A world of organized chaos.
FORTY-TWO
Maun, Botswana Friday, 5:22 P.M.
The streets were darkening quickly as the rattling taxi arrived in Maun. Leon Seronga was glad it was dark. Only the main road had streetlights. Neither Njo Finn nor his truck would be visible to casual passersby. Finn had said he would park on a narrow side street near the town's movie theater. The doors did not open until six-thirty. No one would be there now. After six-thirty, Finn would have moved to the soccer field at the north end of the town. Only a few people were out there at night, kicking a ball by flashlight or lantern. There was a small picnic area where Finn could have parked and waited, unseen.
Seronga had not wanted to go to the soccer field. If he did, others might see what he was going to do.
The Brush Viper had the taxi driver drop them in the square at the center of town. The shops were winding down their activities. Buses were growling down the main thoroughfare. The newer green buses were carrying tourists back to Gaborone. The older ones, lopsided and rusty with patchwork paint jobs, were bringing villagers back to remote areas of the floodplain.
The old Maun theater was across the street. Seronga saw Finn's truck parked in the shadows.
'Are you certain you will not need me for anything else, Eminences?' the driver asked.
'I am certain,' Seronga said. The Brush Viper walked around to the window and paid the man. The fare-was seventy pulas, the equivalent of twenty'Seven American dollars. Se-
274
OP-CENTER
ronga gave the driver twenty-five pulas above the amount on the meter.
The driver looked up. He smiled widely. 'Thank you, Eminence. You are very generous.'
Despite the pressure of the moment, Leon Seronga took a long look at the man's face. He looked at flesh baked by years of heat. At eyes bloodshot from long hours and a long, hard life. But what a magnificent face it was. The face of a man, a pillar of this nation, of their race. These were the people that the Brush Vipers were fighting for. Hardworking Botswanans.
'You deserve this and more,' Seronga replied warmly.
The taxi pulled away. Leon Seronga stepped onto the sidewalk and joined Pavant. The other Brush Viper was standing behind a telephone booth, away from the lights of the taxi. He was scowling as he watched for the taxi with the Spanish passenger.
'It's coming,' Pavant said.
Seronga stood beside him. They looked down the two-lane road. There were a few bicyclists. They were probably local workers on their way home. There were virtually no cars left on the road. The taxi was approaching slowly. Its identification number glowed red in the plastic display on top of the vehicle.
'I want you to do something,' Seronga said. 'Cross the street in front of the taxi. Act as if you're in a hurry, but make sure they get a good look at you in the headlights.'
'And then?' Pavant asked.
'Go to the alley and wait behind the truck with Finn,' Seronga said. 'I'll stay here. If the woman follows you, I'll come in after. If I don't think she's coming in, I'll join you in a few minutes.'
'Do we want a hostage or a casualty?' Pavant asked.
The question was asked casually, but it was not a casual question. Seronga considered their options. A woman's life was at stake. But Seronga also had to consider the future of Botswana.
'If she enters the alley, do what it takes to silence her and get us out of here,' Seronga told him.
MISSION OF HONOR
275
'What if she decides to stay in the taxi and follow us?' Pavant asked.
'Then we'll wait until we're outside of town and take them,' Seronga said. 'I don't think she'll do that, though.'
'Why?' Pavant asked.
'Right now, the woman does not know that we're aware of her,' Seronga replied. 'She does not know about the truck. She has to try to find out why we're here.'
Pavant nodded in agreement. He waited until the taxi was a little closer. Then he walked briskly into the street. The taxi stopped as he crossed. Pavant turned toward the driver. The Brush Viper's face was clearly illuminated by the headlights as he passed.
Meanwhile, Seronga had stepped away from the battered old phone booth. He stood in the recessed doorway of a bakery that had closed for the night. The taxi slowed some fifty meters ahead. It pulled to the curb on the same side of the street as the movie theater. A woman got out. She spoke with the driver for a moment. Then she strolled back toward the theater. The taxi left. The woman went past the movie theater for about thirty meters. Then she turned and walked back.
Seronga was anxious to get going. He lowered himself to his left knee. He withdrew the nine-inch hunting knife from its leather sheath on his right shin. He shielded the exposed blade with his left hand. Seronga did not want to risk it glinting in a streetlamp or passing headlights. He rose slowly and held the knife behind him. He watched to see what the woman did.
She passed the movie theater again. This time, she looked across the street. Seronga did not care whether she saw that someone was there. What mattered was that she not see him clearly. The woman would have to come to Seronga to find out whether he was a deacon, whether he was with the other man. Fighting a defensive battle was
