by Peter Riva
Pero went on, “I have cleared away personnel, but one sailor is standing guard as they defuse the thing, uphill of the bomb, to report anything he sees. There’s nothing I can do if it goes off early, the gas will roll downhill, there’s not enough time to evacuate Kibera. Sorry.”
“Well done, it’s the best we can do under the circumstances. That’s three . . .”
“No four. The Cessna, the beer bottles, the refreshment cart and the bomb. No wait, five if the attack on Mary in Arusha was them as well. Any report on the cart, what was the weapon there?”
“Bottles of fizzy water had cyanide in them, as a gas. Once open, anyone within two feet could suffer a heart attack.”
“Would they turn blue?”
“Yes, and that’s what killed the guy planting it. He must have had a glass capsule. They found glass in his mouth.”
“Have you checked the camera crews?” Pero knew from experience they would be down there facing the Hill, and had been setting up all night. Now, with morning and the Meeting only hours away, they would be fully staffed.
“Checked, yes, but there is no one using Schneider lenses. All the cameras check out as clean. To a man. We’ve stationed sailors and Kenyan soldiers with every camera crew, weapons drawn.”
“Any news on Baylor?”
“Not really, I have passed this to Heep and JT. There’s just one word he’s repeated every so often, that “Jetson” thing. They have no idea what it means.”
“Okay, well keep at it, I’m sure Tom has something to tell us, otherwise he wouldn’t be saying that strange word. Can you try other variations? If he’s been beaten, maybe he’s saying something close, but different.”
“Baltazar, what do you think, we’re just sitting here? There are over thirty analysts working on just that alone, cross referencing with maps of Kenya . . .”
“Wait, what did you say?”
“Cross referencing with maps of Kenya . . .”
“Not Kenya map, airport professional maps. It’s not Jetson, it’s Jeppesen, jay ee pee pee ess ess ee en.”
“Oh Christ . . . okay, I will get on that right away. I’ll tell Heeper and JT. Why a map for an airport?”
“Jeppesen are aviators’ maps. There isn’t a decent map of an airport you can buy unless it’s an aviation map, I know I have used them when we have filmed the arrival of Air Force one or some other big wig. The information on those Jeppesen maps gives you radio frequencies, runway layouts, fuel depots, the whole works. It’s like a schematic of an airport, everything a pilot, or in their case a bomber, would need to know. It would show the Mobil tank clearly.”
“So that’s that then? No other purpose?”
“Not that I can think of. Aren’t two hundred thousand dead enough? If you lock down flight paths during the Meeting on the Hill, say for the first two hours, even if they were going to try and hijack an airliner, you would thwart them.”
“I will do better than that, I will ground everything large enough for the first two hours and check and recheck every plane, passengers and pilot. Well done.”
“Well done to Tom.” And Pero hung up. Now, more than ever, Pero needed to find out who the real Agip stooge was—only he had ordered the dead Maasai, only he had known who was behind all this, he had been getting his orders from someone. By then the day shift had arrived and had been put in the makeshift brig. Pero grabbed Mbuno, Jack, and Joshua and headed over to the Aero Club. By now Pero knew the police had arrived. Their three cars were parked outside, engines off, but blue lights twinkling.
The police arrested Pero. Well, they tried to. Jack, with Joshua looking like a puppy dog by his side, pulled his sidearm and told them to stand back. The police sergeant was angry, very angry. He had twenty men there, and it was clear the sailors and Securicor men had been having a tough time for well over an hour preventing him from releasing the detainees.
The police sergeant raised his voice, “You, you, are under arrest. They say you have killed a man. You have killed a Kenyan, an employee of this company A-jeep, they are not criminals, you are a criminal. You will be under arrest!”
“No, sergeant, I will not. Listen and listen carefully.” Pero extended his cell phone towards him. “Use this phone, right now, to call your police Commissioner . . .”
“I cannot call him, I do not know him.”
“Okay then can you call the captain in your station, Langata Station, I assume?”
“Yes, it is right, he is at home. I have the number.”
“Okay then call him and have him call the Commissioner. They will tell you I am in control here, you will do as I say.” The sergeant looked like he was about to burst. His men were pushing forward, angry that Pero would talk to their leader this way. He felt the pressure, the loss of face coming. A mzungu telling him, a policeman, a junior potentate, ruler of this Langata to Wilson stretch of ex-bush? No way. The Agip and Mobil employees were egging him on, several calling him by unkind, cowardly, names. He raised his hand, about to order a charge and, Pero had to admit, it was brave, stupid, but brave. So, Pero shot him. In the leg. At this close range, there was no chance of missing, but he was lucky, Pero just grazed his inside thigh, so the sergeant fell down.
Pero pointed the gun at the others. “Sit.” They sat. “Hands on head.” They put their hands on their head. The prisoners went very silent. “Now, let’s get this sorted out. You,” he pointed to a police officer, “yes, you, help the sergeant, put a dressing on that minor wound. Stop crying you big baby. Give me the number of your Captain.” He did, one digit at a time, slowly. The phone rang and was answered by a man. “Police captain? Captain of the Langata Police Station?” Pero heard a yes. “Good. Listen, and listen well. You will call the Commissioner of police in Nairobi. If you cannot get him, call the President’s office. Give them my name, Baltazar, listen to what they tell you, and then call me back at this number.” Pero read it out to him, one digit at a time slowly.
It was under three minutes when he called back. “Mr. Baltazar, Sir, how can we help you, Sir?”
“Talk to your idiot of a Sergeant, who I just shot in the leg, and tell him who’s boss. I need his help, not stupidity.” Pero handed the phone to the man on the floor, the sergeant’s other hand holding a pressure bandage on the lightly bleeding flesh wound that he had received from a sailor. The dialogue started with Swahili for “he shot me” and quickly changed to “yes, Sir,” repeated several times. He looked even more glum. He handed Pero back the phone. Pero listened.
“Mr. Baltazar, it is most unfortunate, I see why you needed to shoot him, I give you my word, you will not have to do so again. He—and we—are most cooperative, now we all understand. I hope you can forgive our men?”
“Absolutely, Captain. Thank you. Do you think you can hop over here and take charge? We have suspected al-Qaida or al-Shabaab terrorists under arrest . . .” the prisoners started saying all the usual shocked remonstrations.
Joshua shouted, “La neno,” and they all shut up.
“As I was saying we have prisoners here, which I am sure should be under your care, especially if they are indeed al-Qaida and one or more of them are, I am sure. I think it is only right that any real arrests should be made by your station, not the Nairobi police who will probably be here shortly, I am sure.” Actually, if they weren’t here by now, Pero figured they weren’t coming. They also must have their hands full.
The police captain on the phone seized saw the carrot of al-Qaida arrests to his credit and replied most eagerly, “I shall be right there. May I speak to my sergeant, one more time?”
Pero handed the Sergeant the phone. There were a lot of “naam,” this and “naam” that (yes), and presently the sergeant got up, and the sailor strapped the bandage to his thigh like a big band-aid. The sergeant bowed to Pero and handed back the phone. Pero checked, the captain had hung up.
“I am to go to the infirmary. The captain will take control here. I am,” he paused, looked at his leg, “sorry.”
/> “No sergeant, it is I who am sorry. What is your name?”
“Gibson Nabana.”
“I will see to it that you are mentioned for your bravery and,” Pero looked at his leg, “that you are recognized for the wound you sustained in this difficult al-Qaida case.” Suddenly the big man beamed, he really beamed. He gave Pero his hand and his men gave a little cheer. Pero told them to take him to the infirmary and bring him right back, as the police captain was sure, Pero stressed sure, to need him. In truth, it was Pero who needed him. He would do fine now as his loyalty was all sorted out.
Several of the police stayed behind to help and readily took orders from Jack and Joshua. Joshua was rising to the occasion. Pero took Jack aside.
“Jack, we need to figure out who the Agip bad guy is in this lot. I think all the Mobil people are in the clear, but I will hold them until the day is over. But we need to fool the Agip guy into thinking they’ve won. Here’s what I have in mind . . .” And Pero laid out his plan.
Jack listened, went outside, and called the sailor on guard at Agip on the walkie-talkie. Pero heard the automatic response and Jack said, “tack two” and the radio went silent. They had changed frequencies. A moment later he came back in and said into Pero’s ear only “They’ve isolated it, it is now safe. Your special device will take about another twenty minutes. They will radio when it’s ready.”
So, together, they started interviewing the Agip employees, Jack one side, Mbuno and Pero in the middle and Joshua the other side. They stood in front of the old mahogany bar, deserted at this hour, and grilled one suspect. The others really looked frightened. Even though one, in the process of being taken aside for interrogation, had gotten angry, had deserved a thwack from Joshua’s nightstick, that suspect hadn’t been aggressive, he was just testing authority. Since then he had been very silent and very compliant, infecting the others with calm obedience.
They pressed on. They needed answers.
One man at a time, in the little room next to the bar separated by clear glass walls, Mbuno or Pero told the story of the Maasai killings that night. Some were sad at the loss of the Agip man, others not so much shocked as worried that they would get the blame. In a situation like this, Pero thought, they would be looking for the man who wants to look shocked and sorry. If it’s a surprise the shock comes first and then the sorrow. If the emotions came together, it could be fake. The night manager passed the test. It was the clerk, the day fuel manager who Mbuno thought was the most likely candidate and he winked at Pero. Pero did not react, but inwardly agreed. The daytime clerk, the paper pusher who balanced the accounts and handled billing, gave himself away, expressing sorrow and then shock as an afterthought. Pero was sure he was their man.
Pero said nothing. Mbuno, catching Pero’s signal of crossed fingers behind his back, asked the question they had prepared in Swahili, “Why did you take over the duty schedule and assign the Maasai to the Cessna?”
“It wasn’t me!”
“The night manager says it was you. Why did you do it?”
The man showed fear, sweat breaking out on his upper lip, “I had to, I had to. It is my duty, I was told.”
“Who told you?” And he went quiet. Nothing would budge him. Mbuno went to find Jack, as arranged.
Jack came back and told Pero openly that the search had revealed nothing. No bomb, no arms, nothing. Everyone heard. Pero watched the clerk’s face. There was a flicker of recognition there.
Pero’s Wilson team needed to get the word out that they hadn’t found anything, and now everyone knew. They wanted this clerk to think the terrorist plan was operational. If the clerk knew they had not found anything, he would be smug. Pero had a way to change that. The plan for a dummy Hollywood type explosion had given Pero another idea, one he knew was not morally right, but they really needed to stop these people. Any group willing to incinerate two hundred thousand innocent lives, really needed to be stopped, no matter what the means or, in this case, personal morality. The truth was, Pero and Mbuno, along with Jack and Joshua, had conceived torture.
Leaving Mbuno to carry on the questioning, Pero told Jack to bring the clerk and explained that they were going over “to the avgas.” Jack frog marched the man to the truck. Joshua drove, Jack and Pero held on to him in back. They headed, as planned, towards Agip. The man said, “See, you haven’t got anything to hold me for.” As they neared Agip, they quickly veered left and headed towards the Mobil tanks and the clerk’s eyes darted this way and that. The truck stopped in front of the Mobil tank. As they disembarked, none of the three talked with the man. He wanted to know what they were doing here. They said nothing.
Suddenly Joshua and Jack grabbed him, his mouth especially, and body cavity searched him. Jack found the little glass cylinder and held it up for Pero to see, “super-glued to his gums, nasty.” He held it at arm’s length. Pero told Jack to throw it far away and he did. They dragged the guy around the tank to the garbage pile. The wire was still epoxied to the tank, the feces and rubbish put back, but only they knew the bomb was now gone. The clerk didn’t know and, in his sudden panic, couldn’t guess.
Pero refused to look at the clerk, instead addressing Jack, “Did you know that Muslims believe that if you die soiled, especially if you soil yourself and people see, you may not make it into heaven? No? Well, it’s true. All the al-Qaida Nine-Eleven terrorists and suicide bombers wore several pairs of underpants to make sure they didn’t give themselves away. See? Look, see how his urine stains the front of his trousers? You have those handcuffs, Jack?” Jack passed the four pairs to Pero. “Hey, Joshua, what do you think, shall we spread-eagle him on the rungs of the ladder, off the ground or standing comfortably?”
Smiling, Joshua replied in a casual tone, “I think, bwana, he won’t care when the gasoline bursts into flame and roasts him alive like a warthog on a spit.” Even though it was all staged, Joshua, Pero could see, was hoping they’d leave him there to die in a real fire. They fastened the leg cuffs first. Pero remembered reading that prisoners were always more frightened having their legs tied down, even more than your hands, because, somehow, if you can’t run away, you are trapped, doomed.
Seeing his complete failure and certain horrible death, the clerk started shouting words, all in a jumble, “He said I should obey him if I wanted to go to heaven. It was Imam Kahal, Imam Kahal, oh Allah, please, it was Imam Kahal . . .”
Pero grabbed his hair and put his face close up, “Where, when, who, make this good or I leave you here.”
“The Imam, he brought Bwana Purim to meet with me on Wednesday. Please, I don’t want to burn. Allah, please, I don’t want to burn, please.”
Pero finished clicking the other two handcuffs in place. “What about the glass pill?”
“He promised. He promised. I would only go to heaven if I bit that little glass pill. I would sleep and awake in heaven.”
“With the usual virgins, no doubt . . . Did you know the avgas would floor Kibera and kill thousands?”
“They are infidels, my Imam said so, fire will cleanse them and Allah will allow them into heaven.”
Pero was sick to his stomach, turned to Jack and Joshua, and said, “Leave him here. He’s not going anywhere. We won’t waste any manpower guarding him.”
As they walked away towards the truck, the clerk was shouting, begging, pleading. There was no bravado, no threats, just raw, animal fear, and the stench of urine. Pero pretended not to hear, but his cruelty only went so far, “Joshua, in about twenty minutes bring the police Sergeant, the Sergeant mind you, out here to arrest him and take a full, signed confession. Then make sure the Sergeant understands it is my order that he prevent any harm, any harm, coming to his prisoner. Got it? His prisoner.” Joshua smiled and nodded his head vigorously. Like Pero, he was sure the confession would be clear and accurate and the prisoner would remain unharmed, useful to parade in court against the Imam.
They drove back to the Aero Club in silence. Jack and Pero were in the back, loo
king at each other. They should have been happy. Neither of them was. As they stopped, he grumbled “a sailor’s duty, hah” and spat. He jumped out of the truck and walked into the foyer with Joshua. Pero wasn’t too proud of himself either, sitting there, feeling dirty. He called in just to have something less shameful to do, “Baltazar here. We’ve identified the Agip contact for al-Qaida or al-Shabaab, the company clerk” and Pero passed the clerk’s name, “arrest about to be made by Langata Sergeant Gibson Nabana. The clerk’s contact was Imam Kahal, introduction to Purim who gave orders. We took away his glass pill.”
“Lewis here, you say about to be arrested, is he in custody?”
“Yes, handcuffed to the Mobil tank where the bomb is—was. The bomb’s defused and the site is secure.”
“But he doesn’t know that right?” There was an edge to his question.
Pero wasn’t rising to his bait. “Right. Bye for now.” Pero went to find Mbuno, something else was beginning to bother him. Would this day never end?
CHAPTER 20
Ndugu
Pero found Mbuno sitting on the road-side railing at the side of the car park. He was eating, again. “Mbuno, how in the hell has Purim been here on Wednesday and in Pangani the next morning. Over the past days, probably weeks even, he’s been up and down to Tanga like a yo-yo. For someone Commissioner Singh is watching, he sure moves around a lot.” Mbuno said nothing. “And another thing . . .” Pero pulled out the fax from the Holiday Inn and showed it to him, “just who in the hell is this Smythe?”
“Purim bwana.”
Pero was dumbfounded, “What?”
“That is the man I saw in the bush outside Pangani camp.”
