Dhamballa turned back toward his mat. He did not answer.
Of all the hapless, trusting fools, Father Bradbury thought. The voodoo priest had done exactly what the priest himself had been trying to do. To engage his opponent and find out what he was thinking. Only Dhamballa had done it better. He
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had gotten the priest to open up, to hope, to trust. In so doing, Father Bradbury had told Dhamballa where and how to seize his next hostage.
As he was led from the hut, the priest wailed in despair.
TWENTY
Maun, Botswana Thursday, 6:46 P.M.
It was as if no time had passed.
Most human bodies have a better memory than the mind. Skills once learned do not go away, whether it is assembling a rifle or holding a pencil. Reflexes and instincts work faster than thought. Even when the limbs age, they have the capacity to recall their abilities and execute many of them. The mind? Leon Seronga could not tell someone how to tie a shoe. But he could show them. He could not remember what he had for dinner two nights ago. But his fingertips could remember the weight of a switchblade he had learned to use when he was a boy. Whenever Seronga took the old knife from his pocket, his hand and arm could run a slash attack on their own.
Seronga sat on his motor scooter looking out at the tourist center. His body told him it was 1966. His senses were finely tuned. His muscles, only slightly impaired by age, were still at hair-trigger readiness. He and his companion, Donald Pavan t, had driven to Maun and rented Malaguti Firefox F15 RR scooters. Dressed in white and blue Dainese scooter jackets, the men had pretended to be recreational bikers as they made their way across the floodplain. They raced through gullies and jumped small hills as they headed away from the city. Now that it was nearly dark, the men had stopped to keep an eye on the tourist center. If everything was all right, they would contact the men at the edge of the swamp. They would proceed to the Church of Loyola in Shakawe to kidnap the priest there. Seronga expected that he would be guarded now, probably by local police. The military would not want to give mis a high
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profile. Not yet. But whoever was there, it would not matter. There was always a way in.
Seronga and Pavant had come here to keep an eye on any surreptitious developments at this church. The Brush Vipers wondered if the archdiocese in Cape Town, perhaps the Vatican itself, would let the violation of this place go unanswered. Would the Church respond with calm or would they send a battery of priests? Perhaps they would send nuns to see if women were vulnerable.
The secure phone provided by Genet beeped. The call from the Belgian gave Seronga his answer.
'Dhamballa just spoke with our guest,' Genet informed the leader of the Brush Vipers. 'As we anticipated, there is a new one coming over. We were told that a bishop is due in Maun tomorrow afternoon. Two individuals from your locale will be meeting him at the airfield.'
'Is this new arrival traveling alone?' Seronga asked.
'That's what we were told,' Genet informed him.
'Where is he coming from?' Seronga asked.
'The United States,' Genet replied.
'Interesting.'
'Very,' Genet said. 'That automatically makes it a global affair and guarantees the interest of international press if something happens.'
Any move against him could draw America into this conflict in some capacity. Probably in a demarche, intense diplomatic activity. Possibly even a military one. There was a zerotolerance policy for terrorism. A limited search- and-rescue operation could be called for. On the other hand, the clergyman might simply be bait to capture the abductors. The government in Gaborone might dispatch troops to protect him. Or perhaps the Vatican had made its own security arrangements.
Seronga thanked Genet for the update and hung up. The Belgian did not have to tell him what to do. That had been decided ahead of time. If a replacement were sent for Father Bradbury, he was to be taken. But not with a show of force this time. The abduction of Father Bradbury had been done that way to show the world that Dhamballa had soldiers to use
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if he wished. If Seronga had come back with his army, the Botswana president might begin to fear a brewing civil war. He would have no choice but to call on his own military. Dhamballa did not want that. This time, the kidnapping must be different. It must be very subtle. To slip the priest's replacement away would show Gaborone that this was not a war. It was a dispute. And the dispute was not with Botswana or its people. It was with the Roman Catholic Church. Only later, when Dhamballa had established a strong religious base among the general population, would he use his ministry to impact nationalism and politics.
Seronga briefed Pavant. The thirty-three-year-old was the youngest of the Brush Vipers. He was also one of the most militant. Born and raised in Lobatse on the South African border, Pavant was exposed to refugees from apartheid. Pavant believed that Africa was for native Africans and their descendants. He was one of the first men to discover Dhamballa and his ministry.
The men waited a quarter of a mile from the tourist center. They sat on their bikes, shielded by the darkness. They ate chicken sandwiches they had picked up in Maun and watched the dirt road for headlights. They did not speak. After five hours on the bikes, the silence felt good.
