by Peter Riva
Heep asked, “Well, what’s wrong with that? You said he wanted us to avoid Tanga . . .”
“Yeah, so why didn’t he simply offer the Britton Islander he has sitting at Pangani Airport? It seats twenty-five. He explained that away by saying he thought an attack would be at the airport, but knowing that, why not flood it with troops?”
Heep put his hand on Pero’s shoulder, “Pero, you don’t think he’s in on this, do you?”
“No, honestly, I don’t, but I think he’s content to have us as a baited hook for the people he really, really, wants to catch. This road is a one-way trap, any way you look at it.”
Ruis chimed in, “Christ, he’s willing to have Mary on that hook as well?”
And Heep was getting angry now, not just frightened. “Christ, what bastards.”
Mary said, “Heep, Ruis, don’t take the lord’s name in vain.”
Pero went on, “There’s another part of this I can’t explain fully . . .
Mbuno chimed in, “Just one bwana?”
“Yeah, okay Mbuno, but still, I mean I really can’t explain how, but you’ve known me for years, all of you, and you must know I would not put you in that danger. If I can avoid it.”
“Sorry Mary about the lord’s name.” Ruis’ voice echoed as Heep added: “Me too Mary. Pero, what have you got in mind?”
“I need your trust, all of you. I have called for an evacuation, by plane. At a dirt strip at Mashangalikwa about an hour away now. And I don’t know yet if they are coming.”
“Oh, gott verdammt . . .”
“Swearing in Dutch doesn’t help Priit.”
“Sorry Mary. Yet again. Pero? What evac? What sort?”
“I don’t know exactly, let’s just say it’ll be friendly. The people I asked know the risks and are definitely on our side. And Heep, somewhere in there, in one of those images, there’s a clue to what these bastards have in mind, why all this is happening so darned fast. My brain tells me I’m missing something. Will you guys, and you Mary, go through them slowly, again. How about reading them aloud? Maybe something will trigger. Ruis you first, okay?”
Over the airwaves, his voice came through haltingly, but clear enough. “Okay Pero, here goes. I see the case, good shot of the fingernail catch dressed up as a welded seam. There’s the detonator and then the zipper trigger, the booby trap. Next is the safety pin and thread. So far I know these. Here’s a copy of our Park permit. Now here’s a strange thing Pero, this must be from yesterday, see the first film location has been crossed out, they do that as you complete laps, or locations, in the office of Parks in Nairobi. Then there’s a copy of Chief Methenge’s office license with the shilling stamp duty, three days ago. Hey, Pero, this is in color. A color copier? Big office. Or a print off a digital camera?”
“No Ruis, the paper was copier standard, laser, not inkjet, not a photo print. So, you’re right, it took a big office machine, well spotted.”
“Okay, then there’s our filming permit, no biggie; then a printout of our itinerary off someone’s computer . . .”
“Wait Ruis, why do you say off a computer?”
“The font, Pero, look at the font . . .”
Heep chimed in, “He’s right and this is a special font. Someone was working on a desktop who wrote this. An office or agency would use Courier, Arial, or Tahoma . . . this looks like, what?”
Priit chimed in: “Looks snobby. Like Garamond.”
“I agree.” It was Ruis again, “Let’s go on. Then there’s Debbie’s name and details, no biggie again. Some beer label, some gum, and a candy bar. Then there’s that font again with the Mara name and that dead Cessna and her tail number; so they were targeting her, bastards.” He paused for effect, “Okay, then there’s handwriting of a name—the guy you said Singh identified for you, right? Obviously his contact. There’s a Hertz map. The bastards don’t even spring for their own map. And then the mother lode, a passport of the bastard himself. Hey, did you photograph the visa entries Pero?”
Pero hadn’t. Pero had known there was something he was forgetting. “Nope, forgot, sorry. Now Singh has the passport anyway. Let’s hope he puts it to good use.”
“Anyone else want to take a crack at this, did I miss anything?” One by one everyone commented. The consensus was that Ruis had found out more than they would. He took credit because he has a “technical mind for detail.” Whatever, they were at a loss. The miles dragged on in the dark, punctuated by the hiss of the walkie-talkie.
Then Heep spoke up. “Pero, there’s something very wrong here. Everything in this case is right, authentic, do we all agree? Copies yes, but none are forgeries. Right?” Everyone answered yes, even Mbuno’s voice could be heard. “Okay then, why would there be one falsehood in there as well, why have a fake at all?”
Mary blurted out, “What, for heaven’s sake, Heep, what?”
“Heaven has nothing to do with it. This Tusker label is a forgery. There is no such thing as Tusker Special Beer. There’s Tusker Special Ale and Tusker Beer, but no Tusker Special Beer. It’s a forgery. Now we have to ask: why?”
No one spoke. It wasn’t funny or they would have teased the one guy who drinks a Tusker a day . . . no, this was serious. Why would the label be the only item in the bag that’s a forgery? Priit got there first. “What’s the sell by date?”
Heep was peering at the small glowing image. “Next month I think. It’s almost out of date. Is that right, Mary?”
She peered closer. “Yes, it’s next month, next week.” And then Mary panicked, she suddenly thought of a connection and the woman who swam with a monster crocodile burst out in tears “It’s JT, it’s JT. The Meeting is being sponsored by Tusker beer in two days, no, wait it’s already tomorrow. Hundreds of thousands will be there, they are giving away one bottle to each adult. You know JT says beer, in moderation, is okay, well, Tusker asked to sponsor the whole thing and he agreed. This label must be some kind of calling card, or reminder. Maybe a password. They must be going to kill JT.”
Heep was suddenly very serious, shaking his shoulder as Pero wrestled with the wheel. “Pero, remember? Ruis, you too, remember when they covered the war in Iraq? Remember the bottling plant and the special brewing truck they filmed? Remember what that army Captain told them it was stockpiled for?”
“My god, you don’t think?” Pero was shocked.
Ruis yelled through the static, “No fucking way, man . . .”
“What, what is it Pero, Heep, tell me.” Mary pleaded.
“You can hear while I tell somebody. Stop the car, Mbuno, I have to make a call.”
“It is right here, bwana, we are here. Mashangalikwa.” No GPS and he had gotten them here, the backwoods way as Pero’s dad would have said. And with that they pulled out of the bush, looking over the railroad tracks, front tires on the sleepers, and stared, lights off, at a moonlit empty landing strip. They all exited. No plane.
The time for secrets and games was past.
CHAPTER 13
Moshi
They watched Pero as he pulled out the mini satellite phone and pressed buttons. Heep was the first to speak. “Pero, that’s not one of ours, what the hell?”
“Later, Heep, sorry, but for now, please just listen.” The signal connected. Heep’s face was stern, demanding. “Please, Heep,” Pero added. Heep nodded as the connection went through.
“Urgent update for Tom Baylor, I think I’m saying Priority One. Yes, that’s it, Priority One.”
Priority One was for a world emergency. As explained to Pero by Tom Baylor, it had better be “a guaranteed, gold-plated, atom bomb or else. . . .”
“Baltazar here at Mashangalikwa airstrip, waiting incoming evacuation as requested. Contents of Nadir map case analyzed by me, Mary Lever, Bill Heeper, Ruis Selby, Priit Vesilind, and Mbuno of the Liangulu, scout. Urgent you advise everyone there and Tom Baylor as follows: Tusker Special Beer label is counterfeit. Expiry date next month, next week. Jimmy Threte Meeting on the Hill, Nairobi, in two days,
correction thirty-two hours, sponsored by Tusker beer. Tusker is giving away hundreds of thousands of bottles of beer as a sponsor. Draw correlation to Iraq portable breweries and bottling plants as seen at al-Hadr. Anthrax agent possible in Tusker handouts. Free handouts are always nearly expired product. Urgent action requested. Other map case details: color copies indicate large office printer or laser color copier. Also, the font used on printed matter is computer specific, suggest Garamond. Also, copies were made yesterday, date of alteration to permits as evidence. We are here at Mashangalikwa airstrip, evacuation still urgently requested, two hours to deadline as agreed. Over and out.” It was 4:00 a.m. locally. Pero waited.
Nothing. No clicks. As Pero was taught, he repeated the message as closely as he could, that’s what the two clicks are for, to tell him that they got it all or else he should repeat the message. The crew, all of them, were watching Pero, still aghast. Even Heep, who had seen the correlation, could hardly face it. This couldn’t be true, his face said and then (for Pero had known Heep for so long) his look changed to wonder with hints of respect tinged still with gross distrust. Or maybe he was seeing how Pero felt: a charlatan finally exposed to friends.
And at the end of the repeat, Pero concluded with “. . . two hours to deadline at Mashangalikwa airstrip. End of message . . . get it?” And nothing, silence.
Then a voice, monotone. “Standby.” Pero had never heard anything before on this phone, or any other call to State, ever, never.
Again “Standby” and the hiss of static. Pero wasn’t used to responding. So he guessed and tried. He gave them two presses of the star key, hoping they would read that as two clicks. No, wait two clicks means sign off, Pero didn’t mean that . . .
They responded, “Voice commands.”
“Ah, roger, I acknowledge. Standing by.”
“Affirmative.”
With the phone glued to his ear, Pero started to explain to his friends, aware that State would hear everything. He didn’t care. “Many years ago I was asked to help with little things. Sometimes I would carry a letter. Sometimes, on film work, I would carry some small gadget. This was the first time I was asked to gather information, that’s all, gather information for the State Department, keep an eye out, see if I spot anything suspicious on the border up in the Gurreh region. I never spy, really, certainly no violence. All this is with an old school friend, Tom Baylor. He asked for help, national pride, that sort of thing. This time all I was to do is phone it in—that’s what you heard just now. Usually I never communicate at all, just go about normal life. But when my production job coincides with the needs of Tom’s requests or needs, well I get a simple request and if possible, I help them out. Sometimes it’s as simple as a confirmation, yes, so-and-so is checked in at the Hilton, where I am, no there were no bodyguards protecting another group of Mid-Easterners on a beach in Australia, that sort of thing. A courier, or another pair of eyes. Noting special and if necessary I phone it in,” Pero indicated the phone by tilting it slightly off his ear.
“What are you waiting for Pero?” It was Heep. He was, Pero could see, calculating all those distant lands, all those shooting assignments and trying to regain control of his life, a life he suddenly felt had been misused by his friend. Pero was not enjoying that. Until that moment Pero hadn’t realized how vital his friendship.
“Heep, it’s only that I have never, ever, been asked to wait on this thing. I was taught to deliver a short burst of whatever and they sign off with two clicks. No response from them ever. And don’t go imagining things. When you and I have been out, there have only been three times I have done anything. The most serious one was at Dubai Airport, remember last year?”
“You went AWOL, blamed it on your gut and bad shrimp, we missed our flight.”
“Yeah, well, I was actually across the other side of the airport, in a freight hangar, seeing if a box was waiting freight collection. That’s it. It was, I telephoned,” again the tilt of the phone, “and they rang off. Job over. That’s how dangerous this sideline is, well, was. Then Simon happened.”
“Just what have you got planned out here, Pero?” Heep raised his arms to take in the landscape. He was speaking for the team now, Ruis and Priit standing with him facing Pero, Mary with Mbuno between them, eyes glued on Pero. They were all standing in the middle of the train tracks. The moonlight glistened off the rails, to the right leading back to Dar, the left towards Arusha. The airstrip was just that, a dirt strip, no lights, no tower, just dirt and, thankfully, no goats or cattle presently. If there had been any, it would mean there were native cattlemen about. About 200 yards left up the line, there was a small railroad hut, tin roof, no signs of movement. It wouldn’t be an equipment shed, more likely just a hut in case the train had a passenger waiting to flag it down in the rain or, more likely, to avoid the noonday sun.
Even at night, the heat there was oppressive. Pero knew it would make tempers flare. He needed to keep Heep and the others from infighting. If they were going to prevail here, they needed each other’s strengths.
“Heep, I ask you to listen and then, if you want, leave me to my own devices. I won’t drag you into anything, but I fear without you, there may be a tragedy here of epic proportions. I am sorry I have been deceiving you, Heep,” Pero looked at the others, “And you all.”
Heep literally shouted at Pero, it had been years since Pero had seen him so fiery. “Pero, is that how little you think of any of us? Who was it that has saved my ass time after time? Perot Island, Tasmania, Grand Seychelles, New Orleans, Bangkok, Kamchatka . . . do I have to make a list for heaven’s sake? You think I don’t owe you? You don’t think I trust you? What I need you to do is tell them what is happening, or going to happen and,” he paused and leaned forward, raising his voice even more “and produce them, you idiot, it’s what you do!” Then he smiled. Pero was speechless.
“Yeah, come on man, who was it who took my wife to the emergency room when I was away?” Ruis looked teary eyed.
Priit chimed in, words overlapping Ruis’, “Yes. And who has shown me? Time and again? The honor of trust? Who’s always writing letters? To other producers on my behalf? You think I don’t know? I owe you like a brother. After rehab? A rehab I damnt know well you paid for? With the Family trust? Or no family trust?” Priit’s singsong seemed, somehow, to blend in with the jungle sounds. For Pero, it was getting embarrassing.
Mary stepped in front of Pero, her nose shining in the moonlight, the freckles little dark spots. She was, even Pero could see, squaring her shoulders and about to let Pero have it, both barrels. “And Pero, it’s my uncle we’re talking about here. I am ready, willing and, with these his new friends,” she looked at Mbuno, Priit and Ruis, holding contact for a second or two, “and I thank you all no matter what the outcome . . . to help you with your plans Pero. And since everyone is reminding you . . .”
“Standby.”
Pero jumped to the voice, and everyone froze. “Standby okay.”
“As I was saying, since everyone is reminding you, who was it who pulled me from the Zambezi two years ago? Who was it who dived in those class-four rapids to rescue me when the raft went over? Was it the professional rafter? Was it the Olympic swimmer who was the ratings celebrity for that stupid network Sports Special? Oh, no, it was you, you, you idiot, who saved me—and never hesitated. And you think any of us are going to hesitate now to help you, or hesitate to help you defeat these evil people who are going to attack my uncle and his followers? You aren’t that stupid. In fact, you’re one of the smartest people I know, you just don’t seem to have any personal commitment, to anything, except the momentary needs of others, for which we,” she looked at Heep, Ruis, and Priit, all nodding away, “will thank you, with our lives if necessary. Get it?” She moved aside giving Mbuno room.
“And one more thing, bwana. You saved my life.”
“And you saved mine.” Pero’s response was automatic.
“No, bwana, you saved me as a man. You gave me my hon
or back as a tracker, the Liangulu honor modern Kenya that doesn’t want anymore. You are my friend, Mr. Pero, it is my honor,” he paused and put a hand on Pero’s shoulder, “even if you are a crazy mzungu.” And he smiled, the European way, teeth shining in the moonlight. It was so un-Mbuno, they all started to laugh. With the hissing, demanding phone glued to his ear, Pero could only marvel that they were laughing. What must they be thinking back at State?
The laughter diminished the tension in all of them and yet only served to make Pero feel more vulnerable. The distance between him and them was gone, if it really ever existed. He suddenly felt, and the word popped into his head, “family.” He was shaken by their faith and had nothing to offer as thanks and yet, somewhere from deep within, came the most private thing Pero could share with them “I miss Addiena.”
“Oh Pero . . .” Mary immediately started to weep and hugged Pero. The others gathered around, patted his shoulders and back. They all spoke at once, Heep first: “Now I know why you’re doing this!” then Ruis and Priit almost as one, “That’s normal man . . . yeah, we get it,” Mbuno’s, “Ndiyo bwana, ndiyo” reconfirmed his compassion and finally Heep again, who had so liked Addiena all those years ago, “Yeah, so do I Pero, so does everyone who loved her.”
The phone started talking; Pero forced himself to listen as his friends peeled off, now waiting, keeping quiet.
“Message incoming, acknowledge ready to receive.”
Pero responded, “Acknowledged,” and pushed the speaker button so they could all hear, the volume out in the open was low, but he knew State would hear them speaking better than perhaps they could hear State.
“Mission status analyzed. Evac not possible until sixteen hundred Zulu.” That was six that evening, fourteen hours away. “Acknowledge if you want to reschedule.”
Pero wanted to make sure everyone understood, “They cannot evac us at this time, they want to know if we can wait until six tonight. We can’t. By then Singh may be after us, the bad guys too, maybe Purim’s lot, he may have tracked us. It’s a no go. Mbuno, can we get across by Moshi around the eastern flank of Kilimanjaro, into Amboseli and through to Kimana and then Nairobi?”
