'What about you?' he asked.
'I'll be there in a minute,' she told him. 'Just goT
Paris did as she commanded. Meanwhile, Maria waited. She listened to random pieces of conversation. The assassin was the airport security guard. Maria was not surprised to hear that he had been gunned down. If he had not been shot on the tarmac, she had half expected to see his body fait from the airplane. He was not only expendable, he was a liability. When
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OP-CENTER
the local authorities checked, Maria was sure they would find a bank box stuffed with cash. It would probably be American currency. A down payment for murder. The woman did not know local law, but she was willing to bet the money would be confiscated by investigators. And, in time, the cash would find its way into other bank boxes.
Maria stood beside the front door. She watched as the deacons emerged from the terminal. She noticed two things at once. First, the man with blood on his arm was only pretending to be wounded. Maria had seen people who had been shot. A gunshot wound was body wide. It could be seen in the victim's posture, in his expression. It was reflected in the concern of others. This man's pain stopped short of his eyes. And his companion was not doing much to support him. He seemed more anxious to get out of the terminal than anything else. Second, the way the man was leaning, there appeared to be a bulge under his left arm. That was where a holster would be for a right- handed man.
Maria walked alongside them as they headed toward the curb. She coughed to get the man's attention. He glanced over. It was the same face from the photographs she had seen.
It was Leon Seronga.
Maria headed back to the cab. She watched as Seronga and his partner got into a taxi. Then she got into her own cab.
'Paris, do you see the white car at the front of the line?' she asked.
'Yes, that is Emanuel's car,' he said.
'I want you to follow it,' she said.
'Follow it?' he asked.
'Yes,' Maria said. 'Keep a car or two between you, if possible.'
'We may not encounter any other cars on the road,' Paris pointed out.
'Then keep a two-car distance,' she said. 'I don't want it to seem as if you are following it.'
'I see,' he said. 'What about the person you came here to meet?'
'He's in that cab,' she said.
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231
'You mean the bleeding man?' Paris asked.
'Yes.'
'And you don't want him to know you are here?' Paris asked.
'That's right. And I don't think he was really hurt,' Maria added.
'I am puzzled,' Paris said. 'You came to meet someone who you don't want to meet. And now you think he isn't hurt even though he is bleeding.'
'Please just drive, Paris,' Maria said. 'It will be easier on both of us.'
'Of course,' Paris said. 'I will do whatever you ask.' He sat tall. He gripped the steering wheel tightly. He was trying to regain some of the professional dignity his questions and confusion had cost him.
Seronga's car pulled onto the road. A moment later, so did the taxicab of Paris Lebbard.
'You know, I can always call and ask where they are going,' Lebbard said helpfully. He held up his cell phone.
'If you do that, and Emanuel answers, it may be the last thing he says,' Maria informed him.
'I see,' the Botswanan said. He fell silent and slouched slightly. His dignity had vanished again.
As for Maria, she felt vindicated. And fired up. She wished that she were driving the car herself. Or better yet, she wished she was on her motorcycle. Or on horseback. Doing something where she was able to move. Burn off some of her energy.
For the moment, though, Maria would have to contain herself and do something that would give her deep satisfaction of a different sort.
She had to call Op-Center with an update.
THIRTY-SIX
Washington, D.C. Friday, 8:40 A.M.
Since the Striker debacle in Kashmir, Mike Rodgers had not spoken very often with Colonel Brett August. When the two men did chat, it was over the telephone or on-line. It was never in person. They simply did not want to look into each other's eyes. They never said that was the reason. They did not have to. They knew each other too long and too well.
