Murder on Safari

by Peter Riva

  Heep waved away the suggestion, “No, I wasn’t, Priit . . . well, maybe, but honestly, wanting to take apart tour camera equipment to check for more bombs? It’s ridiculous.”

  Was it, Pero wondered? But again, it didn’t fit the timing, all that had happened pointed to a last minute crude attempt. They had a bomb with a timer and simply set it according to the flight plan, boom somewhere between Arusha and Pangani. Instead, the plane was on the ground a good two hours before. It didn’t take much to destroy a plane; a half-pound of explosive would do it.

  “Priit, is that new battery pack of mine in your tent?”

  “Yeah. Mind telling me, Pero? What the hell it’s for?”

  “It’s a surprise. Let me have one surprise, won’t you?”

  “We’ve had enough surprises today, boss. But let’s drop it and get some food.” And with that, everyone nodded on Priit’s advice. As they moved to a dining table where all the other guests were already seated, Mbuno sat next to Mary and they talked intently about giant crocs he had seen at Lake Rudolf and no one ever discussed one more single unpleasant thing that evening. Dinner was broiled croc (what else?) and mashed poi, the cornmeal side dish of Africa. Fruit and more fruit were for dessert, with German cookies, slightly limp in the humid night air. The pineapple and apple mangoes were perfect. The tourists grumbled. The crewmembers ate like it was the last supper. Pero was determined to see to that it was not.

  Two hours later, everyone was seen safely to their tented rooms. Mbuno had swapped his for the communal room with the drivers and the cops. The Commissioner took Mbuno’s tent. Pero didn’t ask why. One, Pero knew Mbuno would be less self-conscious there; two, he could gather intel and hear rumors, and three . . . Pero was beginning to sound like his father making a list. But the best reason that he was there and not in a tourist tent is that he was next to the Land Rovers if they needed one in a hurry. Unlike some other drivers, he was always trusted with the keys.

  Before they turned in, Priit and Ruis welcomed Pero into their tent and gave Pero the battery pack. Pero told them that if they could keep a secret, he’d show them what it was. Pero needed a secret key, so he took it back to his tent. There Pero pushed the hidden latch on his computer, took out the plastic key hidden below the CD drawer. With the key Pero opened the box and took out the mini satellite radio, same model as before. It only weighed four ounces; the empty fake battery pack was four pounds, steel and lead lined, unbreakable. Pero took it back to them, leaving the radio under the towel on his washstand.

  Pero showed them how to insert the plastic key and, presto, the lid slid open, leaving an empty box for hiding stuff in. The cavity was roughly the size of a Beta tape. Ruis knew immediately what it was for. “Damn Pero, where did you have this made? It’s damn useful, I could have used this in Kosovo. I lost lots of tapes to the military guys. With this I could have stashed a few of the riskier ones.”

  Priit said he had seen one before, but not opened, when he was the cameraman on a shoot they did in the Maldives. “Never knew what equipment the damn thing was for. Tried to open it. It was sealed.” He examined it closely, “Look at this. It looks sealed. Amazing.”

  “Okay guys, keep this secret, we may need it yet when we leave Nairobi with Heep’s footage of Simon.” They knew what Pero meant. The Kenya tourist people would not like it if the government minder had now gone back and told them Heep had videotaped the dead Simon. That was bad for tourism.

  They promised to keep it secret and safeguard it for Pero. Pero kept the flat plastic key to make the point the risk was his, not theirs. They nodded. They spent the next hour going over the videotaping equipment and plans for the morrow.

  Priit especially liked the new underwater camera. “Where’d you find that? It’s small. Has fore and aft impellers. A bladder for buoyancy. And the book says it’s rated to 100 feet. Guidance is magnetic-signal through water. No wires. Amazing. We’ll need at least a few hours practice. What’s the power for this thing? It says just plug it in. And recharge the batteries. Two hours for full charge. But if I can’t replace the batteries when they fade . . . and Pero, we have no extras.”

  “The battery charge will last two days full-time use. They only power the computer, magnetic signal and camera zoom and focus, not the impellers.” They looked amazed. Pero explained. Like kids opening a Christmas Eve package, they were dying to try it out, so they sat there, glued to his every description, turning the sled over in their hands to check it out.

  The principle of the design was based on the thermodynamic properties of water related to depth. Not a new concept, this was the first production model of a Navy underwater rover camera platform—that worked.

  Submarines have, for some time, been relying on a neutral impact buoyancy point somewhere amidships. What was above wanted to rise, what was below wanted to sink. Down was always greater because of gravity, but if you balanced them out, then simply venting, say, the conning tower periscope tubes could make the ship go up or down, depending on where you took the incoming water from. It was a temperature thing. They noticed, by 1975, that if you took the water from the keel, the effect was faster not because of gravity but because of pressure and temperature. If you ran that venting though a motor inducer, you had power for the impellers. The batteries were for the computer that controlled it all—and the camera lens of course. It took the Navy forty years to perfect this. Sony bought the rights to use the patents, and they were about to test out the first commercial model.

  The camera mechanism would store the energy of the temperature of salt water at one atmosphere (the surface) and then use the differential at, say ten feet, to run the impellers. All it took was a pick-up flexible tube and small weight that dangled from the bottom of the SeaSled, as it was called, ten feet down.

  Priit was thrilled, really thrilled. “Hey, I could stay here. In bed. And watch the monitor. And pilot the thing out in the river. It says the magnetic signal is good for five hundred yards through water. And two hundred yards through rock. Fan-tastic.”

  Pero jokingly pointed out that Priit was angling to get more sack time, again, and that he was pushing it as they had work to do.

  Pero was saying good-night when Ruis stopped him and whispered. “Oy Pero, what’s with Mary, she all right?” Pero told him he didn’t know, she had gotten back on board in Arusha very down and never said a word until Pangani. “Well, Heep and Mary had a thing a few years back . . .” Pero looked surprised, as he didn’t know that . . . “Yeah, so she’s in there with him tonight—Heep said he’d hold her—she was shaking. Aftereffect I expect, shock from the plane, right? You’d better tell Mbuno and, maybe post a guard? Think there will be more trouble? Have they got revolutionaries going on down here now?” Pero knew Ruis wasn’t afraid, he’d covered virtually every war zone for the past twenty years, he just wanted to know the score.

  “I think it was a one-off, so does Commissioner Singh, a mistaken identity thing, who knows? The Commissioner and his men should keep us clear of danger here and, when we’re done, we’ll decoy flights and destinations, confuse any followers—I’ll fix that, don’t worry. But in any event, we’ll beeline back to Nairobi and take the earliest plane out, okay? No risks, agreed?”

  “Agreed, unless we have to. Like in Venezuela on the Rio Negro, remember?” That time they had to fight their way out between two tribes engaged in civil war, themselves caught in the middle. They never learned what started it, but they got the hell out of there, with a few wounds along the way. Ruis and Pero both hoped this wasn’t a repeat.

  Pero patted him on the shoulder, said goodnight, and went back towards his tent, time to make a call to State. Along the way, Pero listened at Heep’s tent flap and heard low voices and, he thought, crying. Pero found the Commissioner and got him to post two guards, one at each end. Pero went off to tell Mbuno. Pero suspected he’d be restless tonight, perhaps even doing an anti-insurgency patrol. God help intruders if Mbuno thought they were up to no good.

  In
his quarters, Pero ran the shower in the back part of the two-room canvas safari tent. The water ran brown for a while, clearing the mud from the pipes until the Pangani River water came through, splashing on the duckboard making a masking sound. Pero dialed Tom Baylor’s office number and heard a signal, a double click. So he simply talked, hoping it was being reported, recorded, “Baltazar, Pero here, south of Tanga, on coast at Pangani Camp in Tanzania. Our Cessna 414 aircraft destroyed by bomb, timer set to coincide with our flight from Wilson Airport, Nairobi. Flight plan change resulted in plane being early at airport Pangani when explosion occurred. No one hurt, no work equipment lost. Recommend investigate fueling services Wilson Airport. Dar-es-Salaam Police Commissioner Singh in situ, so we have secured his security services for Mary Lever, possible for three days. Lever is now part of my television crew. Pilots, one a witness to the explosion at Pangani Airport, are arriving Wilson Airport immediate. Recommend advise this message to Tom Baylor asap. Over and out.” Pero heard the double click and was clear. Message delivered, he hoped.

  CHAPTER 10

  Pangani Beach

  Eden could not have been better. With the rising sun, the tropical sounds reaching into the primordial brain that Mary called the reptilian brain. Along with the balmy breeze of the briny delta, the paradise beckoned them all and lifted spirits. Pero exited his tent only to bump into the back of a guard. “Good morning.”

  “Morning Sir, Commissioner Singh said he would be pleased to join you for breakfast at seven.” It was 6:30. Pero nodded and went next door to check on Ruis and Priit. No way Pero was going to disturb Mary and Heep.

  The crew’s tent of Priit and Ruis was empty. Pero checked the case and found the SeaSled was missing. Pero didn’t need three guesses to know where they were. It had gone early light an hour ago, so they were obviously in the water. Boys with their toy, Pero thought as he exited the tent, Time for tea.

  Mbuno was having the same thought, besides which his internal radar had told him Pero was up and about. Appearing at Pero’s side, he smiled and said softly, “Gani bosi?” (How are you boss?). Pero simply shrugged. “Ndiyo. Mimi nataka chai,” (Yeah. I want tea) and the two men walked together towards the dining hut. Their spirits were matched, time to get the day underway.

  In the dining room, Pero surprisingly found Heep and Mary already half-way through breakfast. On safari, crews eat together, always, this was unusual. Pero didn’t want to probe too much, yesterday was tough on everyone. So he simply pulled up a chair and said in a casual way, “Feeling better Mary? Morning Heep.”

  “Yes, Pero, I think so, still a bit raw, but better thank you. A good night’s rest and Heep to console my ragged nerves seemed to do the trick.” Her eyes were challenging Pero to ask more. After a moment of silence, but not avoidance of eye contact, she understood Pero had no reservations. What happens on safari stays on safari and, anyway, who was Pero to judge? Pero knew them both, Heep better than her, and they were both his good friends. Pero hoped it worked out. Heep was between marriages (always looking, hated to be alone) and, well, “that twerp” husband of hers was clearly history.

  “I’m glad Mary. Yesterday was a stressful day for you. Let us know if there is something we can do to help. Arusha creates problems that people just don’t understand until they go through it.”

  “Heep told me. I didn’t know you both had been called before as well. It’s awful, just awful.” And with that, her face got so sad that Pero wanted to reach over the table and hug her. Heep looked at Pero with sympathy also putting his arm around her shoulder. He mouthed, “I told you so.” Pero nodded. He was right, of course, Arusha is the pits, Pero remembered all too vividly.

  Almost ten years ago, Heep and Pero had been filming on the shores of Lake Victoria. It was a segment for the new cable channel Discovery. The budget was small, the crew smaller. It was just Heep, Pero, and one scout, Kamau, subbing for Mbuno who was with other clients. Kamau was a useless, lanky, lazy racist. Their location filming fitted in between other work schedules. Heep was getting footage of the “smoking lake” that the early explorers first spotted and so nicknamed Lake Victoria. It was for an explorers’ special—Livingstone, Stanley, Burton, that sort of thing.

  The smoke rising off the lake is actually flies, millions and millions of flies. From a distance it looks like a series of campfires in the marshy reeds, up close it’s a small tornado of flies. The tribeswomen from the region have woven intricate baskets they swirl around their heads acting like butterfly nets, catching the flies. They make patties out of the flies and fry them in hippo grease or sometimes Warthog grease. It’s a delicacy and an alternative protein source from the fish of the lake. It tastes like slabs of pig fat, uncooked, tepid.

  Lake Victoria is big enough to be slightly tidal and have deep currents. Every day, at noon, when the wind shifts, things move about. There they were filming as the tide changed, thigh deep in the marshes, leeches already attached to calves, when a log bobbed up, then another and another. But they were not logs, they were bodies that had drifted down the Kagera river in a recent slaughter between tribes. Two of the bodies had been partially eaten. The crocs and hippos thereabouts were well fed. The third body had identification—it was a UN inspector from the Chad delegation of peacekeepers. His throat had been cut.

  As witnesses, they were called on to testify. They hadn’t seen the killing of the UN peacekeeper, someone else had, they had only found the body. Their testimony was needed to firm the link between the crime, the location, and the autopsy. They were assured it would be over in a day. They spent three being grilled and all but accused of the murder by defense council. They were shown weapons, how to hold them to hack and mutilate people, asked if they had ever done so, were made to pretend they were slitting throats, to check if it could have been them, left and right hand, that sort of thing. It made no difference that they had witnesses to the suddenly bobbing bodies. The women they were filming were also there, but they were intimidated to silence by defense council—even though the Tutsi defense lawyer was rebuked, often, by the magistrates. It was a farce. A dangerous, potentially lethal farce. They received death threats, and one stray bullet pierced his shower in the Arusha Arms Hotel after the first day of testimony. After they were done, the death threats recurred and Heep had one narrow escape on Arusha’s main street the next day with a truck that didn’t stop. His left arm was badly broken, but otherwise he was okay.

  In that courtroom, the stench of base human hatred for their own kind filled every waking moment of their three days. Now, if ever someone tells Pero humans are civilized, Pero tells them to go to one of those trials and watch the worst of humanity expose itself.

  Mary, yesterday, had obviously had a full dose of Arusha’s humanity as well.

  “Jikuru, he stayed behind to argue that you didn’t need to go back, didn’t he?” It was the only explanation of how she could have given so short a testimony.

  “Yes, he said he would resign if I was called again. He was protecting me, I know that now.”

  Pero and Mbuno sat, visibly concerned, for they sensed there was something else, “What happened, Mary?” Pero asked it quietly.

  “Someone stabbed him in chambers when he was disrobing. He was dead before he was found. The killer was running in his direction, had the blade in his hand. As he ran at me, the Nigerian killed him with one blow.” Pero nodded, Mary began to weep. Heep looked down at her hands folded on the table’s edge, tightened his arm over her shoulder, and consoled her with kind words.

  Mary suddenly seemed to make up her mind. “I have got to stop crying, this just won’t do. Jiki knew the dangers and my testimony will put at least one bastard behind bars forever. The other killer is dead and good riddance.” Pero was still marveling that the police hadn’t detained her. And at her strength through it all.

  “How’d you get clear?”

  “It was your doing. You told him to protect me with his life. He did, not just stopping the killer, but he got me aw
ay before I could be questioned, exposed to more danger. His army career will be over, or worse. Is there anything they can do for him? Heep says there probably isn’t, but Pero, do you know someone, something that can help him? If not for him Pero, I might never have left there.” She paused. “Ever.”

  Pero promised he would, right after breakfast. “But now,” Pero told them, “I need food to make the brain cells work.” Pero made light of it, but made sure Mary saw the answer she was looking for in his eyes. Pero remembered the Nigerian’s name, even if she didn’t. It was stitched on his uniform pocket: Kweno Usman. Pero remembered it because Kweno is the Nigerian word for hope. And Usman is a mnemonic: us man. Easy. Pero would get State on to it immediately after breakfast, mark it urgent, link it to the great US hero, the Reverend JT. Pero was pretty sure it was the most effective method of protecting that big Nigerian with the white gloves. Of course, it meant JT would find out that Mary had been at risk under his watch, but, still, Pero had come through, hadn’t he? Or rather, Kweno had. Pero resolved to never underestimate the word of a soldier, Nigerian or otherwise.

  Like most of the crew, Pero ordered up, eggs and more eggs, loads of sausages (here in German-influenced Tanzania, the sausages were Nurenburgers, not the British style bangers of Kenya), toast, jam and fruit. Breakfast is a hearty meal when you are filming. Lunch may be a while off—and sometimes became dinner, if you were lucky. The Pangani people would make them packed lunches, but they were, mostly, inedible. Pero was sure the shore crabs would be fed scraps from lunch, Swap Trafalgar Square’s or St. Mark’s pigeons for Pangani crabs, the feeding frenzy is the same.

  Ruis and Priit showed up, bathing trunks, tees, and sandals, gone native, with sand in their hair. They were grinning. Priit couldn’t wait, before he even sat down, he started in, “Heep . . . man you gotta see this thing. It hangs. I mean hangs at thirty feet. Stable as a steady cam. No operator. Instant response to pan and zoom. It’s great! And, what’s really cool? It . . .”