by John Farris
Morgan smiled and crossed the wide aisle. His son's nose was almost against the window. Morgan leaned down to have a look for himself.
What he saw was rare: the high glaciers of Kilimanjaro, cloudless, flame-edged peaks fully exposed against a cobalt-blue sky. There was not another mountain in sight. Kilimanjaro stood alone, eternally in snow, just three degrees south of the equator.
"That's it, Len. I've never seen it so clearly at this time of the year. Usually it's raining. But they haven't had a good rain here in months. The drought's almost as bad as it was in 'sixty-one."
While the plane curved around the hard, broken, basaltic eastern flank of Mawenzi, it began bucketing slightly in turbulent air. Morgan held on to the back of his son's seat and saw a haze near the summit of the famous, often-photographed center peak, which was Kibo, the only one of the three volcanoes considered to be active. Fumarole gases were common in the caldera, but seldom was there enough of the escaped gas to be visible from any distance.
And he noticed something else that was out of the ordinary: Water apparently was running off the glaciers, twisting in numerous flashing streams through the rocky alpine desert between Kibo and Mawenzi peaks and the montane forest below. A prolonged absence of clouds might have resulted in the runoff as the sun's rays, un-occluded, struck the glaciers day after day.
"You have to see it from up here to appreciate how big it is," Morgan said. "The base of the mountain covers an area of fifteen hundred square miles."
"How much is that?"
"Oh, about four times the size of Los Angeles."
"Dad, did you ever climb it?"
"A long time ago."
"Can we climb it while we're here?"
Len turned his face eagerly toward his father; and Morgan was sadly stunned, as he often was, by the sight of the boy's opalescent right eye. It lay, beneath a dark and drooping lid, like a dead, waxen lake congested with dreams; all of Len's dreams of wholeness.
He was sixteen, the youngest of Morgan's three children, and the most athletic. Two years ago on a Boy Scout outing in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, he had fallen a long way down a nearly vertical slope. After three months in a coma he recovered slowly from the extensive brain damage he'd suffered.
He could just manage to walk now without the aid of his leg brace, which he hated. His right hand was frozen shut, probably forever. The doctors had said he could improve only so much through willpower. But Len was determined to walk without limping, then to run, then to win all the races that he ran.
"You don't think I could make it," he said flatly, when Morgan was slow to answer.
"If we had the time I know you'd make it. But the climb takes about five days, up and back. We'll just be at Chanvai long enough to hop over to Serengeti for a day. I told Jumbe you wanted to see lions. Someday we'll come back for a real vacation."
Len nodded; he was stubborn but not argumentative. He turned and eyed Kilimanjaro again. They were lower, nearer. There was a vivid green belt of cultivation and hardwood forest; he thought he saw a herd of elephants, black as raisins in a clearing. He gazed up again at the austere peak, sizing up the mountain, filing away the challenge it afforded.
"Does Jumbe have any children?"
"He had two sons. But they were killed fighting in a guerrilla action in Rhodesia several years ago." Len nodded, still absorbed by the view. The plane shuddered again as if in a crosswind. The pilot made a right rudder correction, then the landing gear rumbled down. One of the flight attendants, elegant and ebony, slender as bone, entered the compartment.
"Please preparing now for arrival, Mr. Secretary."
"Thank you, Adami."
She turned on the closed-circuit TV for Len; it gave him a pilot's-eye view of the approach, over the greenish-yellow plain, to Kilimanjaro International Airport.
"Ashante," he murmured. During the long and tedious flight from Saudi Arabia, Adami had taught him about twenty words and a few phrases in Swahili. His gaze returned to the mountain as she reached down to buckle his seatbelt for him.
"You are hearing about the famous chui–the leopard?"
Len nodded again; lately he'd been reading Hemingway's stories.
"I'd sure like to see it. Is it still there? Frozen just like new?"
"Laba," she said, shrugging. Perhaps. "There is another legend of Kilimanjaro. Incredibly interesting, I think. Concerning the son of Solomon and Sheba, you are knowing about them? His name Menelik, Ethiopian, they buried him in the crater of Kibo with his fabulous treasure. Buried also his ring with the seal of Solomon. Oh, many years since. If one is black, like you and I, and fortunate to find the ring of Solomon, the wise ring as they say, putting it on your finger is also making you wise, a king of men."
She looked from Len's face to the dense purpling folds of the great mountain.
"Ni nzuri kama nini–meaning how beautiful. Our national symbol. All around the world, peoples knowing Kilimanjaro. Welcome to our beautiful land, and being happy as long as you are staying." Adami flashed a big shy smile at Morgan too, and retreated. Ron Burgess had packed up his typewriter. Morgan picked up the folded Guardian again, but out of the corner of his eye he saw a dark spearpoint of fighter interceptor aircraft thrusting upward from the end of the single long runway at the airport. He knew at a glance exactly what they were: MiG-21 fighter-interceptors, NATO designation Fishbed. They had a combat radius of 350 miles and they were part of the small but potent Tanzanian People's Defense Force Air Wing. More than likely the fighters were copies built in China, and were being flown by Chinese pilots. Morgan wondered where they were off to: They didn't have the range to be effective in the small but serious border war Jumbe Kinyati had been waging with the neighboring state of Zambia.
Or, perhaps, they were airborne now to put on some show of welcome for the United States Secretary of Defense, to politicize an occasion which Morgan had tried very hard to keep on a personal, friendship level.
Morgan felt like groaning. He'd had problems trying to explain his sudden change of plans to the members of the small press corps that had accompanied him to Riyadh. Nothing of great interest had happened at the conferences. The Arabs had been as rude as they dared. The newsmen were bored and surly from the desert heat and no one had brought enough liquor along. They sensed something newsworthy and thought that, as usual, they were being lied to. Bill Bowers, Pentagon correspondent for The New York Times, had been irritatingly persistent.
Mr. Secretary, isn't there a connection between Jumbe's recent erratic behavior and your decision to pay him a visit at this time?
I wasn't aware that he'd been behaving erratically.
Out of character, then. He invaded Zambia, and he's refused to meet with a mediation team from the O.A.U.
That's properly a question of diplomacy, and because I'm not in possession of all the facts I wouldn't want to comment. Bill, Jumbe and I were friends before Jamhuri. It's been too long between visits. When he heard I was in Riyadh he invited me down for a long weekend, and I was delighted to accept. I welcome the opportunity to show my son a little of Africa.
Do you plan serious political discussions with Jumbe? He can hardly avoid asking your advice about the war–
Let me repeat, this is not an official visit. But we're both statesmen, and Jumbe loves a good debate.
Nowadays instead of debating, he seems to be more fond of taking provocative stances. "Peace does not come except by the point of a sword." He was talking about apartheid. You've read the Guardian interview?
No, I haven't had the opportunity.
But too much of his conversation with Jumbe had been cause for lingering concern: The President, who spoke English well, retained his Cambridgian eloquence but lapsed into stressful pauses and seemed muffled by sorrow.
"I appeal to you, Morgan. In the course of events it may well be our last opportunity to see each other."
"Jumbe, that sounds ominous. You're not sick?"
"My days are filled with sick
ness . . . the educated African's malaise, an intellectual pox that disfigures while we deliberate, in one quarrelsome council after another, on the fate of our continent."
"I don't understand."
"Morgan, I've been too good a student of prehistory, the patient unfolding of epochs, and a dull student of my own tinderflash times. I've learned terrifying lessons of statecraft that unfortunately . . . I may lack the time to apply. But that's another matter. It's our friendship that most matters at this hour. You can't imagine my joy at hearing your voice again. I'm at Chanvai for the weekend. Say you'll come."
His voice faded down the daylong distance, becoming indistinct. Morgan wasn't sure he heard him correctly:
"Perhaps, in passing, I can be of some use to you and the nation you serve so ably. Some intelligence has come my way, just out of the blue. I think you'll be grateful."
The 707 settled down on the runway, with only a mild thump, and the engines braked thunderously. Morgan quickly read through the last paragraphs of The Guardian's interview with Jumbe Kinyati.
He sits on the verandah of the rambling but unpretentious estate house in Chanvai, where he now spends most of his time, smoking an old Meerschaum pipe and gazing across one of the world's loveliest lakes . at the solitary might of Kilimanjaro. For two decades Jumbe has been acclaimed as a truly progressive leader, unafraid to criticize Africans for their lack of vision and self-righteousness, adamant in his insistence that what Africa needs today is sound economic planning and creative statesmen, not revolutionaries.
"For my people," Jumbe has said, "Utopia is not to be found in an imitation of European social norms, but in a childhood free of disease, a well-filled belly, and peace of mind."
But peace of mind, and freedom to speak one's mind, are becoming rarer in Tanzania. It is known that Jumbe has been shopping for sophisticated weaponry which the Chinese are reluctant or unable to provide. The army and air force have undergone massive buildups. For what purpose? Jumbe speaks of enemies and traitors among the leaders of neighboring states, particularly Zambia, whose president, Hugh Manchere, has advocated a multiracial solution in South Africa. Jumbe is flatly opposed to any such accommodation, and apparently obsessed with the need for what he terms a "final solution."
"There is no alternative to the end of white minority rule in South Africa. A negotiated settlement with racist devils is impossible. Economic sanctions will not prevail. Conventional means of revolution, however bloody, cannot succeed. Their government can be removed only by power, an overwhelming, destructive force." Such force, he concedes, black Africans do not possess and are not likely to acquire in the foreseeable–
"Dad, there's a Russian plane–a big one!"
Morgan glanced out the starboard windows as the 707 taxied toward the terminal building. He saw a red star on the tailfin of an Ilyushin-76 supersonic jet transport, which meant it was flown by the Soviet air force and not the civilian airline. The plane was parked well away from the terminal and was under guard, probably by the KGB. It was obvious that someone of importance in the Politburo had arrived in East Africa: another old friend, persuaded to join Jumbe for a quiet weekend in the country?
Ron Burgess swiveled his seat around to face Morgan. He was scowling.
"What the hell is Jumbe up to?"
"Maybe they're here on safari."
"Is something wrong, Dad?"
"No, Len. Unexpected company, that's all."
Morgan was happy that no reporters had tagged along on his "vacation." Since he'd become secretary of defense he'd had a recurring dream. In the dream he would be in the press briefing room at the Pentagon for his weekly conference, facing a hostile audience. At some time during the conference he would become painfully aware that he'd forgotten to put on his pants. His interrogators were never reporters with whom he was familiar; they varied from dream to dream. The questions he heard were always bizarre, unanswerable, despite his best efforts to be prepared. Once he had been questioned by a group of garden-club ladies; they had cursed him most foully when he displayed an abysmal ignorance of horticulture. Another time he was confronted by chimpanzees who demanded a learned refutation of the tenets of Darwinism while they jumped up and down on their chairs and jabbered insults.
Morgan again felt as if he were about to appear in public without his pants. He went back over his recent conversation with Jumbe, looking for insight, some clue as to what he might expect. Maybe the rumors he'd been hearing were correct. Jumbe, it was said, had gone slowly mad from grief following the death of his sons at the hands of white mercenaries. Morgan anticipated some painful exchanges with his old friend, but he hoped that the weekend could be salvaged, at least for Len's sake.
The male flight attendant hurried through the compartment to spring the forward door open. Colonel Brick McMillen, the pilot of the Air Force backup crew that had flown to Tanzania with Morgan, came yawning out of the cockpit. He was fluent in Mandarin and had been in the right-hand seat much of the way down. The rest of the crew, and the two Defense Department security officers assigned to Morgan, had watched Woody Allen movies in the main cabin.
"That Ilyushin touched down about half an hour ago," he said to Morgan. "Party of ten, the tower says."
"Any idea who?"
"No, sir. Could find out for you. Go over and strike up a conversation with the Soviets."
"I don't think it's too important, Colonel. Thanks for a good flight."
"Captain Lan flew 707s for Singapore Airlines. The Chinese run the air wing here–you don't have to worry about how the aircraft are maintained."
Ron Burgess was standing by the open door as a ground crew pushed a stairway into place. There was a warm dry wind blowing across the Sanya Juu plains; to the west were the green foothills of Mount Meru, the abrupt and broken cinder cone standing clear against the gossamer sunset sky. A small welcoming party, exclusively Americans, was waiting on the tarmac. They were attired informally, in bush greens and khaki.
Ron said in Morgan's ear, "Ambassador and Mrs. Chalmers Lyman. Chalmers' nickname is Buddy. He's thirty-eight, career FSO, M.A. in law and diplomacy from Tufts. He wrote his thesis on bicameralism in the modern Islamic state. They've been out here a year and a half. Her name is Wendy; the family's well fixed. She took a degree in sociology at Barnard, and she has Swahili down cold. The children are Sharan with an 'a' and Justin."
"Ron, you're unconscious," Morgan said, his most lavish compliment.
He went slowly down the shaky steps with Len. Introductions; protocol. In addition to his kids the ambassador had brought along his deputy chief of mission and some staffers. Buddy Lyman had a corrugated shock of blond hair that hung off one side of his head, a gangling, amiable, pop-eyed ugliness that was somehow endearing. Morgan took him aside.
'What's going on at Jumbe's?"
"I don't know, sir; he has about thirty houseguests."
"I thought he'd become reclusive. Are they all politicians?"
"Sort of a mixed bag, I'd say. From scientists to jetsetters."
"What do you know about the Russians who flew in?"
"Wendy and I were already here when the plane arrived, but Dr. Kumenyere kept us all waiting in the terminal while he went out to meet them. They drove off right away in three Mercedes sedans, with a military escort. I didn't get a good look at any of the Russians. By the way, security is very tight in the area, particularly over at Momela Lakes, in the park. Soldiers, roadblocks, checkpoints."
"What do you make of it?"
"My sources aren't doing me much good there, sir. Of course there's a war on, but it's at the other end of the country. There are rumors that because Jumbe has been rattling sabers, the Afrikaners will try to assassinate him."
"Another fly in their butter isn't enough to worry them."
"People seem to think an invasion is imminent. Jumbe has everyone on edge, wondering what comes next."
Morgan scanned the sky; the jet fighters had disappeared.
"How's the war going
?"
"Zaire's been rumbling over a gunboat that was shot up on Lake Tanganyika last week; they've flown sorties across the border and threatened to give the Zambians, who have lost most of their fighters, some striking power. Personally I think a few good rains would cool everybody off."
"Who's Dr. Kumenyere?"
"He's head of the Kialamahindi Hospital in Dar, which is probably the best health care facility in East Africa. Kumenyere is Jumbe's personal physician, closest friend, and his only remaining advisor. No one in government speaks to Jumbe anymore unless Dr. Kumenyere okays it."
Buddy Lyman looked over Morgan's shoulder at an oncoming caravan of automobiles and military vehicles.
"Kumenyere's back."
Morgan glanced around. "What's he like?"
"In the U.S. he'd be landed gentry. His father is a planter in the Moshi area, wealthy even for a Chagga, and they're the most prosperous, ambitious people in the country. There's a strain of Masai in the family; Kumenyere has all the arrogance and emotional insularity of that tribe. One day he'll be impossible to deal with, the next he's warm and chatty and the best friend you'll ever have. I never know what's on his mind. He's well educated, polyglot, sophisticated. He gets around: New York, Monaco, Gstaad, depending on what's doing. He's wrung a fortune for his hospital out of some very rich people. Wendy says he also has quite a reputation as a lover. One of his mistresses was the actress, distinguished theatrical family, you know the one, that dingbat Marxist, there are rumors she's had a child by him."
The three cars slowed as they came nearer; the party of American diplomats closed ranks and Morgan turned to face his reception committee. A black chauffeur stopped the lead Mercedes with a little grab of the brakes and shot out from behind the wheel to open the rear door.
Dr. Robeson Kumenyere was sitting back crosswise on the seat of the air-conditioned car, talking on a mobile telephone, long legs overlapping at the ankles; an index finger tapped the receiver of the white telephone as he murmured in a voice too low to be overheard. He gave no sign that he was observed, anticipated. He wore French sunglasses, a medium-gray Savile Row suit, black Bally loafers.
