Murder on Safari

by Peter Riva

  Downstairs, he talked to the manager, a nice fellow, probably one of State’s employees and asked him if he had someone to drive the van back to A & K in Nairobi. He said he did and Pero gave him the key. The man gave Pero the keys to a small Nissan station wagon parked in front of the duka. He asked if Pero needed anything else who replied no. He said he had put bread, eggs, and milk in the fridge “and some cooked stew from my wife in the oven on low.” Pero thanked him for his kindness.

  Upstairs they had already raided the fridge and their resident cook, Priit, was making eggs, “How many, Pero?” Pero told him six “Oh, very funny, same as everybody. So, everyone’s hungry then? You each can have two, only two. And like it.” He went back to cooking.

  “Check the oven, there’s stew in there.”

  Ten minutes later they were all sitting up one end of the table eating heartily, the vests, guns, paperwork, at the other end. The stew was excellent, some sort of nyama (game) meat cooked in broth and wine and loads of potatoes. They were really hungry by this time.

  “Okay, after we eat, you four go to the Norfolk in a taxi I will order. You have the paperwork over there and those super-thin Kevlar vests. Wear them, please. Take mine,” they stopped eating and stared, “and don’t look at me that way—I’m not in any danger here and anyway, I think I’ll just probe a few friends on the phone and let them do the physical stuff. No, really. Look, I want Kweno to have a vest, so make him wear it, okay? Heep, you’re in charge. Keep me informed through the director or call me on the regular cell phone—Ruis, they still each have one, right? Charged?”

  “Yes, Pero, everyone has one, and I had already put the same label with the numbers on the back.” As standard location filming equipment, cell phones were always handy. He passed them out. Pero put his beside his dish and continued to eat and talk, his mouth full, but nobody seemed to mind.

  “Mary, listen, the evidence for the Reichstag gambit is pretty strong. Who is using whom, maybe al-Qaida or al-Shabaab is using some stooge inside JT’s organization or the other way around, it doesn’t matter here and now. We need to find out who this person is, finger them, and extract information.” Mary looked despondent at the prospect. “Mary, don’t take this personally, JT must not either. It’s someone who’s wrong, dead wrong, about what’s important in this world. And their contact with others who think in the same way must be uncovered. When you get anything there, radio or cell phone, call it in to Lewis and me, okay?”

  But Mary was still looking depressed, “Look Pero, I’m a scientist. I can deal with it that way. I want this bastard as much as you do, if he or she is really there . . . but don’t ask me not to take this personally. Uncle will be devastated. Disloyalty, not to mention mass murder, is very personal to him.”

  “Agreed, and I’m sorry for saying otherwise. We’ll nail the bastard, I’m sure. Seems to me the place to start is with the front people, the advance team. They had the most likely opportunity for contact with al-Qaida.”

  “And that’s three of his most trusted people. There is no one new there.”

  “Okay, let’s recap the three clues . . .”

  “No need . . .” Being the scientist she was, she listed them quickly for them all: “Two days after Uncle decided to go to Kenya, the Tusker labels were being worked on. The assassin in Arusha was meant for me and he probably came from Gurreh-Ajuran where you stumbled upon them. Someone in the Norfolk, where Uncle had rented every room, was calling the man in the Holiday Inn until he, the Canon salesman, was arrested.”

  Pero’s phone beeped, so he went to the window and extended the antenna. “Baltazar here. We’re at the duka, had a meal and the team is setting out for the Norfolk.”

  “Negative. The Norfolk is cordoned off. The labeled beer was full of anthrax signal, dust all over the bottles. They’ve inoculated everyone, but evacuation was necessary. The delivery boy admitted under duress—your boy Usman has some power over him, according to the Master Chief who was on guard detail—that he was to drop a bottle in the water tank. There was one bottle missing. They’re checking the water system, something called a roof tank.”

  “Where is everybody?”

  “They’ve moved them, they’ve taken over the top two floors at the InterContinental, here’s the address . . .”

  “No need, we usually stay there. Good choice.”

  “Tell the crew.” Pero did. Mary wanted to know if anyone was hurt or ill. In his ear Pero heard Lewis: “I heard that, tell her no.” Pero did, she looked relieved, “but it’s early days, they could get ill tomorrow or the day after. They’re monitoring. And antibiotics are usually effective. The trick about normal strains of anthrax is that it is really only effective if you don’t know you have been exposed. Anything they could have brewed would have been pretty tame. Make you sick and without medical attention, you could die, but if you knew and have drugs, you should be no more sick than a bad cold. Tell them.” Pero did as he was told. Lewis was right, keep them informed while it was fresh, not as a précis later.

  “And Tom, Tom Baylor?”

  “Here’s what we have got so far. It’s rough because the on off switch, oh hell, just know it’s a rough transcription. It reads: “Bugged out . . . nothing left . . . L L P B . . . booby trap . . . phone damaged, blast . . . burn pile . . .” and that’s all we have for now. The Brits have sent a SeaKing helicopter off the destroyer HMS Cardiff visiting Malindi to evac and assist. We will find him.”

  “The P B must mean his name and L L must be Lat Long—his lat long, tell them to start their search there.”

  The strain in State was showing in his voice, “Yeah, we figured that, you know. Baltazar, you cannot run the whole show from there. You can try, but allow our team here some credit. Now, get your crew moving. Out.” And the two clicks.

  “Okay people, we and JT’s team are back at the InterConti. Get your gear and I’ll get a taxi; there’s always one hereabouts.”

  Pero went back downstairs, the manager had locked up so Pero walked around the other side of the building and knocked at his door. Pero asked for a taxi, and he was told the man himself was on taxi duty, ready in two minutes.

  The crew came downstairs, the vest for Usman stuffed in a pillowcase, and Ruis handed Pero the cell phone again. “Keep it on you Pero, for damn sure.” Pero apologized, he had forgotten and pocketed the phone. The four piled in and drove off. Pero didn’t even have time to wish them luck.

  He sprinted back upstairs to find Mbuno finishing his stew, eating slowly, as usual. Pero grabbed the safe room phone and dialed the InterConti, “Mr. Janardan, please.”

  “Under-Manager Janardan here.”

  “Keeping it together, I hear, Mr. Janardan. My people, who will arrive shortly, will be glad to be home.”

  “Mr. Baltazar, how very, very good to hear from you again.” It was their standard patter, but he sounded distressed. “But, Sir, we have no rooms, Sir.”

  “Not to worry, Mr. Janardan, we don’t need any; the crew are the guests of Jimmy Threte and have security passes.”

  “Ah, that is most good. So what is it I can be doing for you?”

  “Make sure the guards out front know that four disreputable looking people, three mtenen and one woman—Mary Lever, Mr. Threte’s niece—will be pulling up in about twenty minutes.”

  “Very good, very good. She will be made most welcome, of course. I had no idea; of course, we will find them all rooms . . .”

  “No, Mr. Janardan, let Mr. Threte accommodate them, they have business. They are not really your concern . . . no, what I need is a favor from you . . .”

  “Anything, Mr. Baltazar, anything, it is most definitely an honor.” And Pero laid it out to him and gave him the phone number. Mr. Janardan promised to call Pero back, within ten minutes. It seemed the night manager of the Holiday Inn was trained at the InterConti, under his tutelage.

  As Pero waited for the phone to ring, he looked out the window, through the laminated safety glass, rippled to look old
disguising the true nature of this safe house. Pero focused far off, towards to Ngong Hills, as the sun set and cast them all into the night. Time to think. And time to try and keep emotions from getting the better of him. He had to admit that sending them to the InterConti felt a bit cowardly. They were going to where the action was. But him? I’m sitting here in a safe house. He was feeling guilty.

  Shuddering, he was trying to shift tired mental and emotional gears. Events were spinning, they had had some gains, but without knowing what the one-two punch was, and it was no use pretending anthrax in the water at the Norfolk was an effective media hook, there were no real media visuals for the evening news, let alone live coverage. So, Pero calculated they still had at least two acts of visible violence to uncover. Pero still felt a bomb was the most plausible. Something at the Meeting, where the cameras were. That way, if the two punch failed, at least they had something “in the can.”

  Now Pero was thinking like a producer, and he was more convinced than ever that television production is a higher priority for them than bomb-making or collateral damage. It goes with the old saying, if a tree falls in the woods and no one sees it, does it make any noise? TV was like that, you had to have the eyeballs glued to be effective.

  Mbuno now stood beside Pero, quietly sucking the last remnants of stew from his molars. They said nothing. The sun set. The phone rang very loudly, the non-electronic bells jarring the silence. His nerves jumped. Pero took a breath, “Hello?”

  It was Mr. Janardan. He gave Pero the number of his trainee, now the night manager, and wished Pero good luck. Pero hung up and dialed the number. A woman answered, called out to “Balaji Mahavir,” and the man came to the phone. He was prepared for the call as Mr. Janardan had told him that Pero was to be given “every assistance.” It is not just a phrase to an Indian Kenyan, it is plain code for “refuse him nothing.”

  “The man they arrested? Yes, Sir, he had three rooms rented. One was a man who police have arrested this evening. I confirmed for them that the passport I saw on check-in matched the photo they showed me of that same man posing as a van driver at the Norfolk.” He paused. “The Canon man was arrested; I have not seen him since.” Nor will you ever again, friend, Pero thought. “And the third is not at the hotel. He even left some laundry.”

  “The police took everything else?” He said they did, he helped search the room, so Pero asked him what, if he could remember what “everything else” was. As he rattled off what he knew had been taken as evidence, nothing struck Pero as significant. Some toiletries, a pair of shoes, very dirty, a few books and some local street maps. Pero clutched at straws, “And the laundry?”

  “The police did not seem interested; I will inquire and call you back, perhaps?” Pero said that was fine, asking him to use the cell phone number, reading the label on the back. They rang off.

  Pero called Prabir Ranjeet. He answered on the first ring. “Ah, my friend, you are well?” Pero answered yes, asking how his wife was. They went through the pleasantries, even though, by now, they both knew they were other than they had previously thought, somehow their relationship was still equal. And Pero was sure they were still friends, even if they had secret sidelines. The friendship forged by decades of honest trade should come first in his evaluation and, funnily enough, in Pero’s as well. To avoid an awkward silence Pero felt was brewing, he rudely got to the point.

  Pero flatly told him that he needed his help, again. He explained that a man whom they both knew was probably dangerous was still at large: the third man from the Holiday Inn. If Ranjeet were to get a copy of the man’s passport photo from his friends in the police, could he get it to Pero? He said he could. Pero told him to send it to Bluebird Charters by fax, Pero would use their offices since Mbuno had a cousin who worked there, David Bariti. “I’m going to stick my nose into Mara’s schedule for the morning of our departure to Arusha and Pangani. Maybe I can find out who planted the bomb.”

  “There was a bomb? We had heard there was a mishap with your plane in Pangani. Are you sure it was a bomb?” Pero explained what had happened.

  Ranjeet’s reaction was typically Indian: “Oh, dear, oh dear, oh dear, most frightening, most frightening.” Then he agreed that Wilson Airport was a good place to start a probe. “Maybe if you find out who planted this bomb, it will lead to other evil people.”

  “That’s the idea, but I’m not sure how quickly I can find out anything useful.”

  “Then perhaps finding out is not what my friend should do. Perhaps more violent measures are called for?”

  “Yes, perhaps, but except for Mbuno and me, we’re a little thin on the ground.”

  “Ah, yes, well there are several armed forces, sailors I understand, who have been placed at your disposal; some are at Wilson, perhaps you could use their, ah, talents. I understand sailors can be quite physical. Of course, if there is anything I can do to assist, you have only to let me know.”

  Time to get moving. Pero said his thanks and rang off. Ranjeet was right, of course, Pero had to use any measure necessary.

  “Come on Mbuno, we can’t sit around here waiting for the phone to ring, let’s see if we can track down that tanker driver, the one I think put the bomb on the plane.” They both took their badges and clipped them on their shirts. They were police all-pass badges and, true to his word, on the back there was a security clearance for any US Navy personnel they would meet. Each pass had their photo. Pero looked at Mbuno’s.

  He was staring at it too. “I think it does not look like me.” He was right; it was Mbuno twenty years ago, without the graying hair. They were both wondering where State had gotten it from at such short notice. Mbuno, as usual, had the answer, “It is my passport photograph, bwana, last time I renewed it.”

  “Okay. We will just have to tough it out together then, in case anyone refuses to accept the younger you.” He nodded. “Could you call David and ask him to meet us at Bluebird?”

  “Ndiyo.” And he picked up the duka phone and called. Pero tidied up the kitchen. After a brief conversation, Pero heard him say, “Kwa heri” (goodbye) and Mbuno hung up. “Pero, he will still be there for another hour. The airport is busy, very busy.”

  Pero put the revolver in his dust jacket pocket and Mbuno, not having a jacket or anything suitable for the Beretta 9mm, wrapped it into his bundle that, Pero had accurately predicted, was coming along. Mbuno put a hunk of cheese in there as well. “I was hungry today, bwana, this is good food.”

  They went downstairs and got into the Nissan and drove off back down the Karen Road towards town and Wilson Airport. The traffic was terrible. At the west entrance gate to the airport, they were stopped for a brief second, the flashlight showed their badges; and the Brinks Security man, a local Kikuyu Pero could see, snapped to attention and gave a perfectly British “Sah!” as he saluted them. Mbuno mumbled “mtumishi mdogo” meaning small boy, a slang expression for brat, and they drove through.

  CHAPTER 16

  Flightline

  Bluebird Air was on the flightline, most charter companies were, so they parked at the side and made their way through the main hangar, past where they had met with Tom Baylor and into the offices in the back. David Bariti was sitting, alone, waiting.

  “Jambo David, mimi nataka . . .” and Mbuno launched off into asking David’s help to find out who the fuel truck supplier was, for Mara. David wanted to know why they didn’t ask the Mara flightline people directly . . . so Mbuno filled him in. David’s eyes got wider and wider. Pero understood the words for explosions, Afghani, and then a few moments later Jimmy Threte.

  David switched to English, looking at Pero, “Jimmy Threte, they are going to try and kill Jimmy Threte? I do not agree with his kind of Christianity, but he is a minister, even the Pope says he is a good man, he says he is wrong, but is a good man.” Ah, so David was a Roman Catholic? Believer indeed . . . Mbuno had told a white lie to Commissioner Singh. “What can I do to help you?”

  Pero spoke up. “David, we need
your help. How many petrol suppliers are there here at the airport and who is new—new staff—to any of them?”

  “There are three fueling companies here. Agip, Mobil, and BP. Who works at which one, I do not know, but we can find out. Most office staff has gone home for the weekend. Maybe I can get the security people to show us around, would that help?” So they called security who promised to send someone over, with keys, as soon as possible.

  The airport was still busy; Sunday was a busy charter time, people connecting with 2:00 a.m. airline flights back to Europe at night. Added to which, all sorts of private jets and planes were still arriving from all over Africa; and, in fact, looking out David’s window, Pero spotted some tail numbers from as far away as Finland and Russia. The Meeting on the Hill was attracting devout followers—rich, powerful, followers. Pero saw them as a bigger media event for al-Qaida.

  Awaiting the arrival of the security man, Pero stood at the open hangar doors watching crews working overtime, servicing planes, and the little yellow Follow Me truck plying its trade. Down the flightline of hangars, to the east, the lights of Mara Airways burned bright, so Sheryl might still be in; late arrivals from safari on Sunday were usual occurrences. From around the hangar, a security Toyota pulled up and two men got out. One was wearing a US Navy uniform. Pero walked over to him and showed him his badge. He snapped to attention. Then he saw Mbuno’s badge, checked it, and saluted him as well. David, behind Pero, gave a chuckle. No doubt this would make a great story to tell the family, until, that was, Mbuno looked at him and he lowered his eyes. In the tribe, elders are respected, not the butt of gossip.

  The security guard, with Wilson Airport and Securicor embroidered over his pocket, shot Pero a look and wondered what gave. The Navy man had SP—Shore Patrol—on his armband.