Mission of Honor (48 page)

“Neither I nor my soldiers had anything to do with the assassination,” Seronga said. “We have not always agreed on policy, houngan. I would tell you if it were otherwise.”

The Vodun leader regarded him for several seconds longer. “I believe you,” he said.

“Thank you,” Seronga said. He was glad, since he had no intention of adding to his answer. “Perhaps the betrayal came from the outside. From the men who were helping you to power.”

“If so, I will find that out,” Dhamballa said.

Maria, Aideen, and Battat walked up behind Seronga. Pavant and Njo Finn joined them.

“Mr. Seronga, we need to make some decisions,” Aideen said.

“Yes,” he agreed. He gestured behind him. “Houngan, during the past few hours, these people have helped us with information and planning. Maria was at the airport with me. She saw the killing and has evidence that will help authorities find the assassin.”

“Arrons told me about these people and what they’ve done,” Dhamballa said. “Thank you all.”

“Sir, you can thank us by breaking up this party and moving out as soon as possible,” Battat said.

“And what would we do?” Dhamballa asked.

They heard footsteps in the dark. Arrons was approaching from behind the car. He was bringing Father Bradbury.

“We believe there is a way to save the movement,” Seronga said. “But to do so, we must have time. There are two ways to get that time. First, we must turn the priest over to these people. We must let the government know that we have released him. Second, you must go.”

“Go where?” Dhamballa asked. He seemed genuinely surprised by the suggestion.

“Away from this area,” Seronga said. “And quickly, sir. We are soon to have company.”

“We have a rally scheduled,” Dhamballa replied. “We cannot disappoint our people, show them cowardice. Now that we are together, I think we should turn around and trust in the gods to protect us.”

“You will never get to the rally,” Maria insisted. “The gods may protect your spirit, but I wouldn’t bet on them against a 2.75-inch rocket.”

“Seronga and his men will be with me,” Dhamballa remarked. “They have arms. And I believe the government will not want a massacre. If those are not deterrent enough, we still have the priest.”

“Holding Father Bradbury may not help you,” Maria warned. “Not any longer. The outside world will perceive the incident at the airport as the onset of chaos. And your movement will be blamed.”

“We are not responsible,” Dhamballa said.

“Unfortunately, you won’t have the opportunity to make that case,” Battat told him. “Gaborone needs this situation to go away.”

“Situation?” Dhamballa said. “Is that how the oldest religion on earth is perceived?”

“Not the faith,” Battat told him. “The actions of the practitioners. Whether or not you killed the bishop doesn’t really matter now. You kidnapped Father Bradbury. You precipitated this crisis. I know something about how blame works, and trust me. You will be blamed.”

“We’re wasting time,” Maria cut in. “If that helicopter has seen you, it will signal the others. They will be here within an hour. You will all be arrested or cut down. There will be no rally.”

Dhamballa turned to Seronga. “What do you say?”

“I believe these risks are very real, houngan,” he replied.

 “If we are all dead, no one will be in a position to dispute what the government says. We must not give them the opportunity to take us down.”

Arrons and the priest arrived.

“You’re asking me to run,” Dhamballa said to Seronga.

“Not run. Walk with dignity. Leave with these people,” the Brush Viper said. “You and Father Bradbury. Maria knows we did not kill the bishop. Just by emerging from the salt pan, Father Bradbury will attest to the fact that while his stay may not have been pleasant, he is alive and well.”

Father Bradbury had been looking at the others. His eyes stopped on Seronga.

“Those clothes,” the priest said suddenly. “Where did you get them?”

Seronga did not answer.

“Where did you get them?” the priest demanded. “No, you don’t have to tell me. I know. You got them from my deacons. You had to. If they had left Botswana, they would have taken their clothes with them. What did you do to them? Are they all right?”

Maria looked at the Brush Viper. “Seronga, were the deacons still at the church when you arrived?”

“Yes,” Seronga replied.

“Where are they now?” she asked him.

Seronga wished there were time to explain what he had done. How this was a war and that lives are lost in war. How he needed information about Bishop Max and there was only one way to get it. How compassion would have cost them everything they had struggled to achieve.

He wished, most of all, that Dhamballa did not have to hear this.

“The missionaries are with their god,” Seronga replied.

“By your hand?” Dhamballa asked. His voice was a whisper. If disbelief had a sound, this was it.

“Yes,” Seronga said. “We killed them. We had no choice.”

Dhamballa sat absolutely still. It was the posture of disbelief.

“Jesus wept,” Father Bradbury said. He made the sign of the cross, then tightly folded his bony fingers. “How many more people have to die for this insane crusade?” he asked. His hands began to shake. He glared at Dhamballa. “How can you call yourself a holy man when you allow things like this?”

“All religions kill!” Seronga yelled angrily. “When oppression cannot be stopped with reason, what other course is there?”

“Patience,” Father Bradbury replied.

“For far too many years we were patient, priest,” Dhamballa said. “But I did not want to advance our cause with the breath of the dying.”

“No! Yet you knew it could happen when you surrounded yourself with soldiers,” Seronga said. “There is not one person here, not one faith or government represented, who has not advanced an idea by killing.”

The helicopter came lower, then hovered. A searchlight was turned on. They would spot the men in the boulders.

“Dhamballa, we must get you out of here,” Maria said urgently. “You and the priest.”

“Yes, you must go,” Seronga agreed.

Dhamballa regarded his lieutenant. “What will you do? Fight?”

“No,” he vowed. “I will lead the helicopters away.”

“How?” Dhamballa asked.

“I don’t have time to answer,” Seronga said. “Maria, will you take them from here?”

“Yes,” she said.

The Brush Viper regarded Dhamballa. “Sir, maybe we could have done things differently. All of us. Perhaps we took on too big a challenge. Or perhaps the faith was meant to stay underground. I don’t know. But I do know one thing. You must continue what was very nearly begun here. You must carry it to others. You must live to speak of it.”

“And pray for us, sir,” Pavant added, his eyes on the sky. “Please do that as well.”

Dhamballa nodded silently, sadly. “I will do all of those things.” He looked at Seronga. “In the end, we must consider the future, not the past.”

Maria stepped around Seronga. She reached into the van, her hand extended toward Dhamballa. He hesitated. Then he accepted her hand and stepped into the night.

“I’ll bring the Jeep around,” Battat said.

A gentle wind stirred from Seronga’s left, from the west. It did not come from the rotor of the chopper. Dhamballa turned his face toward it. There was something poignant about the moment. The Vodun leader seemed to be saying good-bye and looking ahead at the same time.

Aideen took Father Bradbury by the arm and led him toward the Jeep. Pavant and Arrons left to join the other men. Only Maria was left. She turned her back on the men but did not leave.

Dhamballa kissed Seronga lightly on both cheeks. Then he pressed his left index and middle fingers to the Brush Viper’s forehead. He drew the finger down along the bridge of Seronga’s nose to his nostrils.

“May the gods look down and preserve you,” Dhamballa said. He put a palm over his own eyes. “May they also forgive you.”

“Thank you,” Seronga said.

Dhamballa lowered his hand. He held it out, palm up, and exchanged a knowing look with Seronga. Then he turned and left with Maria. Seronga walked after Pavant. He stopped and turned back.

“Maria!” he shouted.

“Here!” she called back.

“Get home safely,” he said. “All of you. And thank you.”

“We will meet again, I hope,” she replied.

The Brush Viper continued after Pavant. He did not believe that he would ever see Dhamballa or the others again. The helicopter spotlight was playing across the terrain, picking out the rock formations and studying them. The crew had to have seen the Brush Vipers.

Seronga would lead them away in a few minutes. Part of him hoped the helicopter followed. He did believe in Dhamballa and his work. He believed in it because he believed in Botswana. In Africa. In the people among whom he had lived and fought and laughed. He could not have asked for a more fulfilling life. Or, if it came to that, a more fulfilling death.

Prince Leon Seronga moved from one small group to the next. He told the men to get back into the vehicles and head north. He told them to move in different directions to make pursuit more difficult.

“What do we do if we are fired upon?” Arrons asked.

“I would prefer that you stay hidden and escape when you can,” Seronga replied. “If necessary, fight back. If it is absolutely necessary, surrender.”

“What will you do?” Pavant asked.

Seronga thought before answering. “I must clean the black magic from Dhamballa’s hand,” he replied.

“The killings?” Pavant asked.

“Yes.”

“How can that be done?” Pavant asked.

Seronga smiled. “By me, and me alone. I want you to join the others before the helicopters arrive.”

Pavant lingered for a moment. He saluted his commander with a sharp, clean snap. It was the first time that Seronga could remember Pavant saluting. Then he turned and ran into the darkness. Soon, all Seronga heard was the beat of the helicopter rotor and the growl of the engines as the trucks and vans slipped away.

He hunkered down beside one of the boulders. But he did not pick up any of the weapons. He simply watched the helicopter. And he made sure it saw him for a moment. Soon, other lights appeared in the distance. The squadron was corning. One of the helicopters would have to land to make sure this area was cleared of Brush Vipers.

It would be, very nearly.

Seronga un-holstered his pistol and thought about the land. He thought about the night and about his life.

Seronga had no regrets. In fact, he felt surprisingly at peace. When all of this was done, his body would still be a part of this great continent. His spirit would be part of an eternal collective.

In the end, that was the most anyone could ask for.

After a few minutes, the scout helicopter landed. Troops emerged. They were fast-moving silhouettes in the bright searchlights mounted to the side of the chopper.

Seronga counted ten of them. The men went from rock to rock, securing each position. They were good, these kids. They moved well. He wondered how he would have fared if he were their age, competing with them.

Then the soldiers noticed the tracks of the vans. The men pointed to the north and northwest.

Eventually, the soldiers headed toward his position.

Seronga fired at the nearest soldiers. Not to kill. Not to wound. Simply to delay. They hit the ground, rolled behind the boulders, took shelter while they covered one another. These kids were very good. They belly-crawled to new positions so they could triangulate fire on the rock.

After a few minutes, it became clear that Seronga could delay no longer. He did not know if they would take him alive. He did know they would probably beat him for information. Or perhaps drug him. Only the latter scared him. He also knew what his fate would be for murdering the two deacons.

With gratitude for the life he had lived, Prince Leon Seronga put the barrel of the pistol to his temple.

He fired.

Washington, B.C. Friday, 6:19 P.M.

The tension in the office was not like anything Paul Hood had ever experienced. Hood, Rodgers, Herbert, and McCaskey sat in their chairs, waiting. Lowell Coffey had joined them. No one was talking because there was nothing to talk about. There had been no further word about the Japanese or the Europeans. Everyone was focused on the situation in Botswana.

Hood could tell that Herbert was not comfortable with the silence. It was not in the man’s gregarious nature to be silent among friends. After shifting in his wheelchair several times, Herbert finally spoke.

“When I was a kid, I saw a movie called Sink the Bismarck” the intelligence chief said. “I don’t remember whether the movie was accurate or not, but there was this one scene that really stuck in my mind. The commander of the British naval forces was running the search-and-destroy operation from his underground HQ in London. After he gets word that the Bismarck has gone down, he looks at his watch. It’s six o’clock. He’s been working for days straight. He goes out for dinner and realizes it’s actually six A.M. Time got totally screwed up for him down in the bunker.”

Everyone was silent for a long moment.

“Are you saying that you’re totally screwed up, Bob?” Lowell Coffey finally asked.

“No,” Herbert said. “What I’m saying is that perceptions get warped when you’re in a crisis situation. We’re sitting here, cut off from other stimuli. No windows. No news about the world. No phone calls from friends or family. I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

“Whether it is or isn’t, what choice do we have?” Coffey asked.

“I don’t know, but we should talk to Liz about that,” Herbert replied. “She should come up with some sort of activity or music or some feng shui decor that helps us keep perspective.”

“Like floral pattern wallpaper,” Hood said.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Herbert cautioned.

“I tried taking my mind off things once by playing blackjack against the computer,” Hood said. “I lost. It didn’t make me feel any better.”

“Losing at anything is not supposed to make a person feel good,” Herbert pointed out.