Murder on Safari

by Peter Riva

  Pero walked back down to the entrance, showed his passport to the doorman wearing a threadbare jacket, sitting behind his particleboard desk, Daily Nation open on top, no telephone, no lamp, one chair and a Bic ballpoint. He took the passport, leafed through the pages, looked into Pero’s eyes, and, having made his decisions, handed it back to Pero as he reached into his jacket pocket. He handed Pero an envelope. “Asanti,” Pero said. The doorman made to wave an imaginary fly away and did not respond.

  Back out on the street, Pero turned left and walked to the Stanley Hotel. The Stanley, especially the bar, is the old haunt of Hemingway, Holden and all the great white hunters as they came back from safari. Over the years, it has been refurbished repeatedly, sometimes with ill effect, but now looks a bit garish and out of step with its heritage. Pero still liked it though. The ground was the same as Roosevelt and the others had stood on. That was authentic enough for Pero. Besides, from the open-air bar, with its sidewalk tables and chairs, you can sit with your back to the wall and see the whole street. Anyone tailing Pero would, surely, stand out.

  The carefully turned-out waiter shuffled over and Pero ordered a gin and tonic, no ice. Keeping an eye, or two, on the street, Pero opened the Flamingo envelope and read the contents. Everything was normal business, flight times, receipts, computer printouts of itinerary changes. No hint of Baylor’s arrival, so maybe Flamingo didn’t know, just the Embassy. So Pero sat back and watched the world go by.

  Nairobi is a village. If you’ve been a few times, you know people who know people. Your face and theirs are recognizable, sometimes barely. “Oh, aren’t you?” is a frequent opening. People sit at your table, you talk, reminisce, throw out names of old hands, newcomers, places that have changed, secret places that have not. All the while Pero was watching the street.

  The man was pretty obvious really. Nairobi is not Mombasa or Malindi. There are few Arabs in Nairobi and the man with his dusty clothes pretending to have his shoes shined, twice, or carefully inspecting the rubber stamp maker’s street stand for just the right design, well, he hardly looked the Nairobi type even though he was dressed as a westerner; gray slacks, baggy pale blue short-sleeved shirt, cream socks, black loafers, and a brown belt. He had no business purpose yet he was busy. He was not idle yet he was hardly an absorbed tourist. In short, he was Pero’s man. What worried Pero was the red soil stain on his trouser legs below the knees. It could be from the Gurreh.

  After an hour of chitchat with old acquaintances, refusing to stay longer, and reluctantly begging off dinner invitations, Pero made his leave from the table and wandered back to the hotel. Pero stopped at the pharmacy (Boots the Chemist) to buy malaria pills and batteries and watched out the window as the prescription was filled. The dusty man was met, briefly, by a stout man with an identical blue shirt under a gray suit, and sporting a yellow and blue tie. As Pero left the chemists, only the gray suit followed. Once back at the InterConti, Pero watched from the kiosk, buying a copy of the Herald Tribune. He did not enter the lobby. So, it was enough they knew where Pero was and from where he would depart, just perhaps not when.

  Over an early dinner at 5:30, Pero handed out the crew’s purchased items. The review of information on cargo, customs, planes, times, and details from Flamingo were accepted by the crew as normal business. Finally, as producer, Pero called for an early night. Pero told them Mbuno and he would depart at 6:00 a.m. and the rest needed to be out the door by 7:00 a.m. Wheels up—the time of lift-off—at Wilson Airport was scheduled for nine, so they had to be loaded and inspected by customs before 8:30. Mbuno would be up and ready, Pero was sure of that.

  That night at 7:00 p.m., Pero awoke from an already deep sleep of ten minutes to listen, half-heartedly, to a spirited call from the bitch in LA telling Pero how inconvenient it was for her to have to wake up to get to the office to call Pero with the ten-hour difference. Pero avoided telling her not to be so cheap and to call from home. Although more calls would not make their relationship any easier. She carped on about Simon’s death as if it was a personal affront to her and the company. Her rant reminded Pero of the government stooge toe-tapping Simon’s boot asking why he was dead. Simon was being violated, again. Pero waited until she ran out of steam and she was forced to ask, “Are you still there?”

  After a long pause, Pero simply gave her the shooting schedule and Mary Lever’s name. Oh, that made her happy, yes siree. She forgot all about poor Simon. Mary Lever was ratings, baby, solid ratings.

  The big networks had been trying to get Lever for a special ever since she rescued that child, in front of six tourist cameras no less, at Gator World. The kid had fallen into the pen with a huge alligator bearing down on her. Mary had leapt over the fence, grabbed the kid, and walked towards, and over, and down the back of the alligator to escape the gaping jaws. CNN ran, and re-ran, her interview for days, “You can’t outrun a gator, it’s a big dinosaur really. They can’t jump and they can’t turn as fast as a human, so you have to outwit them.” Ever since she was called the Dinosaur Lady by the media.

  “I will send you anything you need. Get her to become the regular presenter and we’ll give you a bonus, say five thousand an episode.”

  Pero was still angry over Simon, “No, ten.”

  “Done. But don’t negotiate her fee, leave that for us.”

  “Oh, good idea,” Pero said being sarcastic, God Pero hated this woman, “I’ll talk her into something that I can’t tell her how much she’ll be paid for?”

  “Well, if you must, keep it below six figures.”

  “Per episode?” Christ, they wanted Lever really bad.

  “Yeah, but that’s your top authority. Got it?” It meant they might offer more. It also meant they had already discussed the show with the major networks or maybe foreign syndication. It meant there was a built-in need for a talking head (as a presenter is called). If they could get an on-screen presenter who was household famous, well, Pero could see their excitement. David Attenborough started it with his Life on Earth series (probably the best wildlife series ever made). If Pero could reel in Mary Lever, they could have a long, lucrative, run.

  And the way things were looking on the vocational side, with State and all that, Pero might have to get serious about this job, instead of simply doing his day job better than most. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, Pero wondered what was worse, the world of backbiting, killer shufti or the world of Hollywood TV with backbiting, killer bitches waiting to bore you to death? Tough call. In the one they kill you, in the other you die prematurely.

  They signed off the call with her demand—she always had to have the last command—that they “ship footage every day.” Pero promised they would do the best they could. “See that you do.” And she hung up. No point in explaining the vagaries of DHL or FedEx out here nor, for that matter, the magnetic risk to video footage by security screening. Heep knew they would be carrying all the footage by hand, all the way home.

  Pero had just gotten back to deep sleep when Sheila called at 9:00 p.m., from Flamingo Tours, and told Pero the morning international arrival would be on time, offered no other details, and said good night. It meant Flamingo knew and that Tom Baylor would land at 5:00 a.m. and meet Pero as scheduled at 6:30. Pero checked that the clock radio alarm was set and rolled over.

  It wasn’t long before Pero was awakened again. Prabir apologized for calling so late but wanted Pero to know that, in gratitude for his custom at his shop, “My son Amogh, who is no stranger, would be happy to drive you to the airport tomorrow.” Even in his sleepy daze, Pero figured out the real message. In his shop, Pero had told Prabir he was flying out of Wilson Airport for Tanzania. Yet Prabir had just told him he might still be under surveillance by speaking nonsense, because Prabir knew that Pero knew that his son was called Amogh and, of course, what he looked like. There was no reason to say the name, other than to warn Pero about those Pero might not want to meet leaving the InterConti. So Pero told him that he would be ready at the door at
six. Prabir said that would be fine, and rang off.

  Pero rolled back to sleep. Like any training, sleep was a component of efficiency and could be forced. For Pero it was a mental return to happier times. Saying a mind-clearing mantra, closing his eyes, imagining what he wanted to think about, he drifted. Soon he was asleep.

  The alarm seemed to go off almost immediately. Pero glanced over and saw it was already 5:00 a.m. The view out the window was that wonderful pre-dawn you only see this close to the equator. A pink-toned horizon ringed the blackness of space that, even in the lit streets of this city, shined through the gloom. The Southern Cross hung over the city feigning protection. Pero ate a banana and apple left in the complimentary fruit basket while watching the earth spin towards daylight. A moment of calm before what Pero suspected would be a very busy day. Pero was not looking forward to Arusha.

  Standing in the hall next to the ascari who had just come on duty, Pero watched him knock respectfully on Mbuno’s door, whispering, “Mzee? Tafadali?” (Chief, please?).

  Mbuno responded, “Ndiyo” (yes).

  The ascari opened the door, bowed, and said, for them both, “Jambo mzee, jambo sana.”

  Mbuno had emerged from the bathroom, hair still wet, in his new clothes, trousers rolled up inside to disguise the too-long pant legs. “Jambo, jambo sana. The clothes are just fine Mr. Pero, asanti.” The Petam sandals on his feet looked shiny and new. A day in the dust of Kenya and they would begin to look worn and comfortable.

  “You look great, Mbuno. Ready?”

  He nodded and went back to the re-made bed for the parcel of his dirty clothes, the dirty shirt doubling as a wrapping, tied in a double knot. They walked together towards the elevator. The ascari sprinted in front of them, pushed the elevator button, and stood to attention. Mbuno stood there, without pride, but very still and erect, as they waited for the doors to open, giving the boy his reward for offering the older man the respect he, the ascari, could one day also deserve. It was bush tradition on perfect display. Pero wondered how many tourists were missing this authentic African experience on the fourth floor of the InterConti, only to be confined to their zebra vans for the rest of the day in the open-air zoo National parks.

  For this fourth-floor display was the real Africa.

  CHAPTER 7

  Wilson Airport

  Outside the InterConti in the damp dawn, with a light fog wisps, Amogh Ranjeet rested his forearms on the car roof, looking over at the revolving door of the entrance, awaiting his passenger. Smoothing his leather driving glove fingers, Amogh looked every inch the young stud that he was. His smile clearly showed that he enjoyed the self-image. The car he was leaning on reflected his youth and Asian-western influences perfectly. The year before, he had entered it in the East African Safari Rally, as the competition returned only to the local racing calendar since the World Rally Championship had dropped it for being too dangerous. Amogh, running as a private entry, funded by his family, had finished first in that category and third overall. Winning stickers on the doors, the vintage Porsche 911, twenty years old now, still looked aggressive, lamps jutting out over the droop nose. The car was tensed there, even with the engine off, waiting for the off; gaudy sponsors stickers down the side proclaiming automotive fuels, oils, and components, except for the one which simply said, “Ranjeet’s Emporium.” Such was the dichotomy of life on the fringe of civilization.

  As Pero and Mbuno emerged, Amogh grinned, “Cool, eh Mr. Baltazar?”

  “I’d heard about the Rally, Amogh, congratulations. Any room in there for the two of us and these two bags? Or should we take a taxi?” Pero indicated Mbuno’s wrapped bundle and his soft-sided case.

  “Sure, there’s room,” he leaned in and popped the front trunk hood, “I took the spare out to make room already.” They threw their stuff in. Amogh pulled a lever and the passenger-racing seat tipped forward, Mbuno climbed into the back. “There you go, Mr. Mbuno, Sir, and you too, Mr. Baltazar,” and then mimicking the singsong voice of his father perfectly said, “I’ll get you there in very great haste.” Pero sat in a bucket seat and set the shoulder straps. Kids can make mistakes, he thought.

  Amogh started the car with an explosion of noise. They must have woken half the guests as they pulled away.

  “Lord, Amogh, doesn’t this thing have an exhaust muffler?”

  “Sure, but I have it on bypass, want to give you the real thing.” He dropped his lead foot and they careened around the traffic circle, rear end drifting out, doing sixty. In rally cars, you brake to steer, and use the steering wheel to brake. The brakes are useful to stop or get the tail to hang out. Momentum is key to winning. Amogh knew this car well.

  Unlike his father, Western ways had rubbed off on him, and he patted Pero’s knee with words of thanks for all the years of help. “I found out, on graduation, that it was your family trust that paid my school fees . . . I can never thank you enough.” Pero assured him it was unnecessary—that’s what the trust was for. “Yes, I have come to study these tax shelters,” they were passing Government House, the old colonial ruling building, “they are very rich. Some of them need good managers. The Gates Family Trust people were recruiting last year at LSE. But I’ll do some banking first, to help the family.” Asians were always loyal to family first; it’s what kept their culture together, no matter what land they were in at the time. Pero knew he was chitchatting, wondering about what he could say, or shouldn’t, glancing at Mbuno in the back—so Pero told him Mbuno was always to be trusted, even with his life.

  They made the road leading to Wilson Airport averaging sixty and then speeded up, over potholes big enough to swallow most cars’ suspensions, this one just bottomed out. “Steel bottom plate, no problem.” He piled on more speed. Pero leaned over to read the speedo, they were doing well over 100—miles per hour that is. “Don’t worry. No one is going to follow you this morning, Mr. Baltazar.” Pero, too, had seen the Toyota taxi pull away from the back of the taxi queue as they moved off from the InterConti.

  “What did you find out Amogh?”

  “Two guys, reporting to someone at the Holiday Inn. My dad found out from their Giriama cleaning lady, the one who also cleans Mr. Mustafa’s, the shop next door, a stupid Pakistani. One is an Arab, not Saudi, maybe Yemeni, called Salim and has been in Nairobi for years, hates Americans, likes to order locals around, she remembered he smiled when Beirut happened.” Everyone in Kenya had watched it, over and over again, on TVs in every shop all the next day. “The other guy was very dirty, you know, like he came from safari . . . and we checked, he’s Afghani like I thought, speaks bad Arabic, no Swahili, less than you . . .” he paused to smile softening the jibe, “name of Nadir—she heard them talking at the back of the shop—he’s staying in a trucker’s hotel half-way out of town to the north. My cousin, a trucker, stopped in last night and asked if there were rooms available and found out that this Nadir fellow is checking out today, paid in advance. He came by truck, hitched a ride from Wajir up north. Mean anything to you?”

  “Yeah, thanks Amogh.” Pero glanced back at Mbuno on the rear bench seat, sitting sideways. His face said nothing except, with a nod, indicating that he had heard. After a few moments, “Amogh, let’s get this straight. You are to do nothing, understand, nothing. Stop checking, stop getting cousins to help, tell your father to never check on Salim or Nadir, or this Mr. Mustafa again. These people are, I think, very dangerous.”

  From the back seat came three words that caused Amogh to swerve and almost hit a stray dog “Arab Mau Mau.” Mau Mau still conjured up scenes of horror and carnage for all Kenyan families. Before the word terrorist existed, these people defined the term—they meant acts of violence to be unforgivable, it’s the true definition of terrorism.

  In Kenya, everyone had lost someone to their machetes and house fires and torture in the dead of night, no matter what race or skin color or status. The rioting that ensued took most of the Ranjeet family fortune and forced them to start again. Mau Mau was a ter
m you never used in jest—they were still a quasi-religious fanatical sect, much feared. To have these words come from Mbuno must have struck fear in Amogh’s heart only more than it had in Pero’s the day before.

  In a way, the latest western version of terror was certainly more media friendly, more sanitized on TV screens, less immediately savage than the Mau Mau uprising. And somehow, the new terrorists everyone was whispering about had a less threatening name: al-Qaida or al-Shabaab in this region. The gentleness of those names belied the ruthless, driven, hatred and violence all these people were capable of. They were Mau Mau indeed, Arab or otherwise.

  Amogh said nothing for a few moments and then asked as they approached the beginning of the Wilson Airport road, almost as if nothing had been said, “Where can I drop you, Mr. Baltazar?”

  “You can drop us at Bluebird Charters. And Amogh, thanks for the great, fast, ride, it made my day.” Pero also meant Amogh might have given the duo a clear space of time to meet with Tom.

  As he disgorged them and handed Mbuno and Pero their luggage, “Okay, take care, really Mr. Baltazar be careful. I’ll see everyone does as you ask, but only if you promise to call, no matter what the risk, if you need us. Agreed?” He extended his hand more to seal the bargain than to say goodbye.

  Pero felt Amogh struck a hard bargain—he would make a fine banker. Pero nodded as they shook. “Okay. And good luck next year on the rally, she’s fast.” Amogh smiled, waved a gloved hand, and roared off.

  Tom Baylor had arrived ahead of them, early. He frowned when he saw Pero approaching with Mbuno.

  Pero had made a decision during the night. Pero was now in the game, whatever the game was, inescapable, whether he liked it or not because he and the crew were being tracked first up north and now in Nairobi. He might need to fight back in some way and phrases like “offense is the best defense,” kept popping into his head all night. So, he figured what better person to have by your side than a field expert, someone who knew hunting and hunting evasion better than any. Mbuno was that proven expert in the field. He had known Simon was shot before Pero did, he had seen the encampment (it was his original intel Pero had passed along, not Pero’s, come to think of it), he recognized (before Pero had fleshed the thoughts out) that Pero needed to bury the satellite phone, and it was his cross-country driving skills that had saved them all. All in all, he was the field expert, Pero was simply the patsy for the State. Pero wanted to change that. Being a patsy made him angry.