"What we needed to know," Seronga said.
"Yes. We cannot allow the bishop to come here. It would undo everything," Pavant said. "Dhamballa would have been seen as small, petty, ineffective. Besides, no one need know about these two."
"They mustn't," Seronga said.
The leader of the Brush Vipers felt sick. He had been pushed to this extreme by this man's stubborn resistance. It would have been so much easier if the clergyman had cooperated. Instead, his words were his own epitaph. He had said that if Seronga killed, it would be on his own conscience. If that was true, these two deaths were on the deacon's^oul. Had he answered Seronga's questions, they would have tied the men up. They would have hidden them here or in the field, in a cave, away from predators. When the kidnapping of the American bishop had been accomplished, they would have instructed authorities where to find these two.
The stupid, stupid man.
"I have the cell phone," Pavant said from behind the door.
"See if there are fresh bedsheets anywhere," Seronga said.
"I will," Pavant said. "But I won't listen to you blame yourself. We are lions. These men were prey. This is the way it had to be. This is the way you did it when you liberated the country the first time."
"That was different," Seronga said.
"No, it wasn't," Pavant insisted. "You were fighting an empire then. We are fighting an empire now."
"It was different," Seronga repeated. "We were fighting soldiers."
"These are soldiers," Pavant replied. "They fight with resistance instead of arms."
Seronga was in no mood to debate. He removed his own knife from the throat of his victim and wiped the blade on the pillow. Then he put the knife back in his hip sheath. He waited as Donald Pavant felt his way around the dark room. The only light came from the half-moon shining through the partly opened door. They had not shut the door for that reason.
"I have the sheets," Pavant said. He was standing by a closet in the back of the room.
The younger man hurried over. He set the sheets down on the floor. Then, together, the men prepared the bodies in turn. They removed the pillowcases and stuffed them in the wounds. That would help stem the leaking of blood. Then they wrapped the bodies tightly inside the bloodstained sheets on the bed. The blood was already soaking through, so they took blankets from the closet and lay them on the floor. The bound bodies were placed upon these. Then the beds were made.
Seronga decided that the bodies would be carried out into the floodplain. The sheets would be removed. They would be wrapped around stones and dropped in Lake Mitali. By dawn, there would not be much of the deacons. The authorities would suspect murder. But they would not be able to prove it. The soft tissue the knife had penetrated would have been eaten. And there were footprints everywhere. Those of Seronga and Pavant would not stand out. As far as anyone could prove, the deacons went for a walk and were attacked by predators. The Vatican would have doubts, but they would not have proof. Most importantly, they would not have martyrs. And as long as the other clergymen were held captive, there was a chance for a negotiated withdrawal. First of the Church, and then of all foreigners. The Botswanans would be able to profit from their own rich resources.
There was one last thing the two Brush Vipers would need: the vestments these men had worn. But Seronga did not want to carry them with the bodies. They must not be splattered with blood. He would come back for the garments when the deacons' remains had been disposed of.
While Seronga wiped up stray streaks of blood, Pavant checked the veranda. There was no one outside. The men slung the bodies over their shoulders. Even with the loss of blood, the corpses were lighter than Seronga expected. Obviously, Deacon missionaries did not eat very well. The dead men were also still very warm. Eager to get his mind off the killings, Seronga wondered if Dhamballa's ancient magic would be potent enough to rouse two such as these. Not just men who had died of natural causes but men who had been murdered. Seronga wished he could spend more time with their leader. He wanted to learn more about the few phenomena he had witnessed. About the ancient religion he had embraced on faith.
In time, he told himself.
For now, Seronga would continue doing things he did not enjoy. That was how Botswana had become free once before. Whether he liked it or not, that was how Botswana would become free again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was a busy afternoon for Paul Hood, the kind of afternoon when information flowed so quickly that questions provided their own answers. And each answer generated two or three new questions.
Unfortunately, none of those answers provided the key the Op-Center director was searching for.
Still, Hood was happy to get out of the morning alive. For the first time in over a week, Senator Fox's office did not call and ask to see Op-Center's daily work sheet. That was the duty roster Congress used to apportion budgets. Evidently, Fox was satisfied with the cutbacks Hood had already made. Nor did any other members of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee contact him. That meant Mike Rodgers had been able to keep his new intelligence operation under wraps for over a day. In Washington time, that was equivalent to a year.
Even the tension between Darrell McCaskey and Bob Herbert had been defused, at least for the moment. The only lingering problem was not Op-Center's. At least, not directly. That was the tension between Darrell McCaskey and his wife. The way Herbert described it, Maria Corneja took the assignment "like a pit bull at a rib roast." She was not going to give up fieldwork. They had all suspected that would be the case. Now they knew it. The fact that Maria had made this decision without consulting her husband made it even worse. It was ironic. McCaskey was a great listener in interrogations or conferences. He was without equal when it came to sifting answers for truths or following voice inflections to fertile new lines of questioning. But when it came to his personal life, McCaskey tended to do most of the talking and none of the hearing. That was going to have to change.
Look who's giving advice, Hood thought. He himself was a man who had listened to everything his wife had said. And meant to do most of it. He just never found the time.
But there had not been time to dwell on small triumphs or major shortcomings. Not long after returning to his office, Hood received a call from Edgar Kline. The Vatican security officer reported that Deacon Jones had heard from Father Bradbury. According to Jones, the priest was still a prisoner.
"Is he in good health?" Hood asked.
"Apparently," Kline informed him.
"You don't sound happy about that," Hood said.
"Father Bradbury asked about the parish," Kline went on. "Unfortunately, Deacon Jones told the father that a temporary replacement was en route from Washington."
"Shit," Hood said. Obviously, African missionaries had lost some of their tactical finesse since the closing years of the nineteenth century. In those days, the Boers used clergymen to spy on the location, movements, and strength of Zulu tribesmen. "That means Dhamballa knows about the bishop."
"One has to assume that," Kline agreed.
"Are you going to change his travel plans?" Hood asked.
"That would signal to Dhamballa that we are afraid of him," Kline said. "We will not do that."
"What about your Spanish undercover operatives? Have they arrived?" Hood asked.
"Yes," Kline replied. "The leader of the group is going to introduce himself to the deacons in the morning. Several members will shadow them and watch out for the bishop."
"That's good," Hood replied.
"I'd also like to send over our E-file of photographs that were taken at Dhamballa's rallies," Kline said. "There are some photographs of Dhamballa. We thought you might be able to search your own databases on the off chance that there's a match."