Murder on Safari

by Peter Riva

  “Oh, and here I was assuming she’d look after me.”

  Mary laughed, JT chuckled, but poor Sheryl looked aghast. Her face said: how dare you correct JT? Then Pero stuck out his hand, JT took it in a sixty-year-old bear claw and squashed Pero’s knuckles. Pero struggled to maintain composure.

  Mary moved to intervene. “Now boys, let’s take it easy. Leave him some fingers JT, will you?” JT’s iron grip released, Pero shook out the fingers to show that, yes, he had hurt him. “And you Pero, act your age, we’ve been friends for too long to start playing with my relatives.”

  Pero smiled, “Sorry Mary, it’s been a tough few days.”

  Suddenly, everything got serious. “I heard. Poor Simon, wasn’t it? He was a good researcher so the people in Parks & Wildlife say. Did he have family?”

  “Just a solid girlfriend, Margarie, and an elderly mother who kept house for him over the other side of Ongata Rongai, on the Maasai plain.”

  Mary rested a hand on JT’s massive forearm, “JT, could you include them, give the two ladies your blessing next week and a send-off for Simon?” JT called funerals “send-offs to meet your maker.”

  Halleluiah usually followed, Pero, being cynical, thought. But he does good, mostly. At least he isn’t into politics or meddling with the issues of the day.

  “Was Simon a local?” JT asked Pero.

  “Yes, Sir, he was, twenty years studying eagles and such. Lived poor, contributed large.” It was the slogan JT used on his TV show.

  “Fair ‘nuf. Thomas!” he bellowed. A small man with a baseball cap entered. “Include this Simon fellow . . . what’s his name?” Pero gave it to him and the office contact. Thomas was scribbling away on an electronic device. “Put this fellow on the service, memorial portion, full works, good of nature, good of man, invite the relatives, on stage, I’ll bless them for their loss.” The aide nodded and withdrew; he knew when he was dismissed.

  JT lightened the mood again as he turned to Mary and spoke with an exaggerated southern drawl, “I’ve got to go now, sugar, so you take care, y’hear? Don’t let them nasty critters bite—nor him neither!” said with a laugh as he pointed at Pero. Like an emotional conjurer, JT became serious again looking at Mary, “And remember, I expect to see you next week on stage with me.”

  “Don’t worry JT, I’m the expert, they have to do as I say around the animals. And it’s only one show segment, I’ll be back here in time.”

  “Well,” Pero hesitated, “yes you will, of course, I promise, but there is the possibility that after the Meeting you could extend your shooting schedule a bit . . .”

  “How much is a bit? How many segments?”

  “Thirteen . . . a year?”

  “That’s doable . . . wait a minute. Segments or shows?”

  “Ah, shows. Look, the company has asked me to make you an offer they hope you won’t refuse.”

  “No way, never, forget it.”

  JT had other ideas. “Now, don’t be hasty, hon. Let’s hear what the man has to say. You do have something to add to this, don’t you, son?”

  “Ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars.”

  Mary stared. “A season?”

  Pero paused for effect, “Per show.”

  JT was ahead of Pero again. “And that means it’s all he was authorized to say. Under six, was it, son?” Pero nodded. “I like you, son, that’s honest. Hon, let my people handle it, if you’re interested that is. After all, with that—what did you call him?—that twerp out of the way, there’s nothing better than a bit of globe-trotting, doing what you like best, to refresh the spirit. The Lord does work in mysterious ways.” And he turned towards Pero. “I like a man who knows when the time is right, even if you used my presence here for leverage. It’s okay son, but you owe me.” Pero nodded agreement.

  “Pastor Threte, we really need to be going.” A redheaded, slight, young man said from the doorway.

  “Coming, Jimmy Little. Take care hon and watch them critters.” And with that he walked out of the room, touching Sheryl’s head on the way, “Bless you, child, see you next week.” He never saw her faint, dead away, from the contact of his hand. But she did.

  In the pandemonium that ensued—JT’s departure, the thinning of the crowd who suddenly remembered that they actually had something else to do other than stand around getting a glimpse of JT and, not least, the job reviving Sheryl—Pero never noticed that their crew had arrived. They were, of course, loaded with questions that Pero would have to explain on the way down.

  Once revived, Sheryl became her usual efficient self, handed Pero the manifest and regained the rest of her composure and smoothing her dress while Pero read it through. Pero checked for the night arrival cargo. It was there, one airway bill, contents count two. Sheryl was not about to let JT’s daughter out of her sight, so Pero was not surprised when she decided to close the front office and escort them onto the flight apron to the waiting plane, next to which stood Mbuno and the customs officer beginning to bake in the morning sun.

  The crew and Pero followed the large, self-assured Sheryl leading Mary by the arm as if she were a china doll. The custom’s officer stood aside and the film crew piled in single file filing the rear seats of the ten-seater, leaving the forward VIP seats for Mary and Pero. Sheryl waved another pilot aside, turned to the flight pilot and handed him the manifest, and sent the custom’s officer running. Pero started to board, planning on leaving Mary and Sheryl to say their goodbyes.

  Sheryl put a palm on Pero’s chest, smiling as if she had a secret. “Oh, no, Mr. Baltazar, I have arranged a special flight for Miss Lever.” She pointed. Behind their Cessna was a twin-engine Beech Baron, a pressurized four-seater. The pilot, a young blond South African, and two mechanics were standing to attention. “See? I have prepared this special flight to Arusha for Miss Lever, and then on to Pangani, later in the day. It is with the compliments of Mara Air!” The power of JT was at work, Sheryl, at least taking JT’s instructions to keep Mary safe seriously. “There are no customs problems, just passports, as you have no luggage.”

  Pero thanked her profusely and not without relief, walked back to the Cessna and briefed the crew, asking Ruis to stay with the Cessna until all the equipment was off and cleared Pangani, as Pero would have.

  “No problemmo, oh great escort of the high and mighty!” Even Heep was enjoying this, smiling away. Priit crouched feigning military attention, saluting. They knew how much Pero hated all pomp and fuss, so the ribbing was especially fun. Still, with the problem of customs in Arusha with the Cessna and his special cargo, just arrived, neatly solved, it was hard for Pero not to smile back. He knew Mary would get to Arusha and the crimes’ trial on time, and they could leave for Pangani immediately when she was done. Before he stepped back down the steps, he looked at Mbuno seated in the tail of the plane and gave him the thumbs up sign, tilting his head. Mbuno merely nodded, silent as always.

  Pero was sure he and Mary would get to rejoin the film crew by nightfall. Shooting would not begin until the late morning the next day, so he’d have early morning to check everything. Pero knew they would have to wait until at least 11:00 a.m. as crocs, especially big ones, are unpredictable in the early morning. That’s feeding time.

  Pero walked over to the Baron, gave Sheryl standing by the starboard wing a hug, which made her all bashful. He helped Mary step up on the wing-step and then followed, in through the co-pilot’s door, and settled into his seat: co-pilot’s, on the right. Mary and Pero buckled in, Mary seated right behind. She was waving through the window at Sheryl, mouthing, “see you next week” as the first prop started to rotate. They taxied briefly before the Cessna warmed engines and then the Baron careened down the runway, straight and true. The boy was young, but good. He hit the landing gear lever as the wheels left the ground. At 5,500 feet, it is a requirement or the wheels cause too much drag and you can’t climb.

  The sky over Wilson Airport was ice blue, the 5,500 foot rarefied air punctuated
only by massive columns of stratocumulus clouds starting to form and gather over the endless African plains. Their tops were gray, and their bottoms wisped over the land, casting shadows and the promise of sudden, violent thunderstorms as the heat in the day climbed. These are what the locals call thunder heads or thunder bumpers, so the pilot gave his usual warning to keep wearing the seat belt at all times and please excuse the occasionally bumpy ride. Plane rides in Kenya are always choppy. It’s the thermals, if not the imminent rain.

  Like delicate-looking sentinels of the tropics, the clouds never touched, always moved at a pace unrelated to the wind on your face, and had hidden, internal, winds of tremendous force.

  Local pilots know to avoid the thunder-bumpers—always. Once the top went from gray to black, hail grows in strong thunderstorm updrafts. Inside these equatorial, white, monster clouds, a speck of ice can grow to an inch in diameter in under ten seconds. Cruising, wings level at a slow 120 miles per hour, encountering hail traveling at sixty miles per hour on an updraft inside the cloud, a plane will get dented by thousands of ice balls in seconds. In under twenty seconds, the airfoils (wings, tail, and propellers) and any vertical surface (the windscreen and nose) will be ruined, un-flyable.

  There was a Cessna one fifty at Wilson (now internally stripped for parts) standing out in the open for all to see. She was brand new when she was flown, accidentally, into a hail cloud for ten seconds. After, she looked like a gang of blacksmiths had worked her over with ball-peen hammers. There wasn’t a flat surface left. How the pilot ever landed her, no one knows. He doesn’t fly anymore, he has a phobia, with good reason. Kenya’s like that, you learn by dramatic experience or you die from it. He lived to learn.

  For Mary, on the way down to Arusha, Pero asked the pilot to do a flyover of Lake Magadi. Lake Magadi is a mirror lake, half crowded with flamingoes. It’s beautiful and, from the middle of the lake, the view to the west creates a mirror lake set against the rising hills. Suddenly, it is impossible to know where you are in the universe, it all blends together, it’s magic.

  Mary had never seen Magadi, and she was thrilled. Halfway down the length of the lake, Pero watched the altimeter descending, the pilot flying using visual cues. Pero leaned over and tapped the altimeter in front of his line of sight. He glanced down and pulled the yoke back, affording Pero a little sheepish nod as they gained back the fifty feet he had lost, unobserved. The prop wash on the lake surface had been getting a little unnerving. Over mirror lakes, and mirages, you rely on instruments only; there are no reliable visual clues. Mary never knew, she was too thrilled with the view.

  As they approached the end of the lake, the million or so flamingos were hastening into the air, their plane bearing down on them. The pilot knew what to do, gave Mary a last look at the fluttering pink sea passing under the wings, and gained altitude quickly, back to 12,000 feet and avoided any bird strikes.

  The approach to Arusha was simple and the landing went without incident. They followed the little “Follow Me” car with the flashing yellow light to the UN apron. As the props stopped turning, a car pulled up to the starboard wing and a huge, bulky, uniformed, white-gloved soldier, Nigerian by uniform, got out of the front and walked over to the passenger side of the plane. He reached up and flat-palm smacked on the window. Pero looked at the pilot, who nodded his approval.

  Pero opened the door and got out onto the wing, reaching back in and pushing the seat forward for Mary to emerge. There was no safe footfall on the wing for Mary and Pero together, so Pero indicated for the giant to move back and made to jump down. The soldier didn’t move, just reached up, grabbed Pero’s shirt, tugged, and swung him to the side, off the wing. Pero landed on the concrete, hard, reminding him of the painful thorn wounds in his rear from the day before. Pero could feel one oozing. Mary quickly stepped back into the plane and sat in his seat, closing and locking the door.

  The soldier didn’t know what to do. A gray-haired man, Malaysian Pero thought, emerged from the back of the car and approached Pero on the ground. “I am most sorry. This is really unfortunate. He had orders to secure the witness and, I am afraid, he took that literally. We’ve had many security problems here. Witnesses haven’t made it to court. I am most humbly sorry.”

  Looking up from his sitting position Pero said, “And you, Sir, are?”

  “Consul Jikuru, special prosecutor, third UN Trials for Crimes Against Humanity. And I really am most sorry.”

  Pero stayed down and dusted himself off. “Well, I’ve promised her uncle, Jimmy Threte,” the Consul blanched, “that I would protect her. So far it is only my, uh, derriere that’s insulted.” He smiled, “So, if your fellow would step back, I’ll ask her if she intends to disembark, or leave. It’s her call.”

  Mary opened the door. “Thank you Pero, I know this gentleman. How are you Jiki-Jik?”

  “Very well, Missy Mary.” It was an inside joke between friends. They both laughed. The soldier stepped forward, put his hands on her waist, and lifted her, light as a feather, to the ground. It was the second time Pero thought of her as a china doll that day. The big fellow then turned on Pero, offered a hand and a big grin (no threatening teeth showing), and whisked Pero to his feet, and a bit beyond. Pero had to do a little skip. It really was embarrassing. Mary laughed, then “Jiki” laughed, then the bloody pilot laughed, then the soldier laughed and Pero felt compelled to join it, even at his own expense.

  Pero knew he couldn’t accompany Mary to the trials. It was forbidden, in camera, a closed court proceeding. Besides, Pero didn’t want to. Pero turned to the soldier. Being Nigerian, Pero knew French would be the soldier’s second mother tongue. “Si vous étés très gentil, je vous confirai ma charge, mais vous devez la protéger avec votre vie, si c’est nécessaire, d’accord?” Pero had offered to pass his protection duties to him, but only if he valued her life more than his.

  The giant man grinned and gave a little salute. “D’ac, captain” (‘kay, captain). And Pero knew from his simple intensity he would not let her out of his sight.

  “A good compromise I think, don’t you Mary?” Consul Jikuru asked.

  Mary gave Pero a quizzical look, nodded to the consul, and placed her hand on the soldier’s extended left arm, leaving his firearm hand free. They walked to the car, got in, and drove off. As they passed the wire fence security post, a Land Rover roared up with three officials, eager to establish their authority, “We are customs and immigration, you do not have the proper permit to be stationing your airplane here. It is irregular.”

  Pero showed them passport and visa entry (which were, of course, in order, complete with a twenty-five shilling immigration stamp receipt for duty paid). The pilot showed them his plane manifest and routing paperwork, also in order.

  Nevertheless, the customs boys spent the next two hours examining everything, including his spare socks in his flight bag. Either the fracas, with Pero ending up on the concrete apron, didn’t impress them that Pero was trustworthy, or security around the criminal trials for genocide required these extra measures, or someone had made a phone call with a hoax call. They weren’t saying and didn’t care. The pilot just sat in the shade of the customs’ Land Rover and smiled as they asked Pero questions about everything from who, what, where, and why Pero was on this planet.

  The pilot’s expression said it all: Oh, yes, I am enjoying this at seventy-five dollars an hour.

  By the time Mary returned, in the late afternoon, Pero was fit to be tied. It was hot, very hot, and he had not been allowed to get a drink and, worst of all, they had taken his passport away for an hour of nervousness. When they returned it, just as Mary’s car pulled up, they had added another twenty-five shilling stamp and put their hand out for a refund. Pero paid, furious, but it was only seeing Mary’s face that made Pero keep his miseries to himself. “You okay Mary?”

  “Later Pero, later.” She climbed into the plane, stifling as it was, and closed her eyes, wanting to be left alone. Pero looked at the Nigerian guard, h
e looked concerned and told Pero she was in shock and that there had been “des événements difficiles” (difficulties). Consul Jikuru was nowhere to be seen. Pero asked after him. The Nigerian shook his head.

  The pilot knew his fun and games were over. He talked to the tower, got permission to continue their flight plan, and they were soon back in the air en route to Pangani. Radio traffic was busy, Pero listened in on the spare headset, luxury all the way in this Beech Baron.

  Because of the distances involved, much of the radio traffic in East Africa is UHF instead of the usual air to ground communication via VHF, which is only good for line of sight. The pilot was busy, juggling between frequencies, and even more concerned because their flight path was from Arusha to the much smaller town of Pangani on the coast, and they were skirting along the border between Kenya and Tanzania, just in Tanzanian air space. Tanzanian air traffic control was sloppy, remnants of the communist era, and everyone knew it. And the coast of Tanzania has commercial flights, at low altitude (as they were, at 12,000 feet) between Dar-es-Salaam to the south and the major port of Tanga, thirty-five miles north of Pangani. They were keeping a watchful eye on the open sky indulging in the pilot’s usual betting game: Last one to spot another airplane has to buy a coke for the winner.

  Simultaneously, the pilot was trying to keep up with his course corrections, frequency changes, and sudden, incoming, change of route plans from air traffic control. Something big was going on up ahead, there has been a plane crash, maybe in Dar-es-Salaam or Tanga, they couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, they were vectoring them this way and that, up and down, to avoid being in anyone’s way. Such is the power of tourism in East Africa that no one ever thought of telling them to go away, little plane. They were on a pre-approved flight path, from a rich charter company, and, except for emergency stuff, they tried to keep them on track.