"By your hand?" Dhamballa asked. His voice was a whisper. If disbelief had a sound, this was it.
"Yes," Seronga said. "We killed them. We had no choice."
Dhamballa sat absolutely still. It was the posture of disbelief.
"Jesus wept," Father Bradbury said. He made the sign of the cross, then tightly folded his bony fingers. "How many more people have to die for this insane crusade?" he asked. His hands began to shake. He glared at Dhamballa. "How can you call yourself a holy man when you allow things like this?"
"All religions kill!" Seronga yelled angrily. "When oppression cannot be stopped with reason, what other course is there?"
"Patience," Father Bradbury replied.
"For far too many years we were patient, priest," Dhamballa said. "But I did not want to advance our cause with the breath of the dying."
"No! Yet you knew it could happen when you surrounded yourself with soldiers," Seronga said. "There is not one person here, not one faith or government represented, who has not advanced an idea by killing."
The helicopter came lower, then hovered. A searchlight was turned on. They would spot the men in the boulders.
"Dhamballa, we must get you out of here," Maria said urgently. "You and the priest."
"Yes, you must go," Seronga agreed.
Dhamballa regarded his lieutenant. "What will you do? Fight?"
"No," he vowed. "I will lead the helicopters away."
"How?" Dhamballa asked.
"I don't have time to answer," Seronga said. "Maria, will you take them from here?"
"Yes," she said.
The Brush Viper regarded Dhamballa. "Sir, maybe we could have done things differently. All of us. Perhaps we took on too big a challenge. Or perhaps the faith was meant to stay underground. I don't know. But I do know one thing. You must continue what was very nearly begun here. You must carry it to others. You must live to speak of it."
"And pray for us, sir," Pavant added, his eyes on the sky. "Please do that as well."
Dhamballa nodded silently, sadly. "I will do all of those things." He looked at Seronga. "In the end, we must consider the future, not the past."
Maria stepped around Seronga. She reached into the van, her hand extended toward Dhamballa. He hesitated. Then he accepted her hand and stepped into the night.
"I'll bring the Jeep around," Battat said.
A gentle wind stirred from Seronga's left, from the west. It did not come from the rotor of the chopper. Dhamballa turned his face toward it. There was something poignant about the moment. The Vodun leader seemed to be saying good-bye and looking ahead at the same time.
Aideen took Father Bradbury by the arm and led him toward the Jeep. Pavant and Arrons left to join the other men. Only Maria was left. She turned her back on the men but did not leave.
Dhamballa kissed Seronga lightly on both cheeks. Then he pressed his left index and middle fingers to the Brush Viper's forehead. He drew the finger down along the bridge of Seronga's nose to his nostrils.
"May the gods look down and preserve you," Dhamballa said. He put a palm over his own eyes. "May they also forgive you."
"Thank you," Seronga said.
Dhamballa lowered his hand. He held it out, palm up, and exchanged a knowing look with Seronga. Then he turned and left with Maria. Seronga walked after Pavant. He stopped and turned back.
"Maria!" he shouted.
"Here!" she called back.
"Get home safely," he said. "All of you. And thank you."
"We will meet again, I hope," she replied.
The Brush Viper continued after Pavant. He did not believe that he would ever see Dhamballa or the others again. The helicopter spotlight was playing across the terrain, picking out the rock formations and studying them. The crew had to have seen the Brush Vipers.
Seronga would lead them away in a few minutes. Part of him hoped the helicopter followed. He did believe in Dhamballa and his work. He believed in it because he believed in Botswana. In Africa. In the people among whom he had lived and fought and laughed. He could not have asked for a more fulfilling life. Or, if it came to that, a more fulfilling death.
Prince Leon Seronga moved from one small group to the next. He told the men to get back into the vehicles and head north. He told them to move in different directions to make pursuit more difficult.
"What do we do if we are fired upon?" Arrons asked.
"I would prefer that you stay hidden and escape when you can," Seronga replied. "If necessary, fight back. If it is absolutely necessary, surrender."
"What will you do?" Pavant asked.
Seronga thought before answering. "I must clean the black magic from Dhamballa's hand," he replied.
"The killings?" Pavant asked.
"Yes."
"How can that be done?" Pavant asked.
Seronga smiled. "By me, and me alone. I want you to join the others before the helicopters arrive."
Pavant lingered for a moment. He saluted his commander with a sharp, clean snap. It was the first time that Seronga could remember Pavant saluting. Then he turned and ran into the darkness. Soon, all Seronga heard was the beat of the helicopter rotor and the growl of the engines as the trucks and vans slipped away.
He hunkered down beside one of the boulders. But he did not pick up any of the weapons. He simply watched the helicopter. And he made sure it saw him for a moment. Soon, other lights appeared in the distance. The squadron was corning. One of the helicopters would have to land to make sure this area was cleared of Brush Vipers.
It would be, very nearly.
Seronga unholstered his pistol and thought about the land. He thought about the night and about his life.
Seronga had no regrets. In fact, he felt surprisingly at peace. When all of this was done, his body would still be a part of this great continent. His spirit would be part of an eternal collective.
In the end, that was the most anyone could ask for.
After a few minutes, the scout helicopter landed. Troops emerged. They were fast-moving silhouettes in the bright searchlights mounted to the side of the chopper.
Seronga counted ten of them. The men went from rock to rock, securing each position. They were good, these kids. They moved well. He wondered how he would have fared if he were their age, competing with them.
Then the soldiers noticed the tracks of the vans. The men pointed to the north and northwest.
Eventually, the soldiers headed toward his position.
Seronga fired at the nearest soldiers. Not to kill. Not to wound. Simply to delay. They hit the ground, rolled behind the boulders, took shelter while they covered one another. These kids were very good. They belly-crawled to new positions so they could triangulate fire on the rock.
After a few minutes, it became clear that Seronga could delay no longer. He did not know if they would take him alive. He did know they would probably beat him for information. Or perhaps drug him. Only the latter scared him. He also knew what his fate would be for murdering the two deacons.
With gratitude for the life he had lived, Prince Leon Seronga put the barrel of the pistol to his temple.
He fired.
Chapter Sixty-One
The tension in the office was not like anything Paul Hood had ever experienced. Hood, Rodgers, Herbert, and McCaskey sat in their chairs, waiting. Lowell Coffey had joined them. No one was talking because there was nothing to talk about. There had been no further word about the Japanese or the Europeans. Everyone was focused on the situation in Botswana.
Hood could tell that Herbert was not comfortable with the silence. It was not in the man's gregarious nature to be silent among friends. After shifting in his wheelchair several times, Herbert finally spoke.