by Peter Riva
The other worry was that he had no idea why one white guy’s face could be so provocative. Simply not knowing, and seeing his opponents’ reaction by resorting to kidnapping, coupled with the presence of Boko Haram, meant the whole damn business was a powder keg. Pero felt that speed was their only real hope for success now.
Meanwhile, he also had to make plans for protecting the arrival of the train in Kigoma, if they managed to hijack it in the first place. So, his next contact was with Virgi Singh, a friendly call on an open line, asking Virgi to have lunch with him that same day in Dar. Obliquely he added, “It would be great to see your brothers at the same time.”
Virgi responded, “Would it be so? Great, you say? I see, I see. I do not think they will come to lunch with such short notice . . .”
“It would be really great to see them, really great, too, if we could relive our fishing trip . . . and I need to get special”—he emphasized the word special—“permits for a shoot as well.”
“I see, I see. Well then perhaps if it is another great story time again. Why don’t you come to my private office, and we’ll go to lunch from there. Shall we say one o’clock?” Pero said thank you and hung up. He was pleased Virgi understood the fishing reference. Several years before, Virgi’s fishing boat had been attacked by pirates. The Marlin trophy in his office was a fake, put there to commemorate the “fishing” trip that almost ended in tragedy after a deadly firefight with sea bandits.
Moments later, again on an open line, Pero called Sheila at Mara Airways, who confirmed the plane was back, waiting. He said he’d be there within the hour, to make a flight plan for Dar es Salaam—a wait and return flight. She said the plane would be ready.
If anyone was listening, he thought, it was just a normal producer’s life, going to Dar to secure permits.
Niamba was in her room, making sure Ube was healthy enough to go. He had thrown up breakfast but assured Niamba it was because he had never had orange juice before.
In Heep’s room, Mary had used Pero’s phone to call Jimmy Threte in North Carolina, getting him moving as quickly as possible. Heep, meanwhile, was compiling a shopping list with Tom and Nancy for which supplies to buy: “So that makes it four video cameras, all digital; four tripods; twelve sets of batteries and chargers; and, above all, six reflectors. We have to assume we’ll video outdoors because the lighting at Oasis is poor.” Nancy added regular batteries to the list, plenty of them, in case the generator at Oasis was out of action. Heep continued, “Okay then, now we pack up. Tom, go ask Pero about transport.”
Tom went next door, interrupting Pero’s conversation with Bob, Mbuno, Tone, and the brothers. They had tourist maps and Tone’s car map open on the table and were having a heated discussion. Tom asked Pero for transport to Loiyangalani for early afternoon. “By the time we’ve finished shopping and packing up, we could leave here around four. So let’s say Wilson Airport at five, five-thirty.”
Pero looked at his watch, “Okay, but I suggest you split up. Start getting equipment to Wilson and Mara Airways as soon as possible; they’ll handle loading. I don’t know what plane they have . . .” He hesitated, “No, wait, you take the four-fourteen; I’ll have Sheila give me something smaller. I’m going to Dar for lunch. But whatever you do, you need to be airborne by five to land in last daylight at seven-thirty. Let Wolfie know.”
As Tone and Mbuno continued discussing their plans, Pero reached for the satellite phone and called Sheila, asked for a change in the flight plan, with the Cessna 414 leaving to Loiyangalani when everyone was on board, but not later than five. “Also, please find me a plane to go to Dar, leaving within the hour. I need to get there by one.” Sheila said it would have to be an older Piper Aztec, twin engines, plenty of range and speed. She would get customs working right away for clearance. Pero thanked her and rang off.
The last planning concern was how to protect the train as it entered and then left the mill compound. Mbuno had the answer—using the lake crossing again. Hearing this as he disconnected the call, Pero said that once was enough; the risk of swimming again was too great, especially as there may not be elephant around. Mbuno gave a little laugh. “I agree. I was thinking raft.” Tone said he had an inflatable at his house in the garage. And so they pressed on with planning.
Finally, Mbuno seemed to approve the whole plan. “Keriako goes to Loiyangalani. Nancy, Ube, and Bob with Pero. Teddy with me.” He looked at Tone. “You and Mr. Pritchett fly separately.”
Tone agreed and then changed topic, saying to Pero, “That leaves you, Bob, Nancy, and Ube—and perhaps Mr. Singh—on the train? A lot of people to hide on a train, especially when you add all the girls and the four of us when we’re leaving the area around the compound. Got any ideas?”
Pero did but wasn’t ready to commit to anything yet. It all depended on if the train was scheduled to go there for a pickup or not. If it was, would he let the mill load the giant logs that were headed to Kigoma on the coast of Lake Tanganyika? If the train wasn’t scheduled to go to the mill . . . Pero had too much to figure out and so little time to do it. He answered to the friends gathered in the room, “The earlier we can get in, the safer it will be. Speed is everything, I feel.” Everyone seemed to agree. “That means we need to be ready when the train arrives late tomorrow afternoon. I’ll figure that timing out, but I need more intel first from Dar. Gotta go, running late.”
And of course, he thought, as he rushed around the room getting his passport and papers ready for the trip to Dar, I hope having a woman who speaks Hausa will work with these terrified girls.
When Tone asked Pero to confirm the expected arrival of the train, Pero’s earliest estimate was the next day in the late afternoon, which again prompted Tone to do the arithmetic of the travel time. “Lord, we have no time left to dawdle.” Tone looked at Mbuno, who nodded. Tone simply said to Pero, “We need to leave, and leave now. Mbuno, Teddy, and I. We’ll rendezvous with Pritchett. Can I call him using your phone?”
Pero handed him the phone and turned to Mbuno. “How are you getting there? Why do you have to leave immediately?”
“We have a plan. It was the idea of Teddy. It is a good plan. We need to pick up many things. It is a long drive.”
Tone concluded his quick call to Pritchett. He explained that they were going to split up. Mbuno would keep Tone’s Land Rover and make the drive with Teddy. “All my safari permits are in the vehicle, and Mbuno is licensed as a safari driver. He’ll say he’s delivering it to Moyowosi Reserve if stopped. I am sure that’s in order as we have permits from the last safari.” Tone went on, quickly, as he went around Pero’s room, picking up the notes and tourist maps they had been drawing on. “Pritchett and I are getting a friend, Robert, to fly us in his small private plane, a one-eighty-two.” He meant a Cessna 182, a single-propeller bush plane. “Robert will drop us at Moyowosi early in the morning when it will be dim and misty, and we’ll depart immediately.” As they started leaving the room, he explained over his shoulder on the way to the elevator that they would jump off the plane as it turned around at the end of the field. The pilot would pull up to the hut, wait for a few moments to see if anyone challenged the empty plane, pretend to get a radio call to go elsewhere, and depart.
Mbuno added, “The Land Rover should still be where we left it in the forest.”
Tone added, “Right. We load the raft, drive to the edge of the lake avoiding any logging trucks, and wait for Mbuno to make contact.”
When the elevator doors opened, Mbuno ushered Tone and Teddy in. Turning to Pero, he said, “We will be there, Pero. We come another way.”
Tone held the door. “Don’t worry about us, Pero. We’ll stake out a vantage point on the hillside on the other side of the mill. Easy to stay outside the fence and make our way around. Once you get the train in, load up, and then start to take the train out. We’ll circle and hop aboard as you trundle past the mill entrance.”
Pero asked Teddy and Mbuno, “And you two?” The Waliangulu and
Okiek looked at each other knowingly.
Tone responded for them as he released the doors, “Better you do not ask Pero. They are deadly with poison arrows.”
CHAPTER 25
Dar es Salaam, Tanzania
The Piper Aztec was indeed old. The pilot seemed unfamiliar with some of the controls, but Pero gave him a hand with the preflight checklist, and soon they were in the air, if a little late. The twin Continental engines roared in the high altitude, but all the instruments looked good to Pero.
Halfway to the border, the right engine quit. The pilot tried restarting it. “I left it a little lean, I think, saving fuel.” The engine would not restart.
Pero realized that they were losing altitude. The pilot suggested they find somewhere below in the Tsavo National Park to set down. Pero asked a simple question, “Are you used to Continentals?” The pilot asked why. “The restart procedure you were using is for Lycoming, not Continental.” Pero reached for the Aztec written instructions for engine restart. “Allow me?” The pilot, embarrassed, nodded. Pero followed the written instructions—throttle position, mixture, magnetos on, then blade pitch—and the engine caught the first time and ran steady. “Now, let’s not save fuel. Make these two run a little rich and let’s make it to Dar, okay?” The pilot was clearly ashamed. He agreed and apologized—rather handsomely, Pero thought. To put him at ease, Pero said, “That’s okay. Happens to all of us.” Well, not really, he thought. Forced landing in a boulder-strewn national park is hardly normal.
Pero settled back in the right-hand seat and appeared to doze off. It showed the pilot that Pero had confidence, and, more important, it gave Pero the headspace to continue planning. His main concern was still the Singhs. Why weren’t they stopping the trafficking of drugs in their own country? That was not like Madar or Virgi, not to mention their brother, the Justice Minister, Amar. Pero knew that the Singhs were combative, feisty, brave, and, above all, patriots—all through pre-unification, during the communist period, and afterward in the current democratic government. Pero hoped lunch would provide answers and support.
Dar es Salaam was mainly a fishing and import-export port. It always had and still retained the smells and feeling of hugging the Indian Ocean. For millennia, Dar had welcomed sailors plying their trade all along the coast of Africa and across the vast Indian Ocean to the coast of India, trading in silk, spices, myrrh, gold, iron, foodstuffs, and fish. The harbor welcomed the deepwater fishery boats before sunrise, their exotic catch offloaded and sold on the docks and gone by nine. Then came the freighters—cranes dropping cargo into nets or pallets onto the slippery, fish-scaled docks—trucks pulling up, men arguing over prices, cash money being exchanged, trucks loaded, shouts and hailed greetings and farewells as the hustle and bustle continued. By noon, the docks were deserted, cleared out, some washed down. Mostly everyone escaped the midday heat for food and kupumzika mchana. (Afternoon nap.)
Of course, since unification with Zanzibar, the old Tanganyika capital of Dar es Salaam had also modernized. There was a massive new docking area off to the north of the old harbor suitable for floating tourist hotels, complete with shops and vendors of every description, colorful wares flapping in the ocean breeze. Even farther to the north of the new docking area was a peninsula where all the wealthiest lived and where the embassies demonstrated their importance by their superior sea view. True to its communist past, those countries without acceptable politics were relegated to inland acres with no view at all. The one-story US embassy off Bagamoyo Road, with extensive grounds mainly for defensible sight lines, was painted white against the heat, maintained razor wire fences, and looked out onto the rear servants’ entrances of other buildings.
At the very heart of Dar near St. Joseph Cathedral on Kivukoni Road, facing the old harbor, was a one-block-long, glass-fronted Toyota dealership. It was the only Toyota dealership in a country dependent on the utilitarian and reliable nature of such vehicles. With import duty, sales tax, and other government add-on costs, the price of these vehicles was double the price for the same model in the US. The success of Toyota in Tanzania was due to one man, Virgi Singh. He made a deal with the government that said that until the truck or car was sold, it was technically not yet in the country. That allowed him to have stock and availability when his competitor car dealers, Nissan and Mitsubishi, had to prepay and finance all the taxes beforehand, which limited the number of vehicles they could afford to have in the country. Virgi Singh had a vast stock with every color and every modification ready to be sold. Toyota gave him a monopoly, and he made sure Toyota sold ten cars for every other marque combined. Virgi Singh was a powerful and well-connected man.
Pero’s taxi dropped him off at the seaport on Kivukoni Road as he had asked. He waited for the taxi to leave and checked to make sure that no one else had followed them. The Julius K. Nyerere Road in from the airport was down to one lane, cars being forced to keep moving, and it would have been possible to tell, in the midday traffic, if there was anyone following. Satisfied, Pero crossed the road and went into the showroom. A startlingly beautiful woman greeted him, looked at a paper she had on a clipboard, and said in Oxford English, “Welcome, Mr. Baltazar, sir. Mr. Singh is expecting you. Please come this way.” Pero followed, listening to the sharp click of her stiletto heels on the marble floor. At the elevator, she pressed the button, stood aside, and waved him in when the doors opened. “Have a pleasant lunch, Mr. Baltazar.” Pero stepped in and the elevator rose to the top floor, only one floor up.
As the doors opened, the short, plump Madar Singh was waiting, revolver in hand, pointed at Pero’s chest. Pero stepped forward and raised his hands. Madar frisked him swiftly. Then, putting the small pistol away, he pulled a box from his pocket, pressed a button, ran the box up and down Pero’s right side, and repeated the procedure on the left. Satisfied, he smiled. “Welcome to Dar, Pero. I may call you Pero, may I not?” Pero nodded. He continued, “So glad to see you again. You gave me the slip last time, but I am forced to admit the outcome was most fortuitous, most fortuitous. For us all.”
“May I ask why the gun and the little . . . what was that thing?”
“This?” He pulled the box from his pocket and showed it to Pero. “If you had, what do you call it, a wire on you, I would have known.” He still had not offered his hand, and that made Pero nervous.
Pero asked, “What is the problem? Why the need to frisk me? And is Virgi here? If not, I’m leaving.”
“Leaving? I am afraid not. Until we have some answers on what you were doing in Moyowosi . . .” He paused. “Such a vicious, short, little trip, don’t you think?” Again, he paused. “Well, officially, you are supposed to be under arrest.”
“For what?”
“Come now, don’t let’s play games, Pero. You and I know you are most resourceful and have connections in Washington. You see, people are dead, complaints have been made, a company has formally filed for an investigation.” They were still standing next to the elevator. He looked at Pero intently. “Until I find out the truth, you are, shall we say, our guest. So, come, people are waiting.” He turned and led the way, opened a door, walked down a corridor, and knocked twice on a paneled door.
The door opened and Commissioner Singh’s brother, Virgi, extended his arms and gave Pero a hug. “We are safe here, Pero. Now we can talk freely.” He nodded down the corridor Pero had walked. “Cameras recording everywhere. In case anyone ever asks why we allowed you in here, they can see my brother arrested you.” Pero was confused. He knew Virgi’s palace, as the Toyota dealership building was often referred to, was one hundred percent under Virgi’s control.
As the thick paneled door latched shut, Pero spotted the third brother rising from an easy chair. He extended his hand. “Mr. Baltazar, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am Amar Singh, the only one here with official power to do anything.” He saw Pero’s eyebrows raise up. “Yes, this is all very strange. The truth is, there are problems. It is why we are being careful.” He turned to Mada
r. “My little brother here likes you very much—trusts you with his life—so you can’t be all bad . . .” he laughed. Pero looked at Madar who was beaming and nodding. “What we need to know is what you know. And, I am afraid we need your help.”
Pero had not expected giving anyone help; he had come to ask for it. He looked at Virgi. “Does the pact we made still stand?”
Amar asked, “What pact would that be?” Pero looked at Virgi, hoping he would explain.
“Brother, you remember the fishing incident?” His brothers nodded. “Well, we shot a few of the pirates, and I swore Pero to secrecy in the national interest. What he didn’t know—but we found out, if you remember—was that it was part of a coup since attacks on you both were planned at the same time. I made a pact with a promise to help Pero if he ever needed assistance in return for his helping to stop the attack on me.”
Amar said, “Yes, I see, that is reasonable.” He turned to Pero. “And why do you want to know if the pact is still in place? Seems to me you had that help from Madar last time you were in Pangani . . .”
“No, I didn’t. I ran with my crew from Pangani because Madar here was using us as bait to flush out al-Shabaab agents in Tanzania. I could not wait to also help him. I had to stop the attack in Nairobi, if you remember.” Pero was getting angry; this was not like the Singhs.
“Ah, yes, seems I heard about that.” Amar looked at Virgi and Madar. Turning back to Pero, he said, “And what do you want?”
