by Dan Fletcher
“Thanks Dafina you’re a star.”
“No trouble at all,” he heard her giggle again as she passed the phone over.
“I think you’ve got some explaining to do,” Damo sounded annoyed but he was talking quietly into the phone, almost whispering. “Not long after I spoke to you this morning a couple of gorillas from the GSU turned up. Guess who they were looking for? They practically interrogated us. Even threatened to arrest us for aiding and abetting a fugitive if they found out later that we had seen you or knew your whereabouts. It’s a good job Rashid didn’t see you at the hospital or I think the boy would have cracked.”
“Shit!” David thought for a moment, “Are you sure they were from the GSU?”
“How the hell do I know? They had ID badges and looked the part,” hissed Damo. “Sort of guys you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, if you know what I mean.”
If they were for real then it meant that the scar-faced man he had seen leaving Tanui’s office might be involved in all this. The man Ngozi had said was Commander Peter Abasi. If he was then David was in a lot deeper than his previous estimations, which were already bad enough. Then again it could all be a bizarre coincidence.
“Was one of them a stocky guy with a flattened nose? Looks like he might have been a heavy-weight boxer.”
“That sounds like the short one with bad breath.” There was a pause, “How did you know?”
“Just a wild guess.”
“Who is he?”
David avoided the question. “Believe me Damo until I’m sure of the facts the less you know the better.”
There was another awkward pause before Damo replied, “OK. I guess I’m going to have to trust you. But whatever you’re doing you’d better do it fast. These guys didn’t seem to be messing around.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” David had almost forgotten the reason for his call, “How’s Koinet?”
“He’s been awake for a couple of hours now and has got movement in his leg. The surgeon seems to think that he’s out of any real danger and won’t need further surgery.”
By further surgery Damo meant amputation.
“That’s good news. As soon as he’s fit enough I want him moved somewhere safe.”
“The doctor said that he won’t be able to walk on the leg for weeks,” replied Damo dismissively.
“I don’t care if you have to drag him,” snapped David. “We need to get him out of there as soon as possible.” Then he remembered who he was talking to, “I’m sorry, it’s just I get the feeling that we haven’t got much time. Do you think that you could grab whatever medication he needs and stretcher him out of there?”
There was a long pause before Damo answered, “I suppose so, where am I taking him?”
The only suitable place to hold Koinet for a while that immediately sprang to mind belonged to Spencer Scott. David didn’t really want to involve Caitlyn’s ex-boyfriend any more than he had already but there seemed to be no other alternative.
“This is what I want you to do...” He gave Damo directions to the lodge belonging to the Friends of the Masai Mara and instructions on what should be said to Scott and the other rangers.
“And Damo...” a blast from the ferry’s horn as it approached caused him to pause mid-sentence. “Be careful. Make sure that you aren’t followed.”
Unfortunately Damo heard the sound too, “Is that a boat?”
“Look Damo I’ve got to go, I’ll call again tomorrow.”
David hung up and sprinted back to the LandRover. By the time he got inside the ramp was being lowered down to meet the concrete causeway. About thirty pedestrians and a few cyclists were waiting to get off the open topped ferry. Behind them were a truck and a couple of cars. He waited for the inbound passengers to disembark and file past before following the Bedford truck onto the ferry.
*****
The crossing took around thirty minutes. David enjoyed the time, feeling the refreshing spray on his face as he hung onto the rail at the edge of the deck. He got a better view of the Indian Ocean when they were half way across. The mouth of the estuary opened up to turquoise waters, a huge sandbar to the right that curved like a scimitar. The cruise liner David had seen earlier was gradually getting smaller as it sailed towards the horizon.
All too soon he was back in the LandRover and driving along the coast road, heading south towards Diani Beach. The difference between Likoni and the main island of Mombasa was dramatic. There were few buildings to speak of, just an endless shantytown that stretched for miles. Eventually he came across a petrol station with a large kiosk that looked open. The windows and door protected by metal mesh.
He pulled over and made sure that the LandRover was locked, it was getting a lot of interest from a group of kids in their early teens on the other side of the street.
David went in and bought a map of the city to make his life easier. Armed with one that showed a good section of the coast including Diani Beach, a sandwich and a bottle of water, he left the shop just in time.
“Hey, beat it!” David shouted as he ran towards the jeep. The taller boy holding the coat hanger left it dangling from the window and sprinted off with his accomplice. They vanished from sight through a gap between two of the rusty tin shacks and David knew better than to chase them. Once inside the shantytown you were on their turf. Worse things could happen to a person than getting lost in the maze of interconnecting alleyways.
David got back in the jeep and carried on down the A14 towards Ukunda. Traffic was almost non-existent, only a few cars passing in the other direction. About fifteen minutes later David saw the sign he was looking for and turned off towards the coast.
When he hit Beach Road David realised that the place was bigger than he had expected. On instinct he went north and few minutes later pulled up in the car lot of one of the larger hotels.
The Diani Beach Resort and Spa was a small piece of man-made heaven. Date and palm trees next to thatched roof buildings. As he headed towards the entrance David caught a glimpse of people sunbathing on loungers at the edge of a bleached white beach. David shrugged. He had to start somewhere.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ngara West, Nairobi
August 18th, 1996
Maliki had decided to pick up Professor Onesimus personally. He needed a distraction, an outlet for the rage he felt eating him up.
“I’m sick of your lies!” spit flew from Maliki’s mouth. “We know that it’s you who has been leaking information to the Americans and the press.”
He whipped back his arm and put all his weight into the punch, the professor’s bottom lip burst open, ballooning up instantly and dripping blood.
“Monster!” spat Onesimus. “You and Moi’s reign of terror will be over soon. I’m not the only one who knows what you’ve been up to.”
Maliki punched him again. His knuckles were bruised but he ignored the pain and kept reigning down blows to the back of the professor’s head. Long after he slumped forward.
“I think he’s unconscious sir.”
Gakere was one of the guards struggling to hold the professor in an upright position. The other was a Kalenjin called Kamau.
Maliki lifted up Onesimus’s head and slapped his face. The professor flinched but didn’t wake up. Maliki let go and his head flopped back onto his chest.
Maliki sighed to himself and walked over to the window. He pulled back the curtain and peered out into the street.
The professor lived on the top floor in an old block of flats on Ngara Road, not far from the university. The four-storey building was falling apart. Crumbling concrete and broken windows, the stairwell stank of urine. Taking the moral high ground obviously wasn’t working out that well financially for Onesimus.
“Take him down to the car and wait for me there.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Gakere.
Maliki watched them drag Onesimus out of the room, his floppy arms looped over their shoulders, feet dragging along the floor.
> Once they were gone he started to search the apartment. It didn’t take long, apart from a writing desk in the lounge and three kitchen drawers there was no other storage space. Maliki leafed through the papers lying on the flip-down desk, mostly lecture notes and household bills, the odd bit of correspondence from students or the faculty. He closed the bureau and noticed a thin drawer concealed beneath it. He pulled on the handle but nothing happened, he increased the pressure and it slid open reluctantly, squeaking in protest.
Inside he found one of Konde’s anti-Moi pamphlets and a thin file containing copies of half a dozen police reports. He put the pamphlet inside and tucked the file under his arm before going through the other drawers. Emptying the contents onto the floor as he went. Satisfied that there was nowhere else to search Maliki left the apartment and closed the door quietly behind him.
As he walked down the corridor he heard the rattle of a safety chain being taken off and one of the doors in front of him opened.
An almost skeletal woman stepped out wearing a dress made from what appeared to be paisley curtains. Doubled over with the weight of the bag she carried. She glanced at Maliki through hazy white eyes and scowled before scurrying back inside her apartment and slamming the door shut. He walked past the crazy old woman’s room and down the stairs.
Outside Gakere was facing away from the armoured Mercedes, watching the street. Kamau was keeping the professor company. Maliki got in the front passenger seat. There was no way he was being sandwiched in the back next to the fat academic. He glanced over his shoulder but the professor was still out cold. Gakere got in without a word, gunned the V8 engine into life and slammed on the accelerator pedal. Tyres screeched and the faint smell of burning rubber came through the air conditioner as they sped away.
*****
They slipped through the narrow archway and the Mercedes pulled to a stop in the courtyard between the main building and the cells.
Maliki turned towards Gakere, “Take him to the basement and soften him up. Let me know when he’s ready to talk.”
Gakere nodded, Maliki got out and strode over to the entrance. He looked up at the CCTV camera and pressed the button on the intercom. The offices were always manned, even on a Sunday night, the men taking turns to do the late shift from the barracks next door. The desk sergeant on duty must have been warned of his arrival by the guards at the gate. He answered immediately.
“Good evening Commander, what brings you in to headquarters so late?”
“Just open the door,” snapped Maliki. “Or I’ll have you thrown in the sand box.”
Situated next to the parade square the sandbox was a three-foot square hole covered with a sheet of corrugated iron. Recruits were put inside for days on end for offences such as insubordination or not maintaining their kit. Known to the men as the ‘hothouse’, during the summer it was over fifty degrees in the hole. Occasionally one of the men died from dehydration. As far as Maliki was concerned it was all part of the process of weeding out the weakest.
“Sorry sir...” the rest of what the mumbling desk sergeant said was drowned out by the loud buzzing of the electronic lock as it opened.
Maliki glared at the sergeant and noticed the young man’s hand trembling as he tried to hold the salute. On another day it might have pleased Maliki, but not today. He was far too preoccupied with events that seemed to be spiralling out of his control. Maliki bounded up the stairs to his office. The light was flashing on the answer machine and Maliki felt his pulse quicken. He sat down in his leather recliner and played the tape.
There were hushed voices in the background and then Lembui started speaking, “Just checking in sir. We’ve been outside the hospital all night and Nbeke hasn’t shown up. One of the nurses on reception claims that he called this morning and the display showed the Nairobi area code. He’s driving an old LandRover. We’ve put out an all points bulletin with a description of the vehicle as well as one of Nbeke. We’re going to head back to Nairobi in the next hour. Time now is 11.40am. Our first point of call will be KWS headquarters.” There was a pause and more muffled discussion before Lembui came back on, “That’s all sir.”
The line went dead and the machine beeped to signify that there were no more messages. Maliki’s face started to twitch. He pressed the button to get a new line and dialled Gupta’s number in Mombasa. He let it ring about twenty times before hanging up and trying the lodge in Tanzania but got the same result. Maliki roared as he slammed down the phone. He should have trusted his gut instinct and had this Koinet picked up from the hospital straight away, something that would be rectified in the morning. The more time that passed the surer he was that the man caught by Nbeke worked for Gupta.
There was a tap on the door, so light that Maliki wasn’t sure that he had heard it. Then there was another slightly louder one.
“Come in!” he barked.
Gakere poked his head through the door, “He’s awake sir and asking for a lawyer.”
“Is he now?” Maliki sneered, “Tell him that I’ll be over in a minute to explain his human rights.”
Gakere looked confused, “Sir?”
“Just do it!”
“Right away, sir,” Gakere backed out of the room and the door closed softly.
Maliki rubbed at the scars to ease the discomfort. He hated not being in control of his own face. Once Nbeke and Gupta were taken care of maybe he would take that trip to Switzerland. A plastic surgeon there claimed that he could use skin grafts from Maliki’s buttocks to cover the welts. Maliki nodded to himself. Once Gupta’s mess was cleared up he would get rid of the annoying tic.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Diani Beach, Mombasa
August 18th, 1996
David walked past the busy reception desk, heading for the steps that led down to the lounge and bar area. An overweight man wearing floral swimming shorts, his bald scalp and shoulders burnt red, was holding up the queue of guests waiting to check in. His accent was thick and guttural. The pot-bellied tourist spoke using slang that David didn’t recognise.
“Give away man! Are you telling me there’s not one spare room in this whole bleeding hotel? A posh place like this, it’s a disgrace.” The man turned to look at the couple behind him and shook his head before continuing, “If that really is the case then you better get wore air conditioner fixed and pronto or there’ll be hell to pay. Come on henny we’re gan doon the beach.”
There was something unnatural about the colour of the woman’s skin that David assumed to be his wife. It was an almost luminous orange. She followed him with her head down as he stormed off. Her straw sunhat almost touching his hairy back, flesh overflowing from a polka-dot bikini.
There were a few wry smiles from the other guests. An olive skinned lady in her fifties, wearing a white see-through dress over her gold bikini, raised a manicured eyebrow. A man carrying a sleeping girl, her head drooped over his shoulder, moved aside to let them pass.
David noticed that there were quite a few children waiting with their parents, a mixture of tiredness and excitement evident on their young faces. With most of Europe on holiday he guessed that this would be the hotel’s busiest time of the year.
The lounge was sleek and stylish. Square-cut sofas and chairs that were low to the floor, made from teak and covered with yellow leather cushions. Some of the sculpted armchairs were clad in zebra print to make them stand out from the others. A single barman was serving drinks to a handful of people.
David glanced out through the patio doors. The guests not enjoying the beach were bathing in the kidney shaped swimming pool or one of its smaller satellites. A man made river ran out from one end of the main pool, it looped lazily around a pumice stone island covered in flowers and small palms before returning to rejoin the other side.
David couldn’t help noticing that nearly all of the people using the hotel’s facilities were white. He perched on one of the cubist bar stools and caught the barman’s attention.
“What can I ge
t you sir?” the welcoming barman had an instant smile that reminded him of Haji.
“I’ll have a Tusker please.”
The barman nodded as if it was a fine choice and returned a few seconds later with a cold bottle and a chilled glass from the freezer. He placed them on a couple of paper drinks mats, taken with a flourish from a silver dispenser.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
David glanced at the bronze nametag on the breast of his jacket. He nodded and lowered his voice, “Information, if you have it Samuel. I’m looking for a man called Deepak Gupta.”
Samuel’s smile vanished for a split-second. He shook his head, “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him.” This time the smile didn’t reach his eyes, “Is he a friend of yours?”
“Not exactly.” David poured some beer into his glass, “More a friend of a friend.” He took a swig, his lips almost sticking to the frosted glass, “I was told he might have some work for me.”
“What kind of work?” Samuel picked up a cloth and started to polish the bar-top. Something in the way he did it told David that he wasn’t just making polite conversation.
“Taking tourists hunting that kind of thing,” he watched Samuel’s face for a reaction over the rim of his glass. “My friend told me that Gupta runs safaris.”
The barman stopped polishing and glanced up and down the counter before answering, “If I was you I would look for work somewhere else. From what I’ve heard around town he’s not someone you want to get involved with.”
David’s pulse quickened, “Do you know where I can find him?”
Samuel shook his head, “Weren’t you listening to me?”
“Look, thanks for your concern but I can look after myself.” David took a 200-shilling note from his pocket and placed it on the counter, “Now, where does he live?”
*****
