by Peter Riva
Copyright © 2020 by Peter Riva
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Riva, Peter, 1950- author.
Title: Kidnapped on safari : a thriller / Peter Riva.
Description: New York, NY : Skyhorse Publishing, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019037926 | ISBN 9781510749009 (hardcover) | ISBN
9781510749016 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Television producers and directors--Fiction. | Safaris--Africa, East--Fiction. | Kidnapping--Africa, East--Fiction. | Terrorism--Africa, East--Fiction. | LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction) Classification: LCC PS3618.I833 K53 2020 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019037926
Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt
Cover photo and illustration credit: © ugurhan/Getty Images (sunset); © Friedemeier/Getty Images (elephant); © in-future/Getty Images (white texture); © focusphotoart/Getty Images (red texture)
Printed in the United States of America
With special thanks to:
Joanne DeMichele—a trusted voice;
Kim Lim at Skyhorse for excellent editing;
Sandy and JoAnn for enduring read-aloud sessions; and my mother, Maria, for setting a high bar that I could not possibly hope to attain.
Dedicated to:
Those readers who want the real East Africa with a rip-roaring adventure thrown in.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Map
Chapter 1 Lake Rudolf, Northwestern Kenya
Chapter 2 Early Morning at the Oasis
Chapter 3 Mamba Kisiwa na Simu ya Dharura—Crocodile Island and an Emergency Call
Chapter 4 Jija katika Hatari—Flee into Danger
Chapter 5 Wilson Airport, Nairobi
Chapter 6 Katika Hatari—Into Danger
Chapter 7 Wanyama—Wild Animals
Chapter 8 A Dirt Road along the Malagarasi River
Chapter 9 Wito Nyumbani, Kwa Makini—Calling Home, Carefully
Chapter 10 Yote Haijawahi Nini Inaonekana—All Is Never What It Seems
Chapter 11 Ube Ni Wapi na Kwa Nini?—Where Is Ube and Why?
Chapter 12 Hatari ya Uhusiano—The Danger of Connections
Chapter 13 Njia Moja Pekee, Mji Mmoja—Only One Road, Only One Town
Chapter 14 Kuoga na Tembo—Bathing with Elephant
Chapter 15 Kambi ya Magogo—The Logging Camp
Chapter 16 Kupata Kuzimu nje ya Hapa—Get the Hell out of Here
Chapter 17 Muda Mrefu wa Kukimbia—A Long Time to Run
Chapter 18 Hospitali na Ubalozi, Nairobi—Hospital and Embassy, Nairobi
Chapter 19 Timu Pamoja—The Team Reunited
Chapter 20 Kuja Nyumbani—Coming Home
Chapter 21 Alfajiri—Early Morning, Interconti Hotel, Nairobi
Chapter 22 Kifungua kinywa na Ukweli—Breakfast and the Truth
Chapter 23 Mipango Yote ambayo Inaweza Kukosea—All the Plans That Can Go Awry
Chapter 24 Kusonga Haraka, Kusimama Bado—Moving Fast, Standing Still
Chapter 25 Dar es Salaam, Tanzania
Chapter 26 Dar es Salaam, Four a.m.
Chapter 27 Wanaotaka Kuna Ndovu—Wishing There Were Elephants
Chapter 28 Futa Reli Kabla—Clear Rail Ahead
Chapter 29 Kimbia, Kimbia Haraka—Run, and Run Hard
Chapter 30 Yupo Pale Kusaidia?—Is There Anyone There to Help?
Chapter 31 Mwisho wa Safari—End of the Safari
CHAPTER 1
Lake Rudolf, Northwestern Kenya
Driving north along the dusty dirt track on the eastern shore of Lake Rudolf with his trusted guide and devoted friend Mbuno, an elder statesman of the Liangulu tribe who was at the wheel, Pero Baltazar was at peace with the world. He was doing what he loved best—filming the last vestiges of the authentic wild. And he was doing it with his wife, Susanna; his best friend, Heep Heeper; and Heep’s wife, Mary. He looked back around the Land Rover, focused his eyes on his wife, and grinned. Her eyes crinkled and her smile reflected her shared sense of calm, safety, happiness, and, above all, the feeling of having escaped the realities of an otherwise very harsh world. Here, in nature, they could let their guard down and simply revel in the filming project they were embarking on.
A great part of television producer Pero Baltazar’s regard for the dry region in northern Kenya was the El Molo tribe that eked out a living, mostly by spearfishing in the shallows. Among the reeds were to be found some of the largest freshwater fish in the world—giant, shallow-water Nile perch that regularly reach up to one hundred pounds. Mighty, peaceful fish; who knows how old? Pero thought.
Moments before, Mbuno had spotted a young El Molo man approaching the lakeshore carrying a four-foot wooden fishing spear with a barbed tip and a long handwoven lanyard. A man, likely the boy’s father, walked by his side, encouraging him.
Stopping the Land Rover in a cloud of dust, off to the side of the road, Mbuno simply said, “He is fishing; it would be very good to film, I think.” No one ever questioned Mbuno. Besides having been through dangerous adventures together with Pero, Mbuno’s knowledge of the wild was unsurpassed. A suggestion from Mbuno was as good as a command for Pero. Everyone piled out and readied camera and sound equipment. Bill “Heep” Heeper, the show’s director and videographer, was joined by his wife, Mary Threte, the show’s on-camera talent. Mary was known to millions as “The Crocodile Lady” for her bravery with and around water reptiles. In a previous documentary that Pero’s team had shot, Mary actually swam with a behemoth of a sea-going crocodile in the open Indian Ocean. It won the team their third Emmy. Pero knew this new show’s popularity was entirely dependent on the capable, beautiful, and brainy Mary and her on-camera appeal.
As Heep and Mary readied themselves, two assistants checked batteries and the Sony Betacam. One of them, Tom Kane, was originally a BBC sound engineer for the brilliant wildlife documentary trailblazer David Attenborough, with several years of field experience. Tom was fit, suntanned, and able. The other assistant, Nancy Breiton, a video equipment specialist on loan from Sony, checked that the camera’s unique color chip was seated properly. Used to off-road adventures in developing nations, she was worried the bumpy drive might have dislodged it. When she gave Tom the thumbs up, he held up the clean white back of the day’s shooting script, and Heep hoisted the camera and performed white balancing. They were ready to shoot.
Watching his crew efficiently ready themselves with haste, Pero thought, This is a real family affair now. Pero’s wife, Susanna, née Reidermaier, the inventor of the Silke Wire, an almost invisible personal microphone, bent over Mary’s collar and made sure her thin microphone system was on and ready. She checked her digital recorder and transmitter connected to the Betacam, a unit no bigger than a cell phone, and mouthed ready to Pero. Everything was indeed ready.
Meanwhile, Mbuno had approached the young El Molo man and his fa
ther and started haggling. Pero saw the surprise on the father’s face when Mbuno asked if they could film the hunt. A price was negotiated, with Mbuno heeding Pero’s rules. Pero believed it was never fair for his crew to be paid by studios for filming wildlife action that was sometimes undertaken by natives who often got nothing in return. If Pero and his team were filming, the rule was that everyone who participated was paid.
Mbuno was proud of his friend Pero; had been for years.
Mary checked her figure-hugging gray wetsuit with red seams, unzipped the top by about six inches, and glanced at Susanna to make sure the mike was still okay. Susanna gave her a thumbs-up. Mary waded into knee-deep water, following about five yards behind the boy who was advancing steadily into waist-deep reeds. The father stood next to Mary, looking anxiously at his son and the fingers of green vegetation moving ever so slightly beyond.
The boy stepped carefully and inched through the shallows into the reed bed, careful not to possibly wake a slumbering giant. Then he stood motionless for nearly ten minutes, spear aloft, waiting. Pero glanced at Heep, who was crouching down at the water’s edge, video running. Pero wondered if they would have to switch to fresh tape but also knew that Nancy had a stopwatch out and was keeping track.
Suddenly, when the spear strike came, the explosion of energy shocked everyone in the crew except the steady Heep. Muscles in fish and man were exerted in a life-or-death struggle through the shallows. The fish took off, its massive power pulling the spear, lanyard, and young man, with only the waving spear indicating the fish’s presence inches below. The boy’s legs kicked as he tried to stay above the water to breathe. Even among the wall of reeds, the power of the fish dragged the boy tens of yards toward deeper water. The father cried out a warning that the boy could not hear. Yet the young man’s training had been sound, for feeling the fish was gaining ground, the boy turned his body sideways, creating a drag on the spear’s lanyard, slowing the monster. When the pace slowed enough, the boy began to dig his heels in the soft mud, head above water, while calling out to his father for help, “Baba, nahitaji msaada!” (Father, I need help!)
The boy’s father had been expecting this. Immediately witnessing the might of the fish, he had already started forward in haste. By the time the son called out for help, the father was halfway to the boy, running against the force of the water, using his arms and hands like paddles. As he reached his son, he called out instructions, “Wewe kuvuta, mimi itabidi kushikilia wewe . . .” (You pull, I will hold you . . .) Placing his arms around the boy’s stomach, he leaned his weight back, both struggling against the force of the fish.
In the shallows, Mary, and on shore, Pero and the camera team, were enthralled by the timeless pageantry. The spearfishing scene was not one they had planned to shoot for the show, yet the three old friends, Pero, Heep, and Mbuno, knew this was an African scene reaching back millennia. Not an artifact as much as life-sustaining, present-day fact. The El Molo way of survival in the desert lake region demanded traditional expertise. And the whole crew knew they were privileged to film and bear witness.
Mary, too, was enthralled, but keeping a wary eye out for the water-ripple trace of any crocodile, she thought, Surely, the death throes of the fish will attract a croc . . .
When the fish finally slowed and rolled onto its side, the father reached underwater and pulled a blade from his belt, passed it shoulder-high to his son who carefully inserted it into the fish’s brain, causing instant, humane death. “Wewe ni wangu!” he cried out in victory. (You are mine.) He and his father beamed with pride. They jointly towed the fish, later to be weighed at over ninety pounds, toward Mary.
Mary jumped into action and helped tow the fish to the shore using what little Swahili she had, “Haraka! Mimi naona maji kusonga . . .” (Hurry! I see water moving . . .)
The father looked over his shoulder and scoffed, “Ni tu mume.” (It is only the husband.)
Slightly out of breath with the load and a sense of hurry, Mary called out to Mbuno, “What is mume?” Mbuno translated and Mary exclaimed, “Oh, the fish’s mate, in such shallow water? Why doesn’t it run?”
On reaching the shore, Mbuno helped drag the fish up the bank and explained, “They go in shallows to lay eggs. Then the man comes and makes them good eggs. He was waiting; he thought she was in the nest on the sand with eggs.” He knelt down and examined the underside of the female, squeezing the flesh. “She has laid, there are no eggs here. It is a good thing.”
The boy’s father, however, had misunderstood what Mbuno was saying about the eggs, thinking Mbuno was saying the fish was no good. The old man began to protest that a price had been agreed upon. Mbuno cut him off but understood the confusion. The father had thought the money being offered was for the fish, if caught. Once the fish was back on shore and the crew did not seem to want it, the father thought the deal was broken. It took Mbuno several minutes to explain that the money was for filming, not for the fish. However, the pride of the father and son, still both smiling, made them insist that the crew take half of the fish as a gesture of extra thanks.
Pero had the fish loaded into the back of the Land Rover. They drove back to the Oasis Lodge where they were staying, cut the fish in half, borrowed some ice for the El Molo father and son’s half-fish, and then, along the way to the rest of their day’s filming, dropped them off, with cash. Pero thought about the morning’s filming. This was a good call—bravo, Mbuno.
That night at dinner at the Oasis Lodge, eating their part of the superb Nile perch, the owner of the hotel, the trim, fit, sun-wrinkled Wolfgang Deschler, ambled over. He was still slightly annoyed at Pero’s largesse, as he called it. “You paid him for the hunt, and then you gave him half the fish? The El Molo are piraten if they think you are made of money . . . I’ll have to pay them double now for the fish I pay them to catch for the hotel.”
Pero was having none of it. He had already angered “Wolfie,” as he had nicknamed him years ago. On arrival this trip, Pero had insisted that Mbuno, their guide and friend, would have a normal guest’s room instead of the concrete bunker normally reserved for drivers and safari help. That argument was short and Wolfie gave in, reluctantly. Wolfie always regretted changes in operating norms in his hotel. Now the argument was over fish. Pero pressed on, “Look, Wolfie, if I had hired them to fish for food, I would have paid them anyway, right?” Wolfie nodded and Pero smiled. “So, think of it this way, you are charging us full price for dinner, even though the fish is free, right? So you and the El Molo are equally, what shall I say, profiteers?” With that, Wolfgang had huffed, then laughed and turned away, getting back to running the only viable hotel on Lake Rudolf’s eastern shore.
CHAPTER 2
Early Morning at the Oasis
Pero Baltazar loved the sun’s first light in the northern provinces of Kenya, especially early morning at the Oasis Lodge at Loiyangalani as he sat on his room’s verandah while his wife, Susanna, slept in. Watching the doum palms gently sway in the breeze, Pero sipped a hot cup of tea, chai, brought to him earlier by the hotel waiter. Eventually, as the sun broke the horizon, Pero thought he heard Susanna stirring, then the bathroom water running. Without turning around to check, he motioned to the waiter, Amal, who was hovering always within eyesight, and asked for tea for his wife. “Tafadhali kuleta mimi kikombe cha chai kwa mke wangu. Na maziwa. Asante sana.” (Please bring me a cup of tea for my wife. With milk. Thank you.)
If a man could love to live with almost nothing, so it was for Pero up here—the coming dry heat, the wind shifts he knew would be timed precisely to noon, and especially the barrenness of the place stretched out before him. And there, in the middle of the vast, flat, desert landscape, slept a shimmering, hurt-your-eyes blue expanse of lake, running like a ribbon south to north, disappearing far into the horizon and eventually feeding the Nile. Pero thought the eastern shore of Lake Rudolf—which he still refused to call by the recent, government-sanctioned, politically corrected name of Lake Turkana—was paradise.
As always, Pero refreshed his memory of this most primordial place on earth. Lake Rudolf had witnessed the earliest advent of man and numerous species of animals, the most famous and largest of which was the Nile crocodile. Pero ran his mental filming checklist—hippos aplenty; camels gone feral; cheetah; packs of wild dogs; snakes, including the dangerous spitting cobra; distant oases with palm trees; and, always, birds that migrated from as far away as Siberia joining resident scavengers, Egyptian storks, and a whole manner of vultures.
Remembering all this, Pero smiled and thought, I wonder what Wolfie’s payback for the fish payment will be this morning? He knew there would be one. Wolfgang ran a tight ship here in the remote northern territory. Regional tribal issues could be difficult, especially if the western side of the lake tribespeople, the Turkana, kicked up a fuss for the tourist dollars that only Wolfgang brought in. The planned new hotels on the western shores of Lake Rudolf also made Wolfgang nervous.
That calm morning, sipping his chai, Pero did not need to wait long to find out what Wolfgang’s retribution would be. Heep and Mary, hand in hand, walked up to Pero’s verandah. Mary was giggling, but Heep was fuming. In his singsong Dutch accent, he said, “You won’t believe it, Pero, Wolfie’s drained the damn pool again!” Pero laughed. “No, it’s not funny, Pero. Every time we’ve come here for the past twenty years, we arrive, sleep, get up in the morning, and the pool is drained.”
“Can’t you use the other one?” Pero asked, smiling broadly, already guessing the answer.
Mary’s cheeks were turning red from suppressed giggling, “Now, now, darling . . .”
Heep looked at her sternly and then at Pero. “Also drained. He actually looked at me and said there was a condom found in the pool, as if it was mine, oh, ours. He said the pools needed to be sterilized! Wolfie’s a germaphobe, there’s so much chlorine in the empty pool now he could sterilize a whole hospital!”
Pero could not help it. He started to laugh. Mary looked pleadingly at her husband as she, too, broke out in open laughter. Heep frowned. “What’s so damn funny?” But his face showed his anger was not real, and his resolve not to laugh was breaking. He gave in.
