Kidnapped on Safari

by Peter Riva

  Heep’s voice came on. “Okay then, we’re over and out until later. Always standby, please.”

  Before he flipped only the Silke Wire switch to off, he heard part of Wolfie’s “Affirma—” and the radio went silent. Pero unplugged the audio and power feeds connecting the Silke Wire, and the radio sprang to life again, listening to the airwaves. They caught the Interconti signing off and Tone Bowman saying he would “get on it right away; I’ll telephone you presently.” Pero hoped he meant research into Zanzi-Agroforestry. Pero felt foolish for spelling that backward and for using the “island” description for Zanzibar, but he figured Susanna and Mary would figure it out quickly enough.

  Pero looked at Bob and Mbuno and knew that they, like him, were comforted to have such good radio communication. However, similarly, they had learned nothing and would now have to wait. Mbuno always seemed to know what to say. “When tracking dangerous animals, it is always best to observe, be patient, then you find their weakness. We may have a long wait.”

  The ex-Marine slipped into battlefield mode and added, “Then we wait. Shifts?”

  Mbuno said, “Food first.” He told Bob he should sleep first after the meal, then Pero, then Mbuno. The radio needed to be left on receiving, with someone always there. Pero and Bob nodded.

  Bob asked, “Four on, eight off, that suit?”

  Mbuno smiled and explained that in the bush, the sky and the place you are in tells the time, not a watch. Mbuno pointed up at the sun behind a cloud and asked, “How long will the sun need to change? You watch, it tells you when it is time.”

  Bob had clearly had experience dealing with people other than Americans in remote places. “Okay, like the Tigris people I spent time with. They never used a watch and did things at different times of the day depending on the season.”

  Mbuno did not know the people of Tigris, but he understood the concept. In the winter season, you rose later, worked harder, and prepared for an earlier sunset. It was cooler because the sun was not overhead like it was that day in equatorial Kenya. However, at this time of year in East Africa in the middle of the day, you planned your day differently. “Mr. Bob, here in Africa it is the same. You watch the animals, they tell you when it is time to move and when it is time to rest.”

  As Pero went into the bushes to relieve himself, it occurred to him that Bob’s allegedly short Marine military experience might not be exactly accurate. The Tigris people were in southern Iraq, an area Pero knew was out of combat within days of the 2003 invasion. So what was this young Marine doing there half a decade later when he would have been just old enough to enlist?

  As he settled some dust, Pero also wondered why Mbuno focused on just the Zanzibar name of the Agroforestry company. What was it about Zanzibar that seemed critical? He decided to ask rather than keep guessing. This is no time to play mental games. Keep everything out in the open, discuss it all, and we’ll work better as a team. Zipping up his fly, Pero went back to camp to talk with Bob and Mbuno.

  Teddy and Keriako were finishing erecting a second camp cot, putting blankets and pillows on top. On the floor, they spread rush matting. When Pero came over, Teddy said, “This your tent, bwana. I check cooking now. Okay?”

  Pero could see Bob was unfolding his cot blanket in the adjacent tent. “Yes, sure.” Then he called out louder, “Mbuno and Bob, can you come and join us here?” When they ambled over, Pero asked Mbuno to explain the significance of the Zanzibar name.

  Mbuno looked pensive, and instead of answering, he addressed the two brothers, “Yeye anataka kujua kuhusu Zanzibar. Wakati sisi kula, mimi nitakuambia hadithi ya Ube na majangili Zanzibar.” He turned to Pero and said, “Bob may also want to know about Zanzibari. When we eat, I will tell the story of Ube and the Zanzibar poachers.” The brothers went off, one to clean cooking utensils, the other to split the firewood collected earlier. Then Mbuno simply told Bob and Pero, “Later, I will tell a campfire tale.” Already, the pungent smell of acacia and thorn-tree green wood and steam from cooking bread flavored the air.

  Within half an hour, the hot meal was ready and the safari bread, already baking in the upside-down pot in the embers, only needed a few minutes more. Pero had to admit, he loved the smell of safari bread cooking. Bob agreed. “We asked them to make it twice a day. Never ate such good biscuits.”

  Seated cross-legged away from the fire and on three-legged camping stools, the five men each had a tin plate of posho and beans, heavily salted the way Mbuno liked it. Mbuno ate slowly, carefully savoring every mouthful. Bob finished before him just as the radio made a squawking sound. Bob ran over and listened but did not move the dial. A few moments passed, but there was nothing more. When Bob came back, Mbuno said, “I will tell you the story, and then I will tell Teddy and Keriako.”

  He launched into the tale. Many years ago, when Ube was a teenager, his father wanted Ube to prove that he was to be a great Waliangulu elephant hunter. All Liangulu are elephant hunters, though Mbuno himself no longer hunted elephant. The Liangulu are an honorable people who once hunted with bow and arrow, and they only approached the oldest, and what scientists usually call sterile, males and females. When they killed them, they ate everything and saved everything else, honoring the elephant. They never wanted the tusks, trading them instead for corn to make posho. With the old bull or cow gone, a younger, more virile bull or cow would become the leader and the elephant family got bigger. There were more new babies, and the herd grew.

  “It is true—Ube’s father was not a good man. He wanted to make money, he wanted to live in Nairobi.” To get rich, Ube’s father helped Arab poaching gangs from Zanzibar, and Mbuno considered Zanzibari vermin for poaching elephants. Ube tried to stop his father, and Mbuno came too late to prevent Ube from being wounded by his father. Fortunately, Mbuno had been taught first aid by a park ranger’s wife and quickly put sulfur and dressing on Ube’s stomach wound.

  Mbuno continued, recounting how Ube was taken by plane to the hospital, where doctors saved his life. Since then, Ube had become like a son to Mbuno and his wife. Pero had heard the tale from Tone and others over the years. It was legendary—pure, honorable Africa—and Pero felt, in the spirit of openness, that Bob needed to hear what Pero knew, too. “Mbuno, tafadhali, tell Bob what happened to the father, what happened to you and why you live at Giraffe Manor. It is important for Bob to know.”

  “Ah, Pero, that was unfortunate.” He turned to Bob and simply said, “To save the Liangulu people, I had to stop the poaching by Ube’s father. He did not agree. He died, and because I killed him, the tribe made me leave, an outcast. I was not wounded, but I had cut my feet very bad on lava rocks.”

  Pero prompted, “And?”

  Mbuno explained that there were some very important people who were also part of the poaching who wanted to arrest him for murder. But good friends of the elephants he had saved hid him and nursed him back to health. Finally, a very good client arranged for a small house with running water at Giraffe Manor for Mbuno and his wife, Niamba. “It is most generous.”

  Pero shook his head. So typical of my friend; he’ll never tell of his own incredible bravery. Pero added, “Yeah, what you don’t know is that Mbuno trekked ten miles carrying Ube with the help of one of the elephants he had saved. Then another elephant picked Mbuno up and carried him to safety at a Ranger’s station where the married couple running the station were amazed that he and Ube were alive. They flew Ube out in their private plane, the bush radio full of their exploits and bravery. Everyone knows the politician responsible for allowing the poaching—he’s untouchable—but if he tries to go after Mbuno, there would be an uprising, African and European alike, not to mention a few American billionaires. You see, Mbuno has fans.”

  Bob observed Mbuno looking down at his empty dish. Bob was staring at the top of his head, wondering if such stories were possible, if they could be real. This was the stuff of myth. He had been feeling the adrenaline rush of a rescue, the feeling of going into battle for a good cause. N
ow here he sat, under the primordial shade of a eucalyptus tree with a CIA spook or maybe an ex-spook—about whom rumors had rippled through the Navy and Marines two years ago—and a small, innocuous safari guide who had killed a poacher, walked miles with an elephant, and single-handedly saved Ube. A more-than-capable field guide he had great respect for. Humbled in this august company, all Bob could say was, “I lied.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Yote Haijawahi Nini Inaonekana—All Is Never What It Seems

  Seeing all eyes focused on him, Bob threw up his hands and began to explain, “Okay, if we’re coming clean, here it is. I was assigned to travel with Mr. Winter to Moyowosi. He hired me as a medic, that part is true. But how he found me was arranged by my bosses at the ONSI. I work for the Treasury Department.”

  Pero felt the familiar cold hand of the world of spies on his spine and asked, “What the hell is ONSI?”

  “It’s the Office of National Security Intelligence. At Treasury, we’re responsible for tracing illegal funds around the world derived from drug trafficking. Lately, some serious funds, all in gold coin, have been pouring in from Russia, into terrorist groups from Rwanda all the way up to Nigeria, where the money has been supplying weapons support to Boko Haram and others.”

  Mbuno calmly asked, “Mr. Bob, what you were doing here may not be anything to do with Ube. But it is important—did Ube know? Were you already going walking, safari, on your own, looking for anything?” Mbuno meant spying.

  Seated on the three-legged stool, Bob clapped his hands on his knees and said, “Christ, man, I don’t know if I had anything to do with it at all. I didn’t tell Ube, that’s for sure, and I didn’t do a damn thing. I was going to wait until the safari was over and after Mr. Winter left, and then I was going to go undercover to see what I could find.” He could see everyone was fixated on him, even the brothers, who were also watching Mbuno for his reaction, all clearly awaiting more of an explanation. “Okay, okay, I’ll give you a full briefing—well, as much as I know or can say, anyway. Look, I was sent on this trip as cover to get into the region. I was—well, am, of course—a Marine. I was a medic, Iraq mainly. The ONSI has satellite imagery that we share with the CIA . . . well, we watch for trade shipments, to gather global shipping intel. That intel shows that enormous tracts of forest are being cut down in this region, mainly funded by farming groups who get their guarantee from Chinese companies—you know, guaranteeing to buy tobacco. The trade in tobacco from Tanzania has grown twenty percent a year for the past ten years. Environmentalists are furious about the loss of habitat and trees, fearing that Burundi and Rwanda will be next, and there will go the gorilla habitats.” He paused. “Okay, so farmers here are getting paid for their tobacco, but they all use local banks—the Chinese are on the up and up here, like them or not. And my bosses can see no connection to the sale of tobacco and the illicit drug money pouring into the region around here from Russia. And when I say around here, this is only one region in East and Central Africa that we’re checking out. Anyway, we know it is drug money because the oligarchs shifting money through offshore accounts that we have tapped into are strictly in the drug business. One of them, Mikael Petrov, is the main supplier of raw cocaine to China and Korea, even Mongolia. The Russian authorities don’t care about drugs going to China or Korea, North or South, as long as Petrov doesn’t pollute Putin’s Russia. So, here we are in Tanzania—how is the money coming in and for what? The first part is perhaps easier to understand. Gold mined in Siberia, coins and ingots, is easy to transport and easier to trade. We have tracked illegal gold shipments that are being loaded, mostly carried on Russian oil tankers docking all over the east coast of Africa and also in Dar es Salaam. That port is hardly secure, with sailors getting on and off and almost no customs. They trade vodka, containers of the stuff. It could all be hidden anywhere. We’ve traced two sailors to the Russian embassy, arriving with bags and leaving empty-handed. After that? Who knows? But why bring gold here? And in exchange for what? As far as we can see, nothing valuable is leaving the region by sea. Certainly not through the port at Dar that we can see.”

  Pero was angry. “Well, Bob, that’s a sad tale. You were sent into a region you are not familiar with, inserted yourself into a tourist safari, and perhaps you did nothing outwardly, but your presence alone might have been a tip-off. And then Ube gets lifted. A bit of a coincidence, don’t you think? And who chose Moyowosi, you or your handlers? And you planned to come back here and do what, fit in? The color of your skin doesn’t matter a bit here. Your ancestry is not from East Africa; you have West African features, and you stand out like a sore thumb, as much as me.”

  Mbuno put his hand on Pero’s shoulder. “Let him finish.” He turned to Bob. “Me also, I am not from this area. Please tell us the rest.”

  Not answering, Bob rose and went to his medical bag, reached inside, and produced a satellite radio. Pero recognized it; it was the same issue the CIA had once given him with a series of coded buttons to push to make it inoperable by anyone except in an emergency. Pero asked, “You use it yet?”

  Bob nodded and said, “When we landed at Wilson before you arrived. Only to say the safari was canceled, we were being held until a plane arrived from Loiyangalani, and afterward I was going to change plans.” He handed it to Pero.

  “Well, that really bothers me. We trusted you.” Pero’s use of the past tense was not lost on Bob, who genuinely looked miserable. “However, the missing piece of your story worries me more. You mentioned drug trafficking a few times. Yet you profess not to know where this Siberian gold was going to or to whom or for what. And yet you were here in Moyowosi.” Pero paused, “The whole thing’s bull. There’s more, so spill it.”

  “I need clearance.” He nodded at the radio.

  Pero looked down at the folded antenna, raised it, and tossed it over. “Keep it on speaker. We have a rule, Mbuno and I and the team in Nairobi—we share everything out in the open. If you don’t agree”—Pero pointed back at the road—“start walking; you’re on your own.”

  As Bob started dialing, hitting 666, he said, “Fair ’nuff.” He had decided that he needed their help and realized that perhaps they didn’t really need his. He wanted to remain part of the team. The radio responded with two clicks, and Bob pushed the speaker button. “Bob Hines, developments, need clearance to share intel with one Baltazar, CIA.”

  “Standby.” The satellite radio crackled at the same time Wolfie’s TR unit squawked with, “Interconti here, over.”

  Pero walked over, plugged in and switched on the Silke Wire transmitter, and said, “Standby, ready to copy news from here. Patience. Over.” He then walked over to Bob, pointed to his collar where the microphone wire was visible and said, “Let’s have my team listen in as well. Tell your people, if they come back, that it is an open HF transmission so be careful with what they say on the open. Okay?”

  Bob nodded just as the satellite radio came to life, “Hines, what the hell are you playing at, you’re half a day over—”

  Bob cut him off and asked if Pero would mute the RT for a moment, adding, “Look, man, let’s not make this too cryptic. I’ll have my people give me authority, and then I promise I’ll tell you everything I know, and I’ll call the Interconti and tell them too. Let’s save the RT traffic only for things we can say in the open. Some of this stuff is too delicate, okay?”

  Pero shook his head. “Be careful what you say, but the radio stays on for now. Later, if you’re staying, we can call the Interconti.”

  Bob was resigned, “Okay, I’ll do my best, but I need a DC contact for you. My bosses will never give me authority unless I make them understand your clearance. Got a name for them to call?”

  “Lewis by name, they should know him.”

  Into the satellite phone, Bob said, “Unsecured transmission here. Get status, one Baltazar from Lewis at Central, and give me authority to open full disclosure mission. Over.” Using “Central,” Bob hoped to avoid saying CIA.

  �
��Standby.” It didn’t take long, but Pero and Mbuno knew that Nairobi was listening and the wait must have seemed interminable for them. The voice came back on. “Playing with the big boys without our approval, eh?” Pero didn’t like the tone of the man instructing Bob; he sounded like a desk jockey willing to order chess pieces around the world into danger. Pero had to give Director Lewis one thing—he fought to protect his field personnel. The voice continued, “Okay, authority granted. I’ve been given orders, but I don’t like them. This Baltazar only, no authority for anyone else.”

  Pero was shaking his head. Bob said, “Sorry, Baltazar has a team, they’re included.”

  The voice got angry, “Yeah, is that so? Well I was warned that might be the case and so here’s a message from Lewis to Baltazar: you’re responsible, in charge, so you’re reinstated as of now. End of transmission.” And he clicked off.

  Pero, ashen-faced, ran over to the RT radio, as if by being closer he might convey his regrets to Susanna, Mary, and Heep better, but mainly to comfort Susanna who he guessed would be furious. “I’m sorry. I didn’t do this. Over.”

  Heep’s voice came in loud and clear. “Yeah, well, Lewis said you might feel that way when we spoke an hour ago. We were going to tell you. Talk it over there and then call us. Over and out.” The RT set went silent. Pero clicked the Silke Wire off and unplugged connections.

  Pero said to Mbuno, “Lewis already called them?” Then, turning to the Marine, Pero was furious. He asked, “Christ, Bob, what have you gotten us into?”

  Mbuno, levelheaded as always, said, “It is not something to get very angry about.” He stood, stepped over to Pero, and said, “You may be an otter”—making reference to Pero’s childhood nickname—“but even the otter falls over a waterfall sometimes.” He turned to Bob and said, “You, Mr. Bob, are like the mongoose. Trustworthy, quick, not always thinking. Wanting to kill the snake, but you may also bite the hand that feeds you. Why? Because you cannot help it; it is the way of the mongoose, sharp teeth and thinking later.”