"I am not," Dhamballa said. He looked back. His face was dark, but his head was haloed by the candle's orange glow. He looked very young, very innocent. "I have found the truth. I am preparing to bring it to others."
"Does that include me?" Father Bradbury asked.
Dhamballa now turned around fully. He stood. Dhamballa was a tall man, well over six feet. He was barefoot and dressed in a brown, sleeveless robe that reached to his ankles. "What do you know of Vodunism?"
The word itself made Father Bradbury feel unclean. He looked down at the cup of water. It reminded him of the Baptist. What is elemental to one is holy to another. That made him feel a little better. Besides, the Vatican had established guidelines that enabled missions to exist harmoniously with indigenous faiths. The most important was to open a dialogue with the leaders of those faiths. Not to remain a mysterious, threatening secret.
"I know nothing about Vodunism," Father Bradbury replied. He did not want to tell what little he knew about voodoo or the black arts. He could not risk misspeaking and insulting his host. As long as they kept talking, as long as they opened up to one another, the priest had hope.
"But you are acquainted with the term," Dhamballa continued.
"Yes," the priest admitted.
"What is your perception of Vodunism?" Dhamballa asked.
The priest considered his words carefully. "It is an ancient set of practices. I have read that your beliefs are rooted in nature. In the elementals, if you will. Your rites are said to employ herbal mixtures that can control the will, raise the dead, and perform other acts of the supernatural."
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"That is part of it. Some of our 'practices,' as you describe them, are at least eight thousand years old," Dhamballa said.
"Your history is great," Father Bradbury agreed.
"Our history?" Dhamballa said. "We are more than an accumulation of years and events."
"Forgive me," Father Bradbury said immediately. "I did not mean any disrespect."
"In truth, priest, you know nothing about the heart of my faith," Dhamballa went on.
"No," Father Bradbury admitted.
"How can you know anything?" Dhamballa asked. "In the fifteenth century, your priests came to Africa, and later to the West Indies. They baptized my people to save us from a 'profound evil.' Growing up in Machaneng, I knew priests. I watched them. I saw how they promised the poor riches in the next life."
"They are there," Father Bradbury assured him.
"No," Dhamballa replied. "The riches are here. I saw them when I worked in the diamond mines. I watched as good Christians took our wealth from us, and the priests did nothing to stop them."
"It is not our job to restrict the actions of others," Father Bradbury said.
"You did not speak against it."
"Why would we? They broke no laws," the priest observed.
"They did not break your laws," Dhamballa said. "The laws that the British brought here and that subsequent governments retained. I do not recognize those laws."
Father Bradbury wanted to say, Clearly you do not. But that would not have helped him.
"I judge all men by one measure, and that is truth," Dhamballa said. "When I worked in the mines, I also saw the living faith of Vodunism. I saw men who could cure the hurt, the weary, the despairing with a touch, a prayer, a potion." He pointed a finger at Father Bradbury. "They explained to me that they practiced in secret because those whom you have converted also regard them as evil. And yet these are arts my ancestors took with them when they migrated to the Middle
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East. They are skills that could very well have been used by your own Savior, Jesus Christ. White arts to heal, not black arts that hurt."
"The powers of our Savior belonged to Him because He is the Son of God," Father Bradbury said.
"We are all sons of God," Dhamballa replied. "The question is, which god? Jehovah or Olorun?"
The cult leader moved forward slowly. Father Bradbury noticed there were snakes tattooed on the backs of his wrists.
"My faith is as old as civilization itself," Dhamballa said. "It was ancient when your religion was not yet conceived. Our rites and our prayers have passed unchanged since the earliest days of man. Not just the black magic but the white magic, the arts your priests ignored as they had us flogged and hanged. We used mandrake to kill pain, rattles and drums to stimulate blood flow and cure illness, stimulated human glands by the consumption of animal meat and blood. Our priests do net just talk about miracles. They work miracles, every day, guided by Agwe, the essence of the sea; by Aida Wedo, the rainbow spirit; by Baron Samedi, the guardian of the grave; by Erinle, the heart of the forest; and by hundreds of others. The fortunate ones are taught in dreams and visions. These spirits give us the power and the wisdom to generate, to regenerate, or to destroy."
"Are you one of the fortunate ones?" Father Bradbury asked.
"I am among the blessed," the leader said with humility. "I am the priest of the serpent spirit Damballah. I have adopted a form of his name in tribute. My sacred task is to clean the nation of disbelievers. I must do that or else I must prepare the way for Ogu Bodagris, the great spirit of war. He wishes to reclaim the home that was once his."
Just a few minutes before, the idea of John the Baptist had brought Father Bradbury a feeling of peace. It was frightening to think that Dhamballa saw himself in that same way. John was a bringer of light and eternal salvation. Dhamballa was a harbinger of darkness and damnation. Even if it cost Father Bradbury his life, the priest could not allow this war to happen.
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Words, he reminded himself. Use them as you have in the past. Get him to open up.
"There must be a way to resolve our differences without bloodshed," Father Bradbury said.
"There is, most definitely," Dhamballa replied. "Withdraw your people. Return our nation to us."
"But Botswana is home to many of us," Father Bradbury replied. "I am a citizen. So is Deacon Jones and many others. We have spent much of our lives in Maun."
"It cannot be your home because you came uninvited," Dhamballa replied. "You came here for one reason. To try to conquer the native faith of Botswana. Your people are the ones who have made war on us." Dhamballa pointed to Father Bradbury's forehead. "A war of ideas. They will be crushed."
"You speak of a different time, a different church," Father Bradbury assured him. "We respect other religions, other religious leaders. We wish to coexist with you."
"That is not true," Dhamballa replied.
"I tell you it is," Father Bradbury replied.
"Pick up the telephone," Dhamballa told him.
Father Bradbury was caught off guard. He walked to the table and lifted the cordless receiver. It was larger than any telephone he had ever seen. It looked more like a walkie-talkie.
"Call your parish," Dhamballa said. "Speak with your deacon. Ask who is coming to the church."
The priest did so. Deacon Jones answered. The missionary was surprised and excited to hear from Father Bradbury.
"God is merciful! How are you, Father?" Jones asked.
The deacon's voice was coming from the back of the receiver as well as the front. This was a portable speakerphone.
"I'm well," the priest replied. "Deacon, tell me. Is someone coming to Holy Cross?"
"Yes," the deacon replied. "A bishop is arriving tomorrow from Washington, D.C., to minister in your absence."
"A bishop?" Bradbury said.
"Yes, Bishop Victor Max," Jones said. "Deacon Canon and I are going to Maun to meet his plane when it arrives. Father,
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talk to me-where are you? Are they treating you well?"
"I am fine," the priest said. "Is anyone else coming to the church?" Father Bradbury asked.
"No," the deacon replied.
"Are you certain?" the priest asked.
Dhamballa held out his hand. Father Bradbury handed him the telephone. The Vodun leader punched it off.
"You see?" Dhamballa said.
"A bishop is coming," Father Bradbury said. "A single clergyman. I'm certain he has been sent to tend to the needs of the people I left behind. My flock. My followers. He is no threat to you."
The priest spoke softly and with great compassion. But as he awaited Dhamballa's reply, Father Bradbury had an uneasy feeling, a sense that he had just made a terrible mistake.
"He is no threat," the voodoo priest repeated disdainfully. His dark eyes glared at the priest. "As I suspected, they will replace one with another."
"As you suspected?"
"They send one mightier in rank and from another nation, daring us to defend ourselves," Dhamballa said.
"You used me," the priest said angrily. "You didn't know anyone was coming-"
"They are daring me to go after him," Dhamballa said more to himself than to Father Bradbury. "But Leon expected this. We will postpone visiting the other churches to deal with this great man from America." His eyes shifted to the soldier. "Grinnell, return the priest to the hut."
The soldier took Father Bradbury by the arm. The priest tried to wrench it free.
"Wait!" the priest said. "What is going to happen now?"
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.
At a few minutes before nine o'clock, the evening bus from Maun pulled up to the front gate of the tourist center. Seronga asked for the binoculars. Pavant reached into the small equipment locker on the back of his bike. He removed the case and handed the binoculars to Seronga. The leader of the Brush Vipers peered across the dark, still floodplain.
There were several things odd about the group. The size, for one. There were about twenty-five new arrivals. That was a large number for this time of year. Most of the large tour groups came when the weather was cooler. Seronga watched carefully. They were all carrying duffel bags as well as having suitcases stored below. The bags had a sameness to them, as if the tourists had packed an identical amount of clothes, the same number of personal items. Individuals on a trip did not do that. Seronga also noticed that no one had .plastft bags or
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souvenir caps, the kinds of things one typically picked up in airports or local gift shops.
And one thing more struck Seronga as very unusual. Most of the tourists were men.
"It looks as if a lot of people came in," Pavant remarked.
"Too many," Seronga remarked.
As Seronga watched, there were other things that made him uneasy.
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br /> Genet and Dhamballa had set out very strict guidelines for Seronga and his Brush Vipers to follow. Clergymen were to be captured as nonviolently as possible. None was to be martyred, even if it meant aborting a mission. Care was to be taken so that parishioners were never harmed.
Military or police action taken against Dhamballa or the Brush Vipers was to be met with deadly force. Dhamballa did not like killing. It angered the gods. But Seronga did not have enough soldiers that he could afford to lose any of them. He argued that self-defense was not an evil act. He also did not want his people captured. A prisoner who had been tortured, his brain rewired, could be made to say just about anything. A show trial could be used to discredit Dhamballa.
Reluctantly, Dhamballa had agreed to killing under those conditions. But neither man had expected things to reach that stage this early.
Seronga continued to study the group. The truth was, he had no way of knowing whether these were tourists or soldiers traveling incognito. He could not see if they were black or white. They might have come from Gaborone. Perhaps the United States sent them from the embassy to look after their cleric. The Americans had soldiers stationed there. These could have been selected from their ranks. Perhaps they would go touring when the deacons went to Maun to meet the American cleric. Perhaps the tourists would be watching for any attempts to abduct the new arrival. The bishop could not be allowed to reach the church and resume Father Bradbury's work. If he did, priests and field missionaries might be encouraged to stay. Dhamballa could not afford to let that happen.
"How is their posture?" Pavant asked.
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"Excellent," Seronga said.
"Then they can't be tourists," Pavant said. "They always slump."
"Yes, and when these people got out, several did stretches," Seronga said. "They seem accustomed to traveling great distances." He handed his companion the binoculars. "And look at how they're moving."
Pavant studied the group for a moment. "They're passing each other bags as they unload them."
"Like troops," Seronga said. "Let's give them a while to settle in, and then we'll go over."
Seronga took the binoculars back. He continued to watch the bus until it pulled away. The more he saw of the dark figures, the more convinced he became that something was afoot.
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 09 - Mission of Honor Page 14