remainder of the men climbed into the second boat. They fired up the engines and sped into the brightening morning.
The journey northward lasted nearly ten hours. Seronga and Dhamballa had selected a base that was close to the northeastern edge of the swamp. If it became necessary for Dhamballa to escape, the Barani salt pan and the rugged Tsodilo Hills lay to the west. The relatively unguarded border with Namibia was just a short, fifty-five-mile trip to the north.
By the time the men reached their destination, the sun was low on the horizon. It shone in long, tawny red streaks beyond the rich green of the plants and trees. The swamp itself was already dark, its surface like an oily mirror. But there was something different about this section from anything the men had encountered before. A low, symmetrical, treeless hill rose from the water. It was approximately twelve acres of black earth, soil topped with a layer of fertile, gray brown humus. Built on the low-lying hill were five thatched huts. The walls were made of thick, slab-cut pieces of baobab tree. The rooftops were interwoven roots sealed with mud. Battery-powered lights were visible through the thatching of the central residence, which was also the largest of the huts. The other, smaller huts contained cots for the soldiers that were stationed here, supplies, additional weapons, communication and video gear, and other equipment that had been brought in by the Belgian.
Only one structure was radically different from the others on the island. It was an oblong shack about the size of two coffins set back-to-back. Except for the floor, which was made of wood, it was built entirely from corrugated tin. There were iron bars in front and a tin door behind them. The door was open. There was nothing and no one inside.
The waters to the north and east of the small island had been completely cleared of trees, plants, underwater roots and logs, and other debris. The roof thatching used to complete the huts had come from this effort. The work had been necessary in order to create a 150-foot flight strip for the Belgian's Aventura II 912 ultralight. The small, white, two-seat amphibious aircraft could set down on water or on land. Right now, the needle-nosed airplane sat perfectly still in the lengthening blackness. Beside the plane was the seventeen-and-a-half-foot red cedar canoe that Dhamballa used to leave the swamp. It was covered with a fiberglass tarpaulin to protect it from animals looking for a home. Like the airplane, it sat motionless on the flat surface of the swamp. The sixty-pound vessel was tied to a post that had been driven into the shore of the island. The pole was actually a small totem of a loa or god. The three-
foot-high mooring was made of bald cypress that had been carved in the shape of a tornado. The image personified the mighty loa Agwe, the divine force of the sea.
Two armed guards patroled the island at all times. As Seronga and his team neared the southern shore, the sentries turned bright flashlights on them. Seronga and his men stopped.
'Bon Dieu,' Seronga said.
'Pass,' said a voice as one of the flashlights snapped off.
Seronga had uttered their password, the name of their guardian deity. One of the guards left to inform Dhamballa that the team had returned.
The men walked ashore. Seronga quickly removed his boots, watching as the soldier carrying Father Bradbury set him on the shore. The priest fell back, wheezing through the mask, unable to move. The militiaman stood over the prisoner, while another soldier bound his hands. When they were finished, Seronga walked over. He grabbed Father Bradbury under an arm and hoisted him to his feet. The priest's robes were thick with sweat.
'Let's go,' Seronga said.
'I know your voice,' the priest gasped.
Seronga tugged on the priest's slender arm.
'You are the leader,' the priest continued.
'I said let's go,' Seronga replied.
Father Bradbury stumbled forward, and Seronga had to hold him up. When the clergyman regained his footing, the men started walking slowly through the warm, soft soil. Seronga directed the priest toward the main hut.
'I still do not understand,' Father Bradbury went on. 'Why are you doing this?'
Seronga did not answer.
'The mask,' Father Bradbury implored. His voice was breathy and weak. 'At least won't you remove it?'
'When I have been instructed to do so,' Seronga replied.
'Instructed by whom?' the priest persisted. 'I thought you were the leader.'
'Of these men,' Seronga said. He should never have answered the man. Additional information gave him new avenues to poke and prod.
'Then who are we going to see?' Father Bradbury asked.
Seronga was too tired to tell the priest to stop talking. They were almost at the hut. Though the Batawana native was leg weary, seeing the hut gave him strength. It was more than just the soft, welcoming glow through the wood slats. He was renewed by the knowledge of who was inside.
'Forget about me,' the priest said. 'Have you no fear of God's judgment? At least let me save your soul.'
His soul. What did this man know? Only what he had been taught. Seronga had seen life and death. He had seen Vodun power. He had no doubt about what he was doing.
'Look to your own soul and your own life,' Seronga advised.
'I have done that tonight,' Father Bradbury replied. 'I am saved.'
'Good,' Seronga told him as they reached the hut. 'Now you will have a chance to save the lives of others.'
SIX
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 10:18 A.M.
For most of his career, Mike Rodgers had gotten up with the sun. There were soldiers to drill, battles to fight,
