by Peter Riva
About half an hour before their scheduled landing, the traffic controllers confirmed their permission to vector on to Pangani and permission to land. Pero asked the pilot what the hell all this fuss was about. He had no idea. They waited it out. Mary seemed asleep in the back—no need to worry her. The setting sun was behind them now and the landscape was well, if obliquely, lit. At wheels down, the last of the sunset was turning everything a golden red, and they switched on the landing lights to taxi to the apron. That’s when they saw it.
CHAPTER 9
Pangani
The Cessna 414’s tail was still proud, the charter airline name, “Mara,” and the prancing gazelle still visible, if a little scorched. Its angle gave the story away. As their landing lights pulled around, they could see there was no midsection to the plane and the pilot’s seats were hanging from what was left of the forward fuselage. Whatever had happened, had been sudden and violent—there was debris everywhere. A couple of mechanics with flashlights waved them to a bay off to the left of the carnage and signaled a shut down. The pilot was reaching for the twin prop levers and throttles when Pero stopped him. Mary woke and asked, “Are we there?”
“Yes, Mary, but stay put for a moment.” Pero turned to the pilot “Pretend you’re doing a post-flight check on the left engine. Cut the right, I’m getting out, but if I raise my arm, even re-adjust my cap, rev the engine, use it to taxi, start the right and fly home immediately with Mary. Leave me, got it? Don’t take no,” Pero indicated the flashlight mechanics approaching the plane, “for an answer from them or anybody.” The Pilot nodded approval, sensing possible danger.
As soon as the right prop came to a halt, Pero opened his door and stepped out. The burnt plane had a distinctive smell. Aluminum burns at a very high temperature, and plastic always reeks. It wasn’t either of those that bothered Pero. Pero smelled explosive. Pero went over to one of the mechanics and borrowed his flashlight and examined the wreckage. No bodies, Pero was pretty sure. Their equipment wasn’t there. The burn scene had not been disturbed either.
“Any idea what happened? Are the people safe?” he asked the mechanic who wanted his flashlight back.
“Yes, bwana, everyone safe, and the police are here, they want to talk to you. The passengers are already at Pangani Camp.”
“And the pilot?”
“Here mate.” Out of the early night left over sunset glow, the Australian they had used for the trip down from Ramu emerged into view. “Not pretty is she?”
“Christ, what happened, a fire?”
“Nah, someone blew the ruddy thing up, about three hours after we landed, ka-boom, broke the canteen windows,” he indicated the little thatched hut fifty yards away, “and made me drop my Coke.” He was talking calmly, but Pero could see his hands were still shaking.
“Glad you’re all right. My people know about this?”
“They ruddy well should do, the cops are all over, talking to everyone. A half hour before you arrived, a Commissioner Madar Singh, brother of the Minister for Tourism no ruddy less, he arrived from Dar with six heavies, even commandeered the only two taxis when he landed. That’s his plane over there.” He indicated the Britain Islander with “Toyota” painted on the side. Pero knew the plane, and had been a guest on a trip to Zanzibar fishing waters a few years before with his brother, Virgi Singh, who had the Toyota concession for Tanzania. The third brother was the minister. All in all, a powerful family. But Virgi had, back then, told Pero not to trust “his policeman brother.”
“He’s up at the Pangani Camp talking to your crew right now, and I’ll bet he’s waiting for you mate.”
Pero went back and explained everything to Mary and the pilot. The port engine still rotated. Pero suggested Mary leave immediately with the Beech Baron for Nairobi. The pilot needed to get wheels up before someone here thought to ground him. He got on the radio and filed a quick return flight plan with Dar control and got all the right permissions. The little airport of Pangani was hardly likely to know what to do in a case like this. Pero told him that when he got into the town of Tanga’s airspace, they might ask him to land. Don’t run, just ask for police protection, he needed to keep Mary safe. He nodded, he knew how important she was, Sheryl would have lectured him, Pero was sure.
That’s when Mary spoke up.
“Just who the bloody hell do you think you are telling me to cut and run. I didn’t today and I’m not now. Whoever did this missed your crew, it wasn’t meant for me, my plane is fine.” Pero looked at the pilot, his eyes widened at the sudden thought. Pero raised his eyebrows in question.
Everything went still. The pilot thought for a moment. “Nah, I prepped the plane myself for a flight to Magadi. It was a last-minute decision by Sheryl to send us to Arusha, as a VIP carrier. That little baby over there,” he indicated the wreck, “she was in the customs’ bay all night, all alone, but guarded. It must have been set to go off here or maybe here just after landing, I’m sure. But I’m equally sure it is not safe to stay here. Better that we leave, miss.”
“I’m staying.” And with that, she pushed past Pero, onto the wing and stepped down. She was in no mood to listen to reason.
The Australian Cessna pilot interrupted, edged closer. “Look mate, mind if I hitch a ride out of here? They didn’t say they needed me and, frankly, these ruddy Tanzanian ex-commies give me the willies.”
“It’s up to you. They could pull your ticket, but if they have a statement and witnesses . . .”
“Oh, they do, ten minutes to write one, signed a statement, told to go away, I was, ordered to rest and sleep . . .”
“Well, then good luck, climb up.” Pero looked at Mary, beseeching her with his eyes. She shook her head emphatically. Pero shrugged his shoulders.
As soon as the door shut, the pilot revved the port engine, started taxiing, and on the way to the end of the runway, they heard the other engine come to life. They were clearly in a hurry, following Pero’s instructions. Within a minute the Baron was airborne, leaving Mary and Pero standing on the apron, wondering what was next. They watched the Baron waggle its wings in a farewell gesture set against a rising partially full moon.
The two of them didn’t have to wait long. Ruis leaned out of the left window yelling, “Hello guys!” The fat-tired Land Rover was clearly a rental Pero surmised, with Mbuno at the wheel. Ruis was glad to see Pero and Mary—he had been tuned into traffic control and knew they had landed. The police commissioner was getting difficult. And Heep was losing his cool. An angry Heep could spell real trouble. In Indonesia last year, he’d poured his water bottle on an officious customs officer and Pero had had to bribe their way out.
The Pangani Camp is a riverside tourist, thatch, and tented camp, the real African Queen experience (so the brochure says), lush tropical jungle, drifting hippos and crocs past the river bank, exotic fishing birds, wooden dugout canoes. Other than the Mkonge Tanga Hotel thirty miles to the north, it’s the only reliable base camp for a film crew with electricity. And, besides, why be in the sweaty, bustling, harbor town of Tanga of a million and a half people, with German nightclubs, great fish restaurants, and all-night bars when you can be in the sweaty, humid, malarial swamps of the Pangani River delta with insect-laden food and warm Tusker beer?
Why? Because it is the real thing. And the beaches were some of the best in the world. Besides, Pangani was, for them, the only choice. It was home to the world’s second-largest crocodile, a dinosaur indeed.
They piled into the Land Rover and Mbuno rolled them off gently into the bush down a sandy path. He always instinctively seemed to know the way. He had admitted to Pero that he had never been to Pangani before, yet his command of the right pathway to take was as Pero expected, Mbuno perfect. The night and moon had taken control of shadows and glistening vegetation. There were no signs for reference Pero could recognize and yet after about twenty minutes, Mbuno made a sharp right into what seemed to be jungle without end and they soon ground to a halt inches from two taxi miniva
ns and another Land Rover matching the one they were in, as well as six zebra-painted minivans with Dar-es-Salaam license plates. Tourist vans. The camp would be full, as Pero had been warned.
“Careful Mr. Pero, Miss Mary . . . plenty of hippo and crocs are out tonight.”
Ruis agreed, “Yeah, Mbuno’s right, we had to duck behind the fencing around the tent when we were coming to get you. Big fat cow just tip-toed through the middle of camp for heaven’s sake.”
They did as they were told, and made their way, watching carefully, staying under the suspended twenty-five watt bulbs, daisy-chained from palm tree to palm tree. The hyraxes were croak-screaming, left and right. It was going to be a noisy night. Pero squashed his first big mosquito on his arm, always a forceful reminder to take the malaria pills. The area was rife with the disease.
In the round main dining hall, with giant log beams radiating like an umbrella from the center, walls spit-spot with new whitewash, the thatch freshly repaired, and mahogany gleaming everything, dinner service was just being laid by the six or so waiters on one side of the room. At the other end, everyone was standing around the bar, drinking beer or something softer or weaker, as they wanted. The Pangani Camp has an open bar and drinks policy. You paid your fee and all meals and drink were included. You could tell the tourists from his crew, the tourists were whispering and gesturing at the men seated at the center table in the cocktail lounge portion of the big room, two burly cops in uniform either side, and Priit sitting opposite, answering questions posed by the Commissioner.
The Commissioner saw Pero enter and waved one of the cops over toward Pero, crooked his finger and gestured Pero over. As Pero moved around a chair, the Commissioner caught sight of Mary standing just behind. The speed with which he moved was amazing. He bobbed up, like a jack-in-the-box, wavered, stumbled over a chair that was in his line of approach, and mumbled profuse nonsensical greetings, seemingly to no one in particular on the way over. When he reached Mary and Pero, he stuck out a hand, to her, but Pero took it instead. “So nice to see you Commissioner. How’s your brother, either of them, in fact? May I introduce Mary Lever?”
The official stared, boggle-eyed at Pero, then her, then Pero, not sure who or what to answer first. He chose Mary. “Miss. Lever, Tanzania,” he was speaking for the whole country suddenly, “is so very, very happy you have come here. It is a great honor indeed, we are all very proud to have you.” And then as an afterthought, “I mean, have you here visiting our country, that is.”
“Thank you Commissioner, Singh isn’t it?” The sugar was dripping from her lips—it was quite a performance. “I will make sure my uncle makes Tanzania a stop on his next trip to Africa. I am sure I will be able to take him home tales of your great hospitality.”
Immediately, the Lever magic had its full effect. The Commissioner, in some haste, words tumbling out, asked her if she was thirsty, hungry, tired, needed to sit, needed anything, had a difficult flight, had ever been to Tanzania, and, so sorry for the tragic accident at the airport, isn’t it wonderful no one was hurt, and what is she filming, could he stay and watch? Mary turned to Pero and said, “I leave those details to Mr. Baltazar, but for now I would enjoy a cup of good strong hot chai, please.” The Commissioner pretended he was a headwaiter, snapping his fingers and settling Mary in a chair. The summoned waiter literally ran for the kitchen yelling, “Chai, magi moto!” (tea, hot water).
Pero could see the second mental light bulb go off as he released her chair back. He looked at Pero: “Mr. Baltazar? Mr. Baltazar? Not the Baltazar who was with brother Virgi when he caught the record Marlin three years ago?”
“One and the same, your brother was most kind to invite me out for some fishing. I think you were also supposed to come, but had last minute official business, as I remember.”
“Yes, yes, that is most true. It was a great day for him, a great day, the trophy is in his office above the garage.” The “garage” the Commissioner referred to was at least half an acre of spotless, gleaming glass showrooms for Toyota trucks of every kind, above which Virgi kept a five-bedroom penthouse and all the amenities, as well as his office and a swimming pool. Every bedroom had a harbor front view. It was spectacular and slightly colonial, certainly imperious. “Garage” was a term of reverse snobbery he used to highlight how rich the Singhs really were. Tanzania moved mostly on Toyota. Every Toyota came through the Singhs. All in all, they were hard working, honest, and had the very best interests of Tanzania at heart, especially if there was a profit. Communism or not, the Singhs were the backbone of the country before and now.
Commissioner Munidar Singh held out a chair for Pero who saw the crew visibly relax. The danger of lengthy stays and endless questions—not to mention an absence of rights—was abated. Not over, but, surely, under control. And for Pero? He was happy enough to keep the Commissioner happy and planned to tell him the truth in private later, at least the truth as he knew it. Which was almost nothing.
What Pero guessed might be the truth was something he wasn’t prepared to share: Pero had worked out the bomb was planted in Nairobi. Probably hastily this morning, probably by the fueling truck ground crew. When in bond, no one was allowed near the plane’s contents. Refueling was not considered getting into the plane. Once his Nairobi tail lost sight of Pero and Mbuno thanks to Amogh and his Porsche, the only place they would be sure Pero was going to be was at Mara airways, getting on that damn plane. They wanted Pero, or maybe the whole crew, in the worst way. Having been spotted up there at Gurreh on the plateau, they must have assumed the worst—that their clandestine operations were exposed. They must have also calculated the crew knew about Simon’s real cause of death as well. Either way, it didn’t matter, bombing of the plane proved that the crew was now definitely a target.
They didn’t know about Mary because she wasn’t visually with them until this morning. The plane was the only target, a timer set to coincide with the flight plan logged with the tower by Sheryl the night before: to Arusha, then Pangani. The only people who would have had access to that were the fuelers, they needed to know how many pounds of fuel to pump into her. Pero wished he had thought to ask the Australian if the plane was fully gassed, it would have proved the fueler had still thought they were going to Arusha and then on to Pangani.
Bless your little obsession and kindness Sheryl; your decision to treat with a special flight to Arusha saved many lives, Pero thought. He would tell JT, he’d think of something appropriate—after JT maybe killed Pero, that is, for having placed Mary in harm’s way. Hmm, Pero thought, perhaps it’s better not to talk about this to Mary just yet either.
So, Pero sat there and answered every question truthfully and completely as far as Pero knew it to be true. Supposition never came into it. And to be fair, what was the point of worrying this nice Commissioner with a problem that was, after all, not a Tanzanian problem? On the other hand, Pero needed to keep Mary safe while they were here in Pangani. He saw the young woman night manager hovering with Mary’s and his room keys.
Pero beckoned her over while he addressed Singh, “Commissioner, we have a long day tomorrow and the crew, Miss Lever, and I need to go over the schedule and prepare. We will be leaving for the mouth of the Pangani to a croc farm—Rudolf’s, you know it?” The Commissioner nodded, Rudolf’s was famous, half the handbags in Paris got their hides from Rudolf’s. Rudolf was long since dead, but the croc hides were still the same quality. “Well, may I suggest, if it is not inconveniencing you and your men too much, that as we’re only here for three days, that you stay as our guests—I’m sure the management can find you a room, and for your men in khaki as well.” Pero looked at the night manager and she nodded vigorously—she had expected the Commissioner was going to get a free room anyway since it was already too late to fly out, but now Pero was going to pay, and she was only too happy to agree. “That way, Commissioner, you can watch Miss Lever being filmed with her dinosaurs and your men can, how should I put this, ensure the pleasurable, non-inter
rupted, stay of Miss Lever in your country.”
“If you think that was possible . . .”
“My dear Commissioner, not only possible, a pleasure.” Pero put the final sweetener in. “And I am sure your brothers will approve, as I am sure they will agree with your extra generous help in protecting Miss Lever, personally.”
“That is most kind, most kind. It is an honor.” He bowed to them all. “Please enjoy your dinner and rest, we can speak tomorrow, when there are other matters of a police business, we need to discuss.” He added to remind Pero who was the real boss in Pangani. Pero didn’t mind. Whilst Pero felt police presence here was a good idea, the police presence was still, nevertheless, a threat in the event the Commissioner decided he had to blame someone, anyone, for the Cessna’s fire and destruction. Pero was pretty certain the TV company insurance would not cover an act of terrorism.
The Commissioner turned towards the manageress, “Now, if you will excuse me, I will secure the grounds and discuss accommodations.” He snapped his fingers at the night manager, and she followed him close behind.
The crew filled the vacuum around the low table as the police left. Mbuno remained standing behind Pero’s chair. Mary was first: “I’m impressed. But he’ll be hanging around all day tomorrow, getting in the way. Still, better safe than sorry.” Mary seemed better, over whatever had happened in Arusha, tired but less morose. Maybe it was the sight of what could have been and much worse as well. Pero assumed she was glad to be alive, that sort of thing.
Priit chimed in, “Pero, you got here just in time, Heep was about to let him have both barrels.”
