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.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The call from Mike Rodgers was a shocker.
Before Rodgers phoned with news of the assassination, Bob Herbert, a very tired Liz Gordon, and political adviser Ron Plummer had spent nearly an hour in Paul Hood's office. They had been discussing the imminent arrival of the American bishop in Maun. Darrell McCaskey was supposed to attend, but he was busy talking to his Interpol connections in southern Africa. He said he would come by as soon as he was finished.
The Op-Center brain trust agreed that there would be an attack. Hood felt that the Brush Vipers would not strike for at least two or three days. They would wait for the bishop to settle in, to establish a routine. A clean, successful abduction required that a kidnapper tap into his intended victim's pattern. It also allowed them to study any defenses.
"That makes sense, but not everyone is as cautious or careful as you are, Paul," Plummer said.
Hood had to admit he had a point.
Herbert and Plummer thought the Brush Vipers would strike again immediately. He felt that they had to show they could come and go unhindered in their own country. They also could not allow the clergyman to reestablish a presence in Maun. If that happened, his arrival would be viewed as a successful, even defiant return of the Catholic Church to Botswana.