by Peter Riva
Pero took a flashlight from the glove box that almost every car in Kenya keeps there for emergencies, but didn’t turn it on. The moonlight was strong enough. Pero pulled the gun from his pocket. Mbuno retrieved his from his bundle hidden under the front seat and put it in his trouser waistband. Pero kept his in hand; he wanted to be ready, for what he wasn’t sure. At the sight of the guns, the young man held out his hand as if asking for one. Pero shook his head. He reached into his coveralls, down his side, and pulled out a sixteen inch panga Pero never knew was there. He was clearly still thinking vengeance. Pero shook his head at him, trying to convey an order not to start anything. He nodded, but he still had that look in his eye.
A panga is called a machete in South and Central America. The blade is the same. The user is not. A sub-Saharan African with a panga will swing the blade, day and night, with an unceasing rhythm and strength. If he started to swing that thing, Pero pitied the bomber, but only a little.
They walked up to the thorn bushes surrounding the boma, the living compound of a Maasai homestead. The dried five feet high, sharp bushes, to prevent lion attack of the goats at night, were held in place by propped sticks and ground driven stakes. They kicked two sticks out of the way, pulled the thorn entrance apart, and walked into the compound. As Pero walked over a ring of prayer stones, the prayer oval facing Mecca told Pero this was a Muslim camp, Mbuno moved swiftly to the left and Pero heard an “oof” as someone hit the dust. Mbuno came back and whispered “young morani, not a worker, he’s sleeping.” He meant that the morani (warrior) was not someone who worked in a European man’s business.
They soft-footed closer, the back of the blade of that panga sticking ahead in the moonlight, the sharp edge glinting. Was it only this morning, Pero wondered, that I saw that same glint off the train rails at Mashangalikwa?
In the near pitch dark, a man emerged from a manyatta; the dung covered, sapling framed mud hut traditional to the Maasai. Another came at his heels. The first was an elder Maasai, traditional clothing and arm amulet signifying rank as a village elder, but the second was much younger and had dirty overalls on. The moment the overall’s man saw Pero and Mbuno he started to run, a faded Agip logo on his back clear in the moonlight. The unmoving Maasai elder saw him run and said, barely above normal volume, “Kusimama.” It was Swahili for stop. He had not spoken Maa, the language of the Maasai. The overall’s man stopped. There had been nowhere for him to run. Pero and Mbuno were between him and the only boma entrance or exit.
Out of the night wafted two morani silently, spears held at the ready. The Maasai elder said, “hatari” to tell them there was danger, but added nothing, just stood there, waiting.
Pero looked at him, put the revolver back in his pocket, turned on the flashlight, and pointed it at the ground between them. Then he slowly pushed the Agip man’s panga down until it was by his side, unthreatening. “Mimi nataka, mzee, huyu mbaya mwanamume.” Pero told the elder he wanted this bad man, in very poor Swahili. The elder responded and Pero had to wait for Mbuno to translate.
The elder wanted to know what the kijana (young man) had done that was bad. As Mbuno was explaining, their passenger Agip man leapt forward and with a shriek ran after the other, clearly trying to attack him with the panga. They raced around in the dust, part of their struggle appearing in his flashlight beam, some just glints of teeth or panga edge in the moonlight. The elder did not move. Their Agip man finally made contact, the unmistakable sound of blade on flesh, stopping at bone, painful to hear. The kijana in overalls staggered to the elder for protection. The wound was deep, and the swinging arm had been strong. The gash ran from collarbone across the chest. He felt the wound quizzically and then fell screaming in pain to the ground in the circle of Pero’s flashlight, bleeding, clutching his chest, calling up to his father for help, “Auni mimi baba!”
At the same moment Pero was registering this scene of father and son, the Agip man who had come with them fell dead. The five-foot Maasai spear had moved so swiftly through his heart that Pero hadn’t seen it fly. The morani who had thrown it was standing, at ease, now spearless as if nothing had happened.
The wounded suspect still writhed in the dirt, pleading to his “Baba.” A woman emerged and was told to go back. Pero faced the elder. “Mbuno, translate for me. Tell the chief that that man,” Pero pointed, “that boy, is evil, he is not a true man of Allah, he is a coward, he is a jackal, he deserves to die.” Mbuno translated. The elder took a half step forward, tightening his fists and answered that he was still his son. Pero continued, “This jackal tried to kill many people and put a bomb on a plane to kill, not with his hand as a brave, honorable morani, but as the jackal, waiting and sneaking, like a worthless virgin coward.” Mbuno translated.
The elder stood listening. Now no emotion showed on his face, as he peered down at his son cowering in fear, knowing that this young man had brought dishonor and likely retribution to his whole family. “Ninyi kuua ndani ya bomu? Ninyi mvulana?” (Did you kill with a bomb? Did you, boy?). The boy’s pleading grew stronger. The elder watched, pity filling his eyes.
Pero held the flashlight on the ground scene before them both. The elder raised his gaze to match Pero’s and asked, in halting English, “What is it that you want?” His English was fine if slow.
Pero was in no mood to allow any pity to infect his need for information, he raised his gun and pointed it at the morani standing off to one side and then down at the boy, “I need answers from this cur, this dog, honest answers or I’ll kill him and everyone here.” Mbuno moved his sweater to show he was wearing a pistol as well.
Imperceptibly, Mbuno moved slightly sideways and caught the other morani’s spear in mid flight. It was aimed at him and had flown faster than Pero could see. He stuck the tip into the soil and spat at the morani who had thrown it. As a display of native expertise, it was awe-inspiring. The elder wanted to know the mzee’s name. “Mbuno Waliangulu” (Mbuno of the Liangulu tribe). And taking Pero’s flashlight, Mbuno showed three distinct tattoos at his hairline indicating he was an elder chief in the Maasai. Honorary rank or not, he carried official status, and his manner impressed them all in equal measure.
Heads bowed. The morani who had thrown the spear sank to his knees. The elder made up his mind, ordered the whining, wounded young man to shut up. He simply said, “Ask. I will find out truth.”
Within a few minutes the son had told the father who had given him the package, apologizing for being so worthless, a failure as a son, begging in the name of Allah to be saved. Mbuno translated as the confession was dragged out of the sniveling coward.
The box was in a bag, he said, sealed with gray plastic tape, he didn’t know what was in it, but he was told to do it in the name of Allah, a strike for Allah to kill the infidels. The man who had given him the package was from Tanzania and he was coming back today, to the mosque, to pay him more money as he had promised. “When, and what is the man’s name?” his father asked.
He whined the answer and Mbuno translated, “At evening prayers. He is called Mustafa.” Mbuno looked quickly at Pero who nodded agreement. Tanzania and Mustafa were solid clues; it was likely it was Mustafa Purim from Tanga.
Pero asked the elder who relayed the question to his son, “Where did you meet him?”
“Our Imam father, Imam Kahal, introduced us at the Masjid.” Masjid is a mosque for Koran study. Pero remembered the one in Nairobi; he had shot some footage of young English Asian boys on a religious exchange program there two years ago.
“What Mosque are you meeting Purim at? Again at the Masjid?”
“No, he said to meet at the Abubakar mosque in Eastleigh.” Eastleigh was a suburb of Nairobi, across the city, on the east side.
The father asked Pero if he now had enough information. Pero said he did. The elder turned, said a few words to the morani who stepped back, and said to his son “Ninyi ndani ya hizi.” The word “hizi” was said with a spit in the boy’s direction. Then the father pulled the spear
from the Agip passenger’s chest, turned, and speared his son to death before Pero could stop him. Mbuno held Pero back.
Calmly, then the elder asked what to do with the other body, indicating the dead Agip man. Pero, shocked by a father’s action, simply told him they would take it, to please have the body put in the back of their station wagon. They would explain it to the police that it was an accident. Pero thought a father killing a son was something he would never have to see, Mbuno sensed Pero’s shock and held his arm, guiding him backwards, taking the flashlight.
The elder’s parting words were, “I am most sorry.” Pero said nothing, he could not find the words. Mbuno and Pero withdrew, the morani carrying the dead Agip boy’s body, who loaded him, fetal position into the rear of the car. Then they bowed, looking at Mbuno and were gone into the night.
Pero started the car and engaged gears as they drove off.
“It was a matter of honor, bwana.”
Pero asked Mbuno what the father’s last words were to his son.
Mbuno explained that the elder had used the word hizi for disgrace, loss of honor. “Such a thing infects the whole family; it was his duty to stop the path of the dishonor, Pero.”
Pero understood. He was shaken by the abruptness of the violence. East Africa was a place of sudden violence at times, animal and human. There was no room for the indulgent pageantry of the finality of death in this sometimes harsh land and cultures.
As they drove back along the same roads towards Wilson Airport, Pero told Mbuno what he knew about Mohammed Kahal of the Council of Imams of Kenya. A powerful man, the Imam had once, years ago, been linked to an explosion at the port in Mombasa. “He was, is really, a man to be feared and might have links to al-Qaida or al-Shabaab.”
Mbuno was emphatic. “Not might, bwana, it is now most true.”
As they rolled out of Ngong, on the open road, Pero stopped the car and called Director Lewis. Pero asked Mbuno to listen in, his ear pressed to one side of the phone, the other side pressed to Mbuno’s ear, the speaker between them. Pero dared not hit the speaker button for fear someone could hear, the evening humidity possibly carrying sounds for hundreds of yards.
“Baltazar here, on Ngong road on way back to Wilson Airport. The man who planted the bomb on board the Cessna was a part-time worker at Agip and is now dead, speared by a Maasai, his father. The Agip employee we took with us to identify him is also dead, speared by morani, young warriors. Information gleaned is as follows: Mohammed Kahal of the Council of Imams of Kenya introduced this Muslim Agip worker to one Mustafa from Tanzania whom we suspect to be the same Mustafa Purim from Tanga. Tell Singh. Dying confession of bomb-planter indicated Purim is due back today to pay him an assassin’s fee,” Pero suddenly remembered the Daily Nation article on the opening, years ago, “at the Kuwaiti-built Abubakar mosque in Eastleigh . . .” Pero hesitated and Mbuno shot him a glance. “Right, so we have arrested all Agip workers at Wilson . . .” He hesitated again as the thought came more clearly into focus, “Damn, I just thought of something, we also need to round up all Agip off-duty personnel and morning shift in case one of them set the schedule for the bomb-planting, no way Purim knew that. It cannot just be him or the dead bomb-planter; Purim must have another accomplice there at Agip to arrange the duty roster. Suggest you place a police or Navy stake out at Abubakar mosque in Eastleigh to arrest and detain Purim. That’s about all.”
“Understood. Will comply. Sorry you lost the witnesses.” He wasn’t blaming Pero, it was a statement of fact. “Things are advancing. SeaKing crew still has not revived Baylor. They collected him without examining his fist, which contained some partially burned ashes, which blew away out the helicopter door. He’s alive but unconscious. Legs broken, arm broken, teeth missing, internal problems. He was beaten, booby-trapped with explosives, then left for dead. Medic says he suspects blood in the chest cavity with broken ribs. His satellite radio is broken, keyboard smashed. He was connecting and disconnecting power battery to send Morse. SeaKing will reach a medical facility on board ship in ten minutes. I will keep you advised.”
“Any news from Heep and others?”
“Yes, but no news on the Reichstag gambit. All leads there turn up false. Otherwise, all is secure. The Nigerian is in Mary Lever’s room and keeps her under close watch. Ruis and Priit have swept the hotel. Ruis has adapted a walkie-talkie to pick up open frequencies. Heep says JT is more determined than ever to go unprotected into the audience.”
“Yeah, well he would. If Purim is coming back, can you get a likeness of him?”
“Commissioner Singh doesn’t have a recent picture. Seems the passport they issued has a photo at least twenty years old. Slack security standards. Singh’s sending it tonight, so at least we will have something. The Iman might be a safer bet for arrest and hold, he’s on all tour watch lists, effective immediately.”
“Yes, but do not arrest him tonight, just watch him, we don’t want to miss catching Purim.”
“Agree and will implement.”
“Have you got any ideas yet on what they are planning? Other than tracking down who this missing Agip employee is and the missing man from the Holiday Inn, I have no other ideas other than the usual car, bus, truck bomb, or missile attack. There are plenty of SAMs around this region. Have you got that covered?” SAMs are surface to air missiles, much feared, because a single person can aim and fire on the run in remote terrain.
“We’re doing our best. SAMs have a very ineffective surface-to-surface effectiveness, so I disagree that it is a weapon of choice. Maybe a rocket-propelled grenade, they’re looking for those with the Kenya police and military, they’ve already started searching all the people gathering. And they are searching the whole hillside with dogs and explosives’ experts. They say there’s nowhere they can see to effect collateral damage—beyond the usual suicide bomber—as there are no buildings there.”
Pero went silent. Something Lewis had said triggered another thought. Explosives, collateral damage . . . surely it couldn’t be . . .
“Lewis, take a deep breath, this just occurred: Kibera, the slum, is mostly a Christian community, the missionaries in there control the food and bible readings. Muslim Imams are known to be hostile to their evangelizing. The Kibera slum spreads almost to where the Meeting will take place, tomorrow.” Pero looked at his watch. “Sorry today. Kibera is certainly within camera range if they pivot one hundred and eighty degrees. These, those people there, are collateral damage targets, the largest ones you can imagine. If the Agip Avgas tanks at Wilson Airport, standing above Kibera on top of the hill, facing the place for the Meeting, if they should be wired to explode, no-one will stop a bomb or resultant fire until it’s too late. It’s a mile from where we’re doing searches.”
“What would happen if they blew?”
“The flaming gas would spill downhill and engulf a large part of Kibera, roasting people alive.”
“How many?”
“Maybe two hundred thousand.”
“There’s a huge act of terrorism. Not sure al-Qaeda will want to alienate that much of sub-Saharan Africa. Check this out immediately. Need any additional support?”
“Wilson Agip fueling depot covers two to three acres of gas tanks, pipes, tanker refueling stations. To sweep that in the dark? The problem is, it’s not just Agip, there are two other massive holding tanks there.”
“Damn, okay. Proceed. One more thing: the analysts here say you are spot on with TV scenario. Years ago Lee Harvey Oswald had an easier shot vantage point on another part of the route, but he relocated to the book depository because he saw the TV cameras being erected for the drive-by. It’s something they should have thought of and didn’t.”
“Director,” Pero had to interrupt him, “wait, there’s something else. I think their deadline is first camera live, as scheduled. Say eleven thirty local here for the USA Christian cable companies, that’s three thirty in the morning your Eastern Time, but twelve thirty in the morning LA time, where JT’s
main audience is. Of course, if they follow the nine-eleven timing, all that they may be waiting for is the cameras to be set up and manned, ready to roll. So assume their deadline for any camera activity is earlier, say eleven in the morning local, three in the morning Eastern, midnight LA—and it will continue until JT is through, right?”
“We agree, will check it out our end, and call you if our team thinks you need to advance that timing. Anything else?”
“Yeah, what do I do with the body I now have in the truck?”
“I will call the local cops to come get him, no questions asked. Where will you leave him?” Mbuno suggested the broom closet in the Blue Bird hangar. Pero agreed. Lewis said a crack, something about how the stiff would “have to come out sooner or later,” and rang off. Two clicks.
Pero didn’t get the closet joke until they were driving on and thought, gallows humor.
When they got back to Blue Bird, they put the now blood-soaked body in the closet, shut the doors with a broom handle, and told David the cops would come for him and to keep quiet. David then sat, head in hands, at his desk. He didn’t look like he wanted to talk to anybody anyway.
They had two people to trace . . . and the fax for the first one had ground out of David’s ancient fax machine. The likeness wasn’t very good. Pero called Balaji Mahavir at the Holiday Inn and thanked him for the fax. “Oh, I am very pleased you have called. We have his laundry back. Would you like me to itemize the articles of clothing for you?” Pero told him “yes please” and to send the list in another fax, as soon as he could. Pero didn’t see the relevance, but who knows? Mr. Mahavir added one tidbit that Pero did find interesting, the hotel floor’s rubbish had been collected by the police, probably from the Canon man’s room—“a maid said there were black boxes with red writing in the wastebaskets, red letters spelling Schneider and the number four hundred.”
