa,” Seronga said.

“What happened at the airport?” Dhamballa asked.

The beating of the rotor was getting louder. Seronga glanced back at the sky. The light was three times more brilliant than any of the stars.

“Sir, we can discuss this later,” Seronga said.

“I must know,” Dhamballa said.

The helicopter was now a steady drone. It seemed increasingly likely that the chopper had spotted them.

“I don’t know,” Seronga said. “Pavant and I were waiting for the bishop, when someone shot him. We don’t know who that was.”

Dhamballa stepped closer. He looked into Seronga’s face, at his forehead, at the edges of his mouth.

“The bones told me that someone close will betray me, so I must ask again,” Dhamballa said. “Either by action or by design, were you responsible for the death of the American bishop?”