by Peter Riva
“Yes, Sheila, hold your people in place, reestablish the camp, but move it at least a mile or more away. We’ll use it, and we’ll pay the fare. And one more thing, your clients will get back to Wilson before we do, so you have to make sure to tell them, before they land, that if Ube had reason to get your clients out secretly, whatever his reasons were, it is serious and if they value their lives they will not, I repeat, not talk with anyone. And keep them at the airport. Over.” Sheila said she understood and signed off.
Wolfgang looked over at Pero and simply said, “I guess you’ll be leaving then. The pool is full; I was thinking about draining it, but you might as well use it before you go while you wait for transport.” It was as friendly a gesture Pero had ever heard the owner of the Oasis make.
CHAPTER 4
Jija katika Hatari—Flee into Danger
Pero immediately left the office after securing Wolfie’s promise to keep everything secret and asked Amal to bring Mbuno to join him on the verandah outside his room.
It took Mbuno seconds to hear what Pero knew and to assess a course of action. “You have asked for a plane?” Pero nodded. “Visas for Tanzania are ready.” It was a statement. Mbuno was completing a mental checklist as Pero knew he would. If Pero was the producer, it was always Mbuno who seemed to know the right course of action. Mbuno asked, “Who do we need . . . to come with us? We are a team, well perhaps not the two assistants and certainly not the minder. But I think Heep and Mary and Susanna will insist they help you somehow.” Pero wanted to make the point that he already knew they all would have to act in support of Mbuno, Mbuno’s plans, and Mbuno’s expertise.
Mbuno had been involved in “The Troubles,” the time of the Kikuyu-based Mau Mau Uprising, as part of the anti-terrorist forces. It made him an enemy of certain people in the mainly Kikuyu government, even though he had been awarded Kenya’s highest civilian medal for his role in stopping the al-Shabaab terrorists who had tried to commit an atrocity that would have been totally unforgivable—roasting over one hundred thousand people in the Kibera slum alive. While Pero had been roped in by the CIA to solve the clues leading up to thwarting the terrorists’ plans, it was always Mbuno’s expertise that had kept them alive. That and Mbuno’s ability to compare men to animals and accurately assess their animal behavior.
Pero went on to explain what he had put in place, to see if it met Mbuno’s needs. “Okay, I have a Mara Cessna 414 along with two pilots—so we can have twenty-four-hour standby transportation. Sheila at Flamingo is leaving the two Land Rovers and drivers in place, but they will immediately move the camp at least a mile away. Then they’ll wait for us at the Moyowosi airstrip . . . do you know it?” Mbuno nodded. “Hopefully, I have Gibson Nabana holding the men being flown back to Wilson Airport so they do not spread rumors or tell anyone if they may have seen anything in the bush. Ube clearly saw something, but the three clients may or may not have; we’ll know when we talk with them.” Again, Mbuno nodded. “Heep will review any film, video, or whatever they have quickly and tell us if he sees anything, a clue, anything. That’s all I have.”
Mbuno was silent for a moment. “It is my fault. I have raised Ube with a strong knowledge of right and wrong . . . right and wrong with man, right and wrong with men. If he saw something wrong, he would have stayed behind to stop the bad thing. He would make sure his clients get away.”
“I know, Mbuno, I know. But what worries me is that Sheila said he told the two bearers to take the three clients back to the Land Rovers—crawling on their bellies. That means the danger was real and very close. And then there is the gunshot . . .”
“Ndiyo, it is not good he was so worried. The gunfire does not worry me so very much. Ube is very fast, they would have needed more than one shot. He may have seen the danger, stayed on the ground in case he needed to . . . how do you say it? Kufanya lengo tofauti . . . ah, to make a different target . . .”
“To decoy?”
“Yes, to decoy the bad men away from his clients. But also, he may not be in danger since the clients got away.” He paused, “But what is most worrying is that he may still be there, on foot, in a place of danger. It is a hunting reserve, not a protected national park.” Mbuno stood. “We must go.” It was a statement between them, a statement of brotherhood, of camaraderie, a reaffirmation of common purpose. Pero felt proud of Mbuno’s need for Pero to go along.
During the incidents in Berlin, Mbuno had declared Pero and him to be brothers, a great honor for Pero. Now Pero was determined to live up to Mbuno’s faith in him.
Pero knew that Heep, Mary, and Susanna, along with the two assistants, would have everything packed and loaded into the Land Rover within an hour. Sheila radioed Wolfie that the Cessna was on its way—estimated time of arrival was eleven, two hours later. That gave the team plenty of time to talk things out.
Pero took the two assistants outside, stood under a doum palm tree in the center of the Oasis compound, and addressed them as the professionals he knew them to be. “Change in plans.” Briefly, he told them what had happened.
Pero was impressed that Tom and Nancy did not ask why Ube was missing, just how they could help. “Look, I don’t know exactly what’s happened, just that a close friend is in danger and we may have to extract him from a hunting game reserve in Tanzania. What I need from you two is help, not in that endeavor, but in keeping the shoot moving forward.” They both nodded. “We’re taking off for Wilson Airport in two hours. I do not know who is staying in Nairobi with you; that is up to a discussion we will have after consulting with people meeting us at the airport. But I want you to go to the Intercontinental Hotel. I’ll call them when we arrive at Wilson and book us all in. Stay put, full salary, of course, review the footage we have shot, make safe copies, you know the drill, and wait for word. If Heep, Mary, and Susanna do not stay on at the Interconti, we will keep you informed as best we can from Tanzania. Okay?”
Nancy spoke for them both. “Sure thing, Pero, easy. Will Heep leave the Betacam for me to service?”
Pero thought he would and again expressed his hope that Heep, Susanna, and Mary would stay behind as well. “As soon as I know what the issue is in Tanzania, we’ll have a better idea who’s where and why, but I suspect it’ll be just me and Mbuno going to Tanzania.” Tom gave a chuckle, and Pero frowned. “Why, what are you thinking?”
Tom held up his hands, “My guess is they will all want to go wherever it is you’re headed. We heard the stories of your exploits in Nairobi and Berlin . . . you’re a team.”
Pero could only nod. It was already worrying him that his friends might put themselves in danger. Again.
The dirt airstrip at Loiyangalani had the usual herd of goats grazing on the field when the Cessna made a low pass, scaring them out of the way. It banked a sharp left, circled, and made a perfect landing, billowing clouds of sand and dust. The Land Rover was waiting, with Tom and Nancy in charge of loading. The two pilots gave a hand, and soon the locally hired Land Rover was headed back to the Oasis Lodge to pick up passengers.
Wolfie warmly said goodbye to everyone except Pero, whom he took aside and whispered conspiratorially, “I have a portable RT set; want to take it with you? I would if it were me.”
Pero knew Wolfie relied on that means of open communication. He was the first person in Africa to talk with the Mir space station and the shuttle. He had maybe four hundred call-sign postcards from around the world on his wall. But Pero could not see the need to carry an extra radio, and his face showed his doubt.
Wolfie persisted, “I will monitor here, and you can ask Sheila to do the same . . . you never know when you might need the cavalry, again.” The again made Pero raise his eyebrows, so Wolfie added, “Yeah, well, that little party in Nairobi was Gott verdammt wunderbar.” (Goddamned wonderful.) “Those beschissen”—(God-awful)—“al-Shabaab needed killing. We were listening.”
The we Wolfie was referring to no doubt meant half the world—call signs of friends on Wolfie’s wall told the
story of connections without national boundaries.
Pero gave in. Wolfie patted him on the back and handed him a small canvas stiff-sided case. Pero peered inside at the olive-green metal box, dials, and headset. Wolfie added, “All you need is any car battery. We’ll be listening. I set the frequency, and it’s also taped to the bottom.” Pero thanked him and was the last to get into the Land Rover. Mary waved to Wolfie as they drove off.
Wolfie waved back with both hands. Pero, ever the responsible producer, thought, He never asked for the other two days’ rooming costs. I’ll have to make sure he’s covered.
CHAPTER 5
Wilson Airport, Nairobi
The two-hour flight back from Loiyangalani was, as usual, bumpy in the mid-morning heat rise. As their Cessna touched down, there was the familiar skidding sound of tires on the hot tarmac, accentuated by Susanna quietly retching into the airsickness bag provided. Pero rubbed her back and silently wondered if his wife was getting some sort of local dysentery.
The plane taxied past the refueling tanks and on toward the Mara Airways’ concrete apron, following the faded painted white lines on the taxiway. Halfway to the Mara Airways disembarking area, the pilots shut off the left engine and called back to Pero, “We’ll drop the stairway as soon as we get to our station. Sheryl says she has a policeman waiting for you in her office.” Pero knew the office, with one faded red plastic leatherette couch, one old Coke machine, a couple of chairs at a desk with three phones, a window facing the Mara loading apron so Sheryl could keep an eye on all operations, and, unusually, one of the few working Mitsubishi AC units at Wilson. Sheryl had proved herself more than capable of running Mara Airways for over a decade, and Mara’s investors, mostly South African millionaires, simply left her to it and gave her anything she asked for. She was, for all intents and purposes, the boss.
As soon as the stairway dropped onto the tarmac, Pero asked Heep to look after Susanna and the crew, motioned to Mbuno to follow, and they descended into the heat, picking up the pace as they trotted toward Sheryl’s cool office. Through Sheryl’s window, Mbuno could see the office was full.
“Gibson! I owe you a Tusker for all this,” Pero exclaimed as he entered the room.
Sergeant Gibson Nabana responded, laughing, “One beer, boss? You will have to buy me a whole crate!” Extending his hand, he took hold of Pero’s forearm as Pero did the same to him. They shook forearms. Then Gibson spotted Mbuno and did a little head bow. “Mzee Mbuno, it is again a great honor.” He used English and Pero understood Gibson wanted to make sure Pero and the whole room knew he was showing proper respect. After all, during the al-Shabaab incident, Mbuno had captured several terrorists, turning them over to Gibson to get the sole credit.
It was also clear Gibson was genuinely humbled. By using an elder’s most respectful title of Mzee, he was acknowledging the older man’s authority. Mbuno nodded in response but stayed otherwise silent. He was studying the three tourists, filthy and mud-dried, seated on the leatherette couch. It was clear they were nervous and out of their element. Mbuno turned to Pero and simply said, “Please.”
“Right.” Pero asked Sheryl if he could borrow a chair. Sheryl pointed to one, and he picked it up and sat before the three men. “May I have your names please, in order, along with residence and nationality.” Pero was banking on Gibson’s uniformed presence to make the tourists talkative in the face of authority.
“I am Harry Winter, Junior, of New York. US citizen.” Harry was sixty if he was a day.
The second man said, “Bob Hines, New York. US citizen.” Then he added, “Former Marine Corpsman, basically a medic, along for possible medical assistance.” He nodded toward Harry Winter. Bob was in his mid-thirties, fit, and sharp-eyed.
The third man, middle-aged and pale-skinned, was fidgeting, turning a wedding band over and over on his finger. He looked up, avoided direct eye contact, and said, “Richard Bachman, Princeton, New Jersey. US citizen.”
Pero decided to go for the weakest link. “Richard, why are you so nervous? Speak up now and fast, or this may drag out for weeks.”
Richard’s head snapped up. “Weeks? We did nothing . . .”
Pero decided to apply a little pressure. He leaned forward and gently said, “Richard, while everything was going along fine, you would have completed your safari and gone home. No one would have been the wiser. But,” he paused, “by the time all your bags, all your prescription pills, all your private possessions, and your computer files and phone records have been searched, do you really think there won’t be multiple charges? So, let’s hear it, now and fast or there will be a search followed by a booking here with Sergeant Nabana taking you to a holding cell while they conduct a more thorough search—and that includes a cavity search.”
Richard Bachman from New Jersey folded like a pack of cards. He started by explaining that Harry Winter was his boss. Mr. Winter owned and operated the largest waste company on the Eastern Seaboard. Winter had insisted Richard Bachman come along on the trip because he was an expert with film still cameras, as it was his hobby. They were down in Tanzania, he really didn’t know exactly where, and had been on safari with a young scout, he couldn’t remember the servant’s name—Pero frowned that Ube was being referred to as a servant—and they had photographed each of the big five except for leopard, so Mr. Winter offered a big bonus if they could get one good shot. They went out early and spent most of the time in the muck, with slippery mud, leeches, and grass that would slice your hand. It was raining, and then the scout had told them to be quiet. “He pointed at this lone tree, and there it was, a leopard. I set the aperture and handed the camera to Mr. Winter who took a string of shots. The whirring of the winding motor made the leopard look straight at us. It jumped down from the tree, and the scout told us to work our way backward. That’s when it happened.”
The ex-Marine started to interrupt, but Pero told him to be quiet for the moment. “Go on, Richard.”
“Well, we had crawled and frog-walked back about a hundred yards, back the way we had come. I figured he was herding us toward the small road we had crossed, another fifty yards backward.”
The Marine interrupted, “A hundred.” Pero nodded at the Marine and then gestured at Bachman to continue.
“There was no way I could have known we were in danger. The two—what are they called—yeah, askari with us only had one rifle. And I was getting leg cramps. So I stood.”
The Marine commented, “Idiot.”
“So what? I’m an idiot? I couldn’t have known.”
Pero wanted the real answer. “Known what?”
“That there were men all around us. They spotted me and started jabbering, loudly. Our guide knocked me down, and we started crawling away in a different direction. It was terrifying; we were in danger, I guess. Anyway, after about an hour of crawling into ditches, swamps, and more muck, the guide spoke quickly with the two askari and then told us to follow one of them, and the other would take up the rear. Then he stole my hat and gave me his. I lost his. The guide stayed behind. We could hear the voices all around but there was this deep ditch, and he made us get in and swim crawl away. That’s all I know. About three hours later we found the Land Rover and left, like he told us.”
The Marine took over. “He told us to bug out, do what we’re told, and we’d get out safely. He stayed behind as a diversion, I guess. We heard a shot a little while later. We don’t know where he is or what happened. We got the Land Rover to the airport at top speed; we never went back to camp. The plane’s pilot was having a late dinner, so we grabbed him, waited for very first light, and flew here. I called the Mara people here, once airborne.”
Harry Winter decided to exercise some muscle. “Look, we did nothing wrong. I demand to speak with the Ambassador. I’m an important—”
Pero finished the sentence for him. “Nothing. Out here, you are nothing. You abandoned your guide in the field. You fled to save your own hide.”
“You can’t speak to me that w
ay—I am an American!”
“So am I, buddy, so am I, and I can just imagine how this is going to look in the New York Times tomorrow.” With that, Pero stood up and motioned Mbuno, Sergeant Gibson, and the ex-Marine to the other side of the room by the Coke machine. “Coke, Bob?” The Marine said thanks, and Pero pushed the buttons.
Pero knew the machine did not take money anymore, but the refrigeration worked fine. He took one out of the bottom slot for the Marine, one for Gibson, and one for himself. Mbuno would, he knew, rather die than drink the sugary liquid. Now, if it was made with honey, wild horses couldn’t keep Mbuno away, he thought wryly.
Pero needed a few more facts. As he saw it, there was really no charge against the three of them. But he figured the ex-Marine might have more field experience to make a real evaluation. Pero took out his wallet from his safari trousers’ front pocket, pulled out a laminated card, and showed it to the Marine. “So, Bob, would you give me the sitrep, please?”
The Marine looked at the CIA identification card, checked the expiration date, and nodded. “Figured something else is happening here. Sitrep, eh?” Bob understood the significance of Pero using the military term for a situation report. “Okay, but do you want these two fellows”—he pointed at Gibson and Mbuno—“to hear this too?”
Pero stared him in the eyes and asked if he remembered scuttlebutt in the Corps about a little terrorist incident in Nairobi a couple of years back. Bob did; he had still been in uniform back then. Pero nodded and simply said, “You’re looking at three of the people who foiled that attack. All three and a few more, including an American lady and her Dutch husband out there.” Pero pointed out the window at his crew, who were standing in the shade. “And, well, maybe also a couple of Marine F-18s I called on for help.”
