late.' It was, 'Daddy does not live at home anymore.'
Over the past few weeks, there was one thing Hood had learned. He could not dwell on what went wrong with his marriage. That only caused him to beat himself up. He had to look ahead.
Hood propped his two pillows against the headboard. He set the alarm clock for five A.M. and took off his shoes. Then he lay on the bed with his pasta. A thirteen-inch TV sat on the night table to his right. He punched it on. The Discovery Channel was showing a documentary about mummies. The Discovery Channel was always showing documentaries about mummies. Hood did not bother to change the channel. At least these were Aztec mummies instead of Egyptian mummies.
Hood was exhausted. After a few minutes, his eyes began to close. He put his half-eaten meal on the night table and turned off the TV. His brain told him to get out of his clothes. To turn off the light. To shut the window in case it got too cold.
His body did not want to move.
His body won, and in a few minutes, Hood was asleep.
TWENTY-NINE
Maun, Botswana Friday, 8:21 AM.
The bus to Maun would be arriving in a little over a half hour. Seronga and Pavant found peanut butter and bread in the pantry. They made two sandwiches each to eat on the veranda. They also made four more sandwiches to take with them. Once they met up with trucker Njo Finn and left with the bishop, they would not be able to stop for food.
At least they would not be returning to the belly of the swamp. Seronga was happy about that. Even though they were a few months short of the fall malaria season, the Okavango region was ground zero for the disease. When he had left for the tourist center, Seronga saw what he thought were a few of the distinctive, humpbacked anopheles mosquitoes that carried the disease. He was not so much concerned about his own health or that of the Brush Vipers. He was worried about Dhamballa. They could not afford for him to become ill and seem infirm.
The men would be joining Dhamballa at the southern edge of the swamp. They would hold a rally at the diamond mine where Dhamballa once worked. Then they would move their camp to Ghanzi, a town just north of the Kalahari Desert. The prisoners would remain behind on the island with a unit to watch over them. There, they would be relatively safe from detection. The tree cover protected them from the air. From the water, motorboats would be heard and a defense mounted. The Brush Vipers were prepared to take their own lives rather than be captured. There would be nothing to connect those men to Dhamballa. No uniforms. No documents. No religious artifacts.
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And no witnesses. If the island were taken, Seronga had left orders that the priests would have to die. Like the killing of the deacons, that was one of the difficult choices a military leader had to make. Unlike Dhamballa, he could not afford to adhere exclusively to white magic.
Dhamballa had selected Ghanzi because it was close to the airstrip Albert Beaudin's people used when they visited Botswana. Supplies could be brought directly to them. If necessary, personnel could also be quickly evacuated. The town of
400 was where the priest would establish the first hounfour, a Vodun temple. There would be no permanent physical structure in Ghanzi. A portable poteau-mitan would be erected, the pole through which the gods and spirits communicate with the worshipers. Symbolically, however, the pole-raising ceremony would be significant. It was to be the first public Vodun sanctification of African ground in hundreds of years. If local houngans and mambos, male and female priests, had done their job, thousands of faithful would be in attendance. With that one act, Dhamballa would become a figure of national stature. A day after thousands had proclaimed their devotion, tens or even hundreds of thousands would be emboldened to join the movement.
As the men were finishing their sandwiches, two young men walked over to the veranda. They were dressed in wide khaki shorts, short-sleeve shirts, sunglasses, and Nikes. They wore big, white, Australian outback shade hats. They looked like any members of a photo safari.
They were not.
One man stood a little over six feet tall. The other was a much broader five foot seven or eight. They both had extremely swarthy skin and ramrod-straight posture. They stopped just short of the veranda. The taller man removed his hat and took a step forward.
'Buenas dias, didconos,' he said in a strong voice.
Seronga smiled pleasantly at the speaker. He assumed the man had said 'good morning,' but he was not sure. When you weren't sure what had been said, it was best not to* answer.
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OP-CENTER
'^Puedo hablar con usted por un momenta, didconos honrados?' the man went on.
Seronga had no choice now but to answer. 'I'm sorry, my friend, but I do not understand,' the Brush Viper informed him. 'Do you happen to speak English or Setswana?'
The shorter man stepped forward and removed his own hat. 'I speak English,' he replied in a gentler voice. 'I'm very sorry. We thought missionaries were required to speak many languages.'
'It is helpful but not a requirement,' Seronga replied. He had no idea if what he had just said were true. But he said it with authority. For most people, that was usually enough to make something true.
'I see,' the man said. 'May we speak with you both for a moment, honored deacons?'
'For a moment, yes,' Seronga told him. 'We have to prepare for our trip to Maun.'
'That is what we wish to talk to you about,' the man told him.
The small of Seronga's back began to tingle.
