The gates fed into a narrower corridor that took passengers to customs. As Aideen entered the hallway, a flash of light caused her to turn to her right, to the west. As she walked, she looked out the large, double-pane picture windows. The view was epic. The bottom half of the sun rippled as it neared the absolutely straight horizon. Aideen had never seen the sun so large or so crimson. Ahead, to the north, were sharp-edged mountains. They were blue gray and featureless except where the setting sun struck snow-topped peaks. For just a moment, the amber rays sparked and danced off one cliff, then another. It was like a distant cascade of flame.
A bloodred sun and a mountain of fire, Aideen thought. If she were spiritual, if she were superstitious, those would be troublesome omens.
Aideen rounded another corner and found herself in the luggage claim area. Beyond the three crowded carousals was the customs area. It was already jammed with people who had r brought only carry-on luggage. Aideen looked for Battat and did not see him.
Good, she thought. He was able to get through before the crowd hit. They would be on their way to Maun shortly.
Aideen crossed the baggage area and entered the customs hall. She selected one of the four lines and stood in it. It was a dramatic change from the quiet of the plane and the open terminal.
Strange languages assaulted her. The sights were both familiar and new. There was American-style clothing from suits to T-shirts as well as bright, traditional African attire. There was movement everywhere. People fanned themselves with ticket folders and open hands. Children ran tight circles around their mothers as if they were maypoles. On the other side of the customs counters, vendors sold newspaper, candy, and beverages from small pushcarts.
As she waited, Aideen was surprised to find her confidence returning. Then she realized why. Despite the new sights and sounds, she was back in a world she understood, a world like the one she left behind.
A world of organized chaos.
Chapter Forty-Two
The streets were darkening quickly as the rattling taxi arrived in Maun. Leon Seronga was glad it was dark. Only the main road had streetlights. Neither Njo Finn nor his truck would be visible to casual passersby. Finn had said he would park on a narrow side street near the town's movie theater. The doors did not open until six-thirty. No one would be there now. After six-thirty, Finn would have moved to the soccer field at the north end of the town. Only a few people were out there at night, kicking a ball by flashlight or lantern. There was a small picnic area where Finn could have parked and waited, unseen.
Seronga had not wanted to go to the soccer field. If he did, others might see what he was going to do.
The Brush Viper had the taxi driver drop them in the square at the center of town. The shops were winding down their activities. Buses were growling down the main thoroughfare. The newer green buses were carrying tourists back to Gaborone. The older ones, lopsided and rusty with patchwork paint jobs, were bringing villagers back to remote areas of the floodplain.
The old Maun theater was across the street. Seronga saw Finn's truck parked in the shadows.
"Are you certain you will not need me for anything else, Eminences?" the driver asked.
"I am certain," Seronga said. The Brush Viper walked around to the window and paid the man. The fare-was seventy pulas, the equivalent of twenty'Seven American dollars. Seronga gave the driver twenty-five pulas above the amount on the meter.
The driver looked up. He smiled widely. "Thank you, Eminence. You are very generous."
Despite the pressure of the moment, Leon Seronga took a long look at the man's face. He looked at flesh baked by years of heat. At eyes bloodshot from long hours and a long, hard life. But what a magnificent face it was. The face of a man, a pillar of this nation, of their race. These were the people that the Brush Vipers were fighting for. Hardworking Botswanans.
"You deserve this and more," Seronga replied warmly.
The taxi pulled away. Leon Seronga stepped onto the sidewalk and joined Pavant. The other Brush Viper was standing behind a telephone booth, away from the lights of the taxi. He was scowling as he watched for the taxi with the Spanish passenger.
"It's coming," Pavant said.
Seronga stood beside him. They looked down the two-lane road. There were a few bicyclists. They were probably local workers on their way home. There were virtually no cars left on the road. The taxi was approaching slowly. Its identification number glowed red in the plastic display on top of the vehicle.
"I want you to do something," Seronga said. "Cross the street in front of the taxi. Act as if you're in a hurry, but make sure they get a good look at you in the headlights."
"And then?" Pavant asked.
"Go to the alley and wait behind the truck with Finn," Seronga said. "I'll stay here. If the woman follows you, I'll come in after. If I don't think she's coming in, I'll join you in a few minutes."
"Do we want a hostage or a casualty?" Pavant asked.
The question was asked casually, but it was not a casual question. Seronga considered their options. A woman's life was at stake. But Seronga also had to consider the future of Botswana.
"If she enters the alley, do what it takes to silence her and get us out of here," Seronga told him.
"What if she decides to stay in the taxi and follow us?" Pavant asked.
"Then we'll wait until we're outside of town and take them," Seronga said. "I don't think she'll do that, though."
"Why?" Pavant asked.
"Right now, the woman does not know that we're aware of her," Seronga replied. "She does not know about the truck. She has to try to find out why we're here."
Pavant nodded in agreement. He waited until the taxi was a little closer. Then he walked briskly into the street. The taxi stopped as he crossed. Pavant turned toward the driver. The Brush Viper's face was clearly illuminated by the headlights as he passed.
Meanwhile, Seronga had stepped away from the battered old phone booth. He stood in the recessed doorway of a bakery that had closed for the night. The taxi slowed some fifty meters ahead. It pulled to the curb on the same side of the street as the movie theater. A woman got out. She spoke with the driver for a moment. Then she strolled back toward the theater. The taxi left. The woman went past the movie theater for about thirty meters. Then she turned and walked back.
Seronga was anxious to get going. He lowered himself to his left knee. He withdrew the nine-inch hunting knife from its leather sheath on his right shin. He shielded the exposed blade with his left hand. Seronga did not want to risk it glinting in a streetlamp or passing headlights. He rose slowly and held the knife behind him. He watched to see what the woman did.
She passed the movie theater again. This time, she looked across the street. Seronga did not care whether she saw that someone was there. What mattered was that she not see him clearly. The woman would have to come to Seronga to find out whether he was a deacon, whether he was with the other man. Fighting a defensive battle was easier than fighting an offensive one. The attacker always led with strength. Once that strength was exposed, weaknesses were also revealed. That was where the defender struck.
The woman passed below a streetlight. This^was the first time Seronga saw her face. She looked to be in her mid-
thirties. She did not appear to be anxious. She also did not appear to have any backup. Perhaps the woman did not expect to find trouble here.
Or maybe she's smarter than I gave her credit for, Seronga thought.