"What happened?" Diamante asked as they neared.
"The guard shot at me," Seronga said. "He grazed my arm."
Diamante stopped in front of Seronga and Pavant. Captain Abrero continued on toward the body of the guard.
"Let me see the wound," Diamante insisted. He reached for Seronga's bare and bloodied arm.
The Brush Viper twisted his body slightly. "It is not serious," Seronga assured him.
"It is badly grazed, that is all," Pavant added. "We will take a taxi to the hospital. I will bandage it on the way."
"Are you certain?" Diamante asked. His eyes shifted toward his partner as the captain reached the body.
"Yes," Seronga replied. "Sergeant, tell me. How is the bishop?"
Despite the fact that he wanted to get away, Seronga felt that was a question the deacon would have asked.
"The wound was mortal," the sergeant replied. "I'm sorry.
We tried to position ourselves as close as possible-"
"I saw what you were trying to do," Seronga interrupted. "There was nothing you could have done to prevent this."
"Let's go, Seronga," Pavant said.
They began walking back toward the terminal. Diamante walked backward, alongside them.
"One more thing, Deacon," Diamante said. "Did you happen to get a look at the pilot or notice the serial number of the aircraft?"
"I'm sorry, I did not," Seronga replied. "After the guard fired at me, I covered my head. Forgive me."
"That's entirely understandable," Diamante said.
The sergeant headed off to join his partner. The men continued toward the terminal. Suddenly, Diamante stopped and turned.
"Senor deacon!" the sergeant yelled.
"Yes?" Seronga said.
"The tour director told me your name was Tobias," Diamante shouted after him.
"It is," Seronga said. What had they done wrong? Something inside his belly began to burn.
"The deacon just called you 'Seronga,' " the Spaniard said.
Seronga felt Pavant's fingers dig into his side. Neither man had caught the slipup.
"You are mistaken," the Brush Viper replied. "He said 'lion.' That is my nickname."
"I see," Diamante said. "I'm sorry. Este Men, be well," he added. "I will see you later at the church."
Seronga and Pavant continued toward the terminal. He was glad Diamante had been distracted enough to believe that and not to notice that part of his shoulder holster was visible through his torn shirt. He pulled the ripped fabric higher to cover it up.
"I'm very sorry for what happened out there," Pavant muttered as they reached the door. "That was very careless of me."
"Now we've all apologized for something," Seronga said. "Let's just get out of here."
The body of the dead bishop had been covered ^vith a large r shawl. The thick weave was soaking up the dead man's blood. It was the white and black zigzag pattern of the Kava tribe of northeastern Botswana. The tribe members were mostly Vodun.
No one in the terminal was the same person they had been just a few minutes before. They would never be the same. They would be unable to forget the moment, the shock, the sights, smells, noises.
People were either subdued or animated. Strangers had become instantly bonded by the tragedy. Some were frightened, others relieved. A few people were talking. Others were standing around, quiet and unmoving. Some were tearfully hugging new arrivals. Still others were trying to get a look at the body. The short, lanky ticket agent was doing his best to keep people away. The statuesque woman from the refreshment stand was helping. A Spanish soldier asked if he could help Seronga, but the Brush Viper insisted he was all right. He had only been grazed. Seronga and Pavant were able to slip through the terminal without being stopped.
But they were noticed.
Chapter Thirty-Five
A third person had moved when the guard fired at the bishop.
It was Maria Corneja.
The woman had left Paris Lebbard sitting at the curb in his taxi while she went into the terminal. She saw the shooting. It was done in close quarters with eyewitnesses who could have ID'ed the killer. An amateur. She saw the deacon run onto the airfield, pursued by two swarthy men. All three men moved like soldiers. She did not need a cast list to know who everyone was.
Maria followed the Spaniards toward the tarmac. The plane was airborne before she could reach the field. Instead of continuing outside, she doubled back to the cab. She grabbed her camera and snapped several digital pictures of the airplane in flight.
Lebbard had jumped from the cab when he heard the shots. He ran toward Maria.
"What happened?" he asked.
"A passenger was shot," she said. "Go back to your taxi. You'll be safer there."
"What about you?" he asked.
"I'll be there in a minute," she told him. "Just go!"
Paris did as she commanded. Meanwhile, Maria waited. She listened to random pieces of conversation. The assassin was the airport security guard. Maria was not surprised to hear that he had been gunned down. If he had not been shot on the tarmac, she had half expected to see his body fait from the airplane. He was not only expendable, he was a liability. When the local authorities checked, Maria was sure they would find a bank box stuffed with cash. It would probably be American currency. A down payment for murder. The woman did not know local law, but she was willing to bet the money would be confiscated by investigators. And, in time, the cash would find its way into other bank boxes.
Maria stood beside the front door. She watched as the deacons emerged from the terminal. She noticed two things at once. First, the man with blood on his arm was only pretending to be wounded. Maria had seen people who had been shot. A gunshot wound was body wide. It could be seen in the victim's posture, in his expression. It was reflected in the concern of others. This man's pain stopped short of his eyes. And his companion was not doing much to support him. He seemed more anxious to get out of the terminal than anything else. Second, the way the man was leaning, there appeared to be a bulge under his left arm. That was where a holster would be for a right-handed man.
Maria walked alongside them as they headed toward the curb. She coughed to get the man's attention. He glanced over. It was the same face from the photographs she had seen.
It was Leon Seronga.
Maria headed back to the cab. She watched as Seronga and his partner got into a taxi. Then she got into her own cab.
"Paris, do you see the white car at the front of the line?" she asked.
"Yes, that is Emanuel's car," he said.
"I want you to follow it," she said.
"Follow it?" he asked.
"Yes," Maria said. "Keep a car or two between you, if possible."
"We may not encounter any other cars on the road," Paris pointed out.
"Then keep a two-car distance," she said. "I don't want it to seem as if you are following it."
"I see," he said. "What about the person you came here to meet?"
"He's in that cab," she said.
"You mean the bleeding man?" Paris asked.
"Yes."
"And you don't want him to know you are here?" Paris asked.
"That's right. And I don't think he was really hurt," Maria added.
"I am puzzled," Paris said. "You came to meet someone who you don't want to meet. And now you think he isn't hurt even though he is bleeding."
"Please just drive, Paris," Maria said. "It will be easier on both of us."
"Of course," Paris said. "I will do whatever you ask." He sat tall. He gripped the steering wheel tightly. He was trying to regain some of the professional dignity his questions and confusion had cost him.
Seronga's car pulled onto the road. A moment later, so did the taxicab of Paris Lebbard.
"You know, I can always call and ask where they are going," Lebbard said helpfully. He held up his cell phone.