Lucky and his companions were hastily bundled into the small, windowless fisherman’s hut. Behind them, the corrugated iron door was slammed shut and padlocked. Through a gap in the wall, Lucky watched Zuba. It occurred to Lucky that the seizure of the ivory at the docks was no random act. When he had started work at the Wildlife Service, Chief Ranger Springer had told him that the dock authorities at Dar es Salaam rarely intercepted outgoing ivory. Maybe, just maybe, Lucky told himself, the Tanzanian Government had received some outside help to find this particular ivory shipment.
Lucky watched as Chawinga came hurrying back to Zuba. ‘Colonel, I have spoken on the radio with Mr Zhu,’ the RAT captain reported breathlessly. ‘He say no mistake was made.’
Zuba groaned. ‘No mistake?’
‘He say that foreign soldiers searched the containers on the docks.’
‘Foreign soldiers?’
‘He say they had the help of a special dog.’
‘A dog?’ Zuba echoed, incredulous.
‘It is true. A large brown dog. He said it was a war dog, Colonel.’
Inside the hut, Lucky smiled to himself. He had a very good idea who that large brown war dog was. And he guessed from this information that his friends from the GRRR were not far away.
‘A war dog?’ said Zuba. ‘What is a war dog?’
Little did Zuba know that he would soon find out what a war dog was.
In their restricted camp at Leboo, the men of the GRRR team sat under the shade of the plane trees that fringed the goat compound. Bored and frustrated, most of them were cleaning their weapons as they waited for intelligence on their target’s location. Until they knew the whereabouts of Zuba and the hostages, they could do nothing and they could go nowhere.
Even Caesar was bored. He was lying on the dry earth beside Ben, who was studying his waterproof operational map. Caesar rested his jaw on the ground and closed his eyes. He was almost asleep when he felt something land on his nose. Opening his eyes, he saw a wasp sitting there, looking right back at him. Caesar was reminded of the time he had poked his nose into a beehive and was stung several times. The wasp looked just like those bees. It tickled his ultra-sensitive nose, and Caesar sneezed, sending the wasp and a puff of dust into the air. Caesar didn’t close his eyes again. He remained alert, keeping a watch for more wasps.
It was now that the team had a stroke of luck. Lieutenant Roy strolled into the compound. ‘There was an amusing piece of news on my radio, Ranger Springer, Sergeant Grover. The police at Mwanza have arrested a young man carrying what he purports to be a letter from Ranger Lucky Mertz.’
‘Mwanza?’ said Charlie, as he and Wallace Springer came to their feet. ‘That’s in the north, on the lake, isn’t it?’
Springer nodded. ‘At the southern end of Lake Victoria. It’s the second largest city in Tanzania.’
‘This letter will, of course, prove to be a forgery,’ Roy said authoritatively. He chuckled to himself. ‘What would the hostages be doing up there at Mwanza? I would wager a large sum that Zuba is skulking across the border in Burundi, or even in Rwanda, further north.’
But Charlie knew that every morsel of information was important. He turned to signaller Brian Cisco. ‘Get me Papa.’ Charlie then looked down at Ben. ‘Can I have a look at that map, mate?’
Ben stood up and handed his map to Charlie. The two of them stood together and consulted the map, taking note of the grid reference that covered Mwanza. The sudden activity brought Caesar to a sitting position, and he looked up expectantly at his two best friends. There was a look on Caesar’s face that seemed to say, Are we going to play now?
Before long, Cisco had contacted Major Jinko aboard Canberra. ‘I got Papa for you, Charlie,’ he announced, holding the handset of his VHF radio out to him.
Charlie took the handset. ‘Papa, this is Oscar Zulu One. Do you copy? Over.’
‘Roger that, Oscar Zulu One,’ Jinko’s voice came back over the air. ‘Go ahead. Over.’
‘Papa, we have local police intel that Game Boy could be in the vicinity of grid reference X-ray Four. Would that gel with your way of thinking? Over.’
There was a pause as Jinko consulted his own map. ‘Oscar Zulu One, that gels with me.’ This intelligence backed up Jinko’s hunch that Zuba had gone north to Lake Victoria. ‘Investigate in force. I say again, investigate in force. I’ll send a Sally to give you a ride. Do you copy? Over.’
‘Copy that, Papa. Oscar Zulu will investigate in force. Oscar Zulu out.’
Sally One collected the six-member party from Leboo for the flight up to Lake Victoria. Charlie was in charge for this Mwanza reconnaissance, accompanied by Ben and Caesar as well as Baz, Chris Banner, Casper Mortenson, and the Tanzanian Army’s Lieutenant Roy.
The city of Mwanza was sprawled around several low hills on Lake Victoria’s southern shore, where a deep cove served as a port for ferries and other vessels working on the lake. Mwanza had a population of 700,000, yet most of the city’s buildings were single-storeyed, many of them with mud walls. Downtown, there were a few concrete office buildings and hotels of four or five storeys. Using his GPS to locate Mwanza’s police headquarters on Kenyatta Road, near the gate to the ferry port, the Sally’s pilot set his helicopter down on vacant land almost directly opposite the building. A crowd of locals, many of them children, quickly gathered to gawk at the sleek military chopper and its passengers.
Charlie led the detachment out of the Seahawk and up the dusty steps, into the large shady foyer of the simple white concrete building. Half-a-dozen local policemen were lounging around the foyer when the soldiers walked in. All conversation terminated abruptly as the policemen turned to survey the heavily armed foreign troops with a mixture of suspicion and fear.
‘What do you want here?’ demanded a massive police sergeant stationed at the front desk.
‘Who’s in charge?’ asked Charlie, walking up to the desk.
‘Superintendent Welle is in charge.’
‘Then we’re here to see Superintendent Welle.’
‘He is a very busy man.’ The sergeant folded his arms over his huge stomach.
‘So are we,’ Charlie retorted. ‘Men’s lives are at stake. So, where do we find the superintendent, Sergeant?’
‘Please do as he says,’ said Lieutenant Roy, coming to join Charlie. ‘These men are on important United Nations business sanctioned by our government.’
‘You have no authority here,’ the sergeant growled at Roy.
Chris Banner leaned across the desk. ‘Trust me, man, you don’t want us to have to go find your superintendent.’
‘And you don’t want to have to find a new job. Do you, mate?’ added Baz.
The police sergeant glanced at the M-16 on the towering West Indian’s shoulder, then at Baz as he cradled his Minimi like a favoured pet. The sergeant sighed. ‘Wait a moment.’ He turned away from the GRRR men, took up a telephone and spoke into the mouthpiece urgently. Replacing the receiver, he regarded Charlie sourly, then said, ‘Follow me.’
The sergeant led the way across the foyer toward a distant corridor. Charlie and the others set off after him, with Baz bringing up the rear, walking backwards to keep an eye on the policemen in the foyer.
They had reached the corridor when the sergeant noticed Caesar padding along at Ben’s side. ‘That dog cannot be here,’ he declared, stopping in his tracks. ‘Dogs belong in the street.’
‘That’s not any dog,’ declared Baz, sounding insulted. ‘That’s Caesar.’
‘Where we go, Caesar goes,’ Charlie said in a no-nonsense tone. ‘Lead on, my friend.’ He pointed down the corridor. ‘Time is precious!’
With a grunt, the sergeant led the party into a spacious office. Behind a broad desk with little adornment, a short, tubby man was sitting eating ice-cream from a bowl. Wiping his mouth slowly with a napkin, he came to his feet.
‘These are they, Superintendent Welle, sir,’ the sergeant said apologetically. ‘These are the United Nations people.�
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Superintendent Welle frowned. ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen? The Commissioner rang me from the capital to warn me that you would be coming to Mwanza, but I must confess I did not expect you quite so soon.’
‘Sir, you arrested a person carrying a letter written by Lucky Mertz, the kidnapped Deputy Chief Ranger of the Tanzanian Wildlife Service,’ said Charlie.
‘Indeed.’ Welle nodded, before self-consciously dabbing his lips with his napkin. ‘Of course, the document was a forgery. This fellow was clearly trying to use it to obtain money by false pretences.’
‘How do you know it was a forgery?’ asked Baz.
‘The very nature of it cried forgery!’ the superintendent responded, waving around his napkin. ‘And how and where would such a humble fellow obtain such a document? He has no known connection with Colonel Pink Eye and the Revolutionary Army of Tanzania.’
‘Do you still have the letter, sir?’ Ben asked. Caesar sat down to watch the scene unfold, his head cocked to one side with curiosity.
‘Yes, of course I have the letter. It is evidence that will be introduced at court when the fellow is sent to trial.’
‘May we see it, sir?’ Charlie asked.
‘Oh, very well,’ Welle replied impatiently. He opened a drawer and took out the letter. It was a single page, folded and soiled. ‘But it is clearly a forgery.’
As Charlie unfolded the letter, Baz and Ben also moved in to read it.
To the governments of Tanzania, Australia and New Zealand,
My men and I are safe and in good health. We are well cared for by Colonel Abraham Zuba and the Revolutionary Army of Tanzania. However, Colonel Zuba’s patience is running out. He has instructed me to tell the Government of Tanzania that he has increased his demands for our release. Those demands are as follows:
The Tanzanian Government will guarantee in writing to refrain from all attempts to locate and arrest Colonel Zuba and his men in the future.
On payment of a ransom of US$1 million dollars, my rangers and I will be released unharmed. How and when that ransom is to be paid will be communicated in my next communication.
The bearer of this letter must be paid one thousand dollar.
Lucky Mertz
‘You see,’ said Welle. ‘Clearly, a very amateur attempt to extort a thousand dollars. Or, “one thousand dollar” as he has written there.’
‘Well, mate,’ said Baz, ‘I’ve got news for you – this is Lucky Mertz’s signature.’
‘And this is Lucky’s handwriting,’ Ben added, tapping the letter in Charlie’s hand.
A look of disbelief came over Superintendent Welle’s face. ‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Mate,’ said Baz, ‘you’re looking at Lucky Mertz’s three best friends.’
This temporarily silenced Welle. Charlie peered closely at the final demand. ‘This request for a thousand dollars up-front – that wasn’t written by Lucky.’
‘It’s someone else’s handwriting,’ Ben agreed. ‘Someone has squeezed it in, trying to copy Lucky’s handwriting.’
‘He even used a different pen,’ Baz added. ‘Look, it’s just a slightly different shade of blue. But the first part is genuine. Trust me, it was written by Lucky Mertz.’
‘Looks like the bloke carrying the letter decided to make himself a thousand bucks,’ Charlie surmised. ‘Where is he? Have you got him under lock and key, Superintendent?’
‘He was injured in the scuffle to affect his arrest. He is at the hospital. But do not worry. On my orders, he is handcuffed to the bed so that he cannot escape.’
‘Please take us to him right now,’ said Charlie, handing the letter back to Welle. ‘We need to find out where he came by this letter.’
‘Very well. I will take you to the hospital myself,’ said Welle, reaching for his peaked cap.
‘Why is our prisoner being kept in the children’s ward?’ demanded Superintendent Welle.
‘The other wards are all full,’ explained Dr Patel, the Chief of Paediatrics at the Northern Medical Centre. Nervously he pushed his glasses up his nose. The doctor was not used to having armed soldiers in his hospital. ‘He is little more than a boy, anyway.’
Superintendent Welle opened the door to the ward. ‘If you please, Dr Patel. Kindly lead my United Nations colleagues and myself to the prisoner.’
‘Very well.’ The doctor turned to take the lead. ‘He will be transferred to an adult ward as soon as there is a vacant bed. The hospital is so very, very busy.’ He glanced at the carbine on Charlie’s shoulder. ‘I hope that you gentlemen will not be here long – guns and hospitals are not a good combination.’
‘We’ll get out of your way as soon as we’ve spoken with your patient, Doctor,’ Charlie assured him. ‘Our object is to save lives – the lives of the hostages being held by the RAT. Your patient could have vital information that will lead us to those hostages.’
‘Just be as quick as you can, Sergeant,’ Dr Patel said with a sigh.
‘Roger to that, sir.’
In pairs, the men made their way through the children’s ward, with Superintendent Welle bringing up the rear. It was a long, stark white room of a hundred beds – fifty down one side, fifty down the other – and a broad aisle separating them. Every bed was occupied. It was lunchtime, and the patients were being delivered their lunch by blue-uniformed nurses. Some of the children were too ill to feed themselves, and the nurses were spooning food into their mouths. Their meal appeared to consist of bowls of mashed banana.
‘What are the children given to eat, Doctor?’ Ben asked as they passed the pale and bandaged youngsters. The patients eyed the visitors with awe, while the nurses frowned at the sight of their weapons.
‘Matoke,’ Dr Patel replied.
‘And what is matoke?’
‘Cooked green bananas.’
‘Bananas?’ queried Baz, who was walking directly behind Ben and Caesar. ‘Is that very wholesome?’
‘I assure you, it is most nutritious,’ said the doctor. ‘Matoke is what most people in this country eat. In addition to matoke, once a week we are able to give the children a meal of maize and millet with beans, or sometimes with a little fish or red meat. This provides a balanced and more than adequate diet.’
Ben glanced at a boy hungrily scooping the last of the contents of his bowl. ‘Their bowls don’t appear to be that full,’ he remarked.
‘They get a lot more for dinner, at night, right?’ said Baz.
‘Er, no. Lunch is the most substantial meal of the day in Tanzania,’ Dr Patel replied. ‘The evening meal for these children will be a little bean soup and a mango-orange drink. At Christmas and other holiday times, they will be given date nut bread or sweet potato pudding as a special treat. You must remember that, when they leave the hospital and go home, these children may not be fed as much as they are here. Most of their families are very, very poor.’
When the group arrived at the very last bed in the ward, they found a young man lying on top of the blankets, fully clothed. His right wrist was handcuffed to the side of the bed. His face was badly bruised, and one eye had almost closed over.
‘Why isn’t he actually in the bed, Doctor?’ Charlie asked, as they all stood around the bed looking at the young man.
‘As I said, he is due to be transferred to an adult ward at any time. There is no point soiling a bed here in that circumstance.’
Lieutenant Roy scowled at the young man. ‘What is your name?’ he demanded.
The young man looked anxiously around the faces, and smiled weakly. ‘Do not hit me, please! The policemen, they hit me.’
‘You resisted arrest,’ said Superintendent Welle.
‘No one is going to hit you here,’ Dr Patel assured the handcuffed youth. ‘Tell these people your name.’
‘Benjamin Kananga,’ he answered warily.
‘Where are you from?’ asked Charlie.
Benjamin’s eyes flashed to the Australian sergeant. ‘My village is Ugali.’
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nbsp; ‘Ugali is west of here,’ Lieutenant Roy explained to the foreigners.
‘A village on the lake shore,’ added Dr Patel.
‘On the lake?’ Charlie looked at Benjamin. ‘Who gave you that letter you were carrying?’ he asked.
Benjamin didn’t hesitate to answer. ‘Colonel Zuba,’ he said.
‘How can we be sure of that?’ said Superintendent Welle.
Benjamin shrugged. ‘It was him. I have seen him before.’
‘And what did Colonel Zuba tell you to do with the letter?’ Charlie continued.
‘He said I should take it to the government radio station here in Mwanza, and tell them to put it on the air. They made me wait, and the next thing I know, the police arrive.’
‘Where did Zuba give you the letter?’ Charlie asked. Always calm, his tone of voice did not reveal Charlie’s hope that the team was at last close to tracking Lucky down.
‘At my village. At Ugali.’
‘Was Ranger Lucky Mertz there?’
‘There was a mzungu with yellow hair, and some rangers. They were all prisoners of Colonel Zuba.’
‘And how many men did Zuba have with him?’ Charlie asked.
‘Many men and boys with guns. Perhaps fifty, perhaps a hundred.’
‘And are they still at your village?’
Benjamin shrugged. ‘I do not know. They were there when I came here to Mwanza.’
Charlie looked at the others and stroked his chin pensively. ‘I think we have to believe this bloke.’
‘I still do not think this boy has had anything to do with Zuba!’ Superintendent Welle exclaimed. ‘At best, this has been an attempt to waste our time. At worst, this has all been fabricated by this fellow in an attempt to obtain money for himself.’
‘It was Colonel Zuba who gave me the letter to deliver, I swear!’ Benjamin protested. ‘He even gave me a gun and made me shoot it.’
Ben, who was standing at the end of the bed, intervened. ‘Are these the same clothes Benjamin was wearing when he was arrested?’ he asked the superintendent.
‘I believe so, yes,’ Welle replied with a frown.
Operation Pink Elephant Page 12
