Except for the occasional bounce, it was silent in the cabin of the truck. Leon Seronga did not complain. The Spanish woman was staring ahead, and Njo Finn was silent. He was gripping the wheel tightly. After the encounter with Maria, the driver seemed glad to be in control of something.
The windows were open. The night air was not cool, but the strong wind felt good. A half hour before, Pavant had passed a six-pack of warm Cokes from the back of the truck. Seronga had offered one to Maria, but she had declined. Seronga was nursing his second can. Each sip of the warm beverage burned his mouth, but the caffeine was helping him to stay awake. There was an open map on Seronga's lap. His left hand was resting on the map to keep it from blowing away. Seronga had drawn a circle with a seventy-five-mile radius. The Vodun base camp was located at the center.
The passage through the dark veldt had given Seronga time to think. And now that he thought about it, this was a very strange place for him to be. Not the plain but the war itself. Until now, Seronga had never felt that he was fighting a religious war. He believed he was fighting a war for Botswana. Yet he was beginning to wonder about that. He was starting to think that Dhamballa might be right, and he could be wrong. It was not a bad feeling, though. To the contrary. It was cornforting to think that 10,000 years of spirit might be greater than the African continent and its civilizations.
Decades before, in the years of the quiet revolution to oust the British, the Brush Vipers did everything that was necessary to free Botswana. Back then, Seronga's vision was clear. So were his methods. Above all, there was strength of purpose: the desire to be free. It was backed by strength of arms and the patience to use them only when necessary.
Seronga had felt those same stirrings of purpose when he first heard Dhamballa speak. Religion had not entered into it. The man's words were about Africa and Africans. The truth was, Leon Seronga had no use for religion.
Since childhood, Africa had been his god. There was nothing to compare to the majesty of this land, the terrible beauty of the predators and the serenity of the prey. Or the moods of the place, which were unfathomable. Some days were epic and clear. They made life joyous. On others, depending upon the mood of the land, weather moved in with force or seductiveness. Sometimes rain and wind came from nowhere. Other times they were announced by gentle breezes and cool drizzle. There were baking droughts that lasted for weeks or horrendous floods that came so suddenly people drowned in their sleep. Then there were the nights. Sometimes, like tonight, the skies were so vast and vivid that a man felt as if he were weightless and airborne. Other nights were so close, so choking, that Seronga felt as if he were the only man on earth. On such nights even the crickets seemed as though they were on another world.
If the land had been his god, the lives and accomplishments of his people had been his religion. People invented other gods, he believed, because they feared death. For Seronga, death had always been a normal, accepted part of life. Since he was lucky enough to be part of Africa, he had to accept being part of that cycle. He had never resented it. He had never asked for extensions. Too much of life could be wasted on preparing for death.
Leon Seronga did not doubt the righteousness of what he was doing here. Even if he did not succeed, he would not question what he had done. But for the first time in his life, he wondered if he had been wrong about religion. He wondered if the Vodun gods were behind the spirit of Africa and his people.
Or maybe it is not wonder, he thought. Maybe i? is hope.
For the first time in his life, Seronga felt a sense that things were out of balance. He felt like an outsider in his own land, in his own battle. There were Spanish soldiers in Maun. Priests from a diocese in South Africa. Observers in Rome. Allies in Belgium, France, and even China. More and more tourists on the roads and in the fields. Africa was no longer that pure physical entity he had once known. It was a park for the rich. A battleground for the ambitious. A source of souls and revenue for Rome. And he thought it had been minimized by the United States, when it became a cause for environmentalists and a laboratory for ethnologists. As if it needed aid and study to stay Africa.
But if Dhamballa was right, maybe Seronga had been finding Africa in the wrong place. Maybe the land and the people were just the manifestation of a greater identity.
Or maybe a veteran Brush Viper is just getting old and scared, Seronga had to admit.
That thought came with a little smile. He did not like to think of himself that way, but maybe it was time. Seronga had seen old lions stand in the brush and watch young members of the pride lead the hunts. He often wondered what those elder warriors were thinking. Did they not want to show how slow they had become? Were they too tired to get into the fray?
Or maybe it was something else, Seronga thought.
Maybe a voice inside the old lion was telling him to pick the time and place for a final hunt. There would be a better time for the warrior to become legend. Seronga wondered whether animals, like people, were powered by legends. And maybe those legends were the real essence of a people.
That was what led Seronga to wonder if Dhamballa might be right.
The gods of which Dhamballa spoke might be nothing more-or less-than ancient warriors who fell in combat and were immortalized in stories. After all, Seronga asked himself, what were gods but idealized beings? They were entities who could not be challenged or assailed, whose purpose was clear and perfect. Whether they were fancy or spirit did not matter.
By keeping these memories alive, the nature of a people could be sustained. Even if the land was conquered and the inhabitants enslaved and shipped to other continents, the stories could not be erased. The gods could not be destroyed.
"We're almost there," Finn said.
Seronga had constructed giants and eternities in his mind. The driver's very real voice startled him.
"Thank you," Seronga replied. He took a swallow of Coke. The tingle brought him back to the moment. He looked at the map.
The point they were approaching was within the reach of Dhamballa's radio. Even if he had left the base camp, the route he would take would keep him within the circle. As the truck entered that circle, they would finally be able to contact Dhamballa.
Seronga was not sure what he would find when that happened. He did not know how Dhamballa had reacted to the assassination. He did not know how that would affect their next rally.
They passed a small, kidney-shaped lake. The stars shone back at themselves from its surface. A few minutes later, Seronga spotted the dark silhouette of Haddam Peak. The 2,000foot mountain stood alone in the northeast. Seronga recognized the distinctive hooked tor blocking the stars. It was the last landmark on the map. The truck was entering the call radius. The Brush Viper opened the rusted glove compartment. He replaced the map and removed a slender, oblong, black radio. It was a Belgian Algemene-7 unit. Used by the federal intelligence and security agency Veiligheid van de Stoat, it was a secure point-to-point radio with a range of seventy-five miles. Dhamballa had the only receiver.
Seronga pressed the green Activate button on the bottom right of the unit. A red Speak button was to the right. A blue Terminate button was located to the left.
Seronga placed his thumb on the red button. He raised the hooded mouthpiece to his lips.
And stopped. He looked around.
"What's that?" Seronga asked.
Finn peered ahead. So did Maria.
"Where are you looking?" the driver asked.
"At one o'clock," Seronga said. He used the radio to point to his right.
"I don't see anything," Finn said.
"I do," Maria replied. "It's a car. A Jeep."
The woman was right. A small vehicle glinted faintly in the headlights of the truck. It was about one hundred yards away.