Zambezi

by Tony Park

  ‘Listen, can you get closer to him for me?’ Luke asked. ‘While there’s still a little light I’d like to get a picture of the boat, to use later with my story.’

  Luke pulled out the camera and unscrewed his fifty-millimetre lens and replaced it with the larger telephoto.

  ‘I’m just going to lie down in the boat so I can rest the lens on the side, OK?’ he said to Piet. In truth, he didn’t want to arouse the Arab’s suspicion in case he was seen.

  ‘Sure, I’ll move a little closer.’

  Through the viewfinder Luke could see the bridge of the cruiser as the auto focus whirred into action. Hassan bin Zayid leaped into focus, standing behind the wheel. Luke had the shutter release set to high speed motor drive and fired off three quick frames. Hassan turned and looked over his shoulder. Luke panned right with the camera and saw a woman climbing the ladder from the lower aft deck. He pressed the shutter release again.

  Luke adjusted the lens and zoomed in tight on Hassan and the woman, who was now standing beside him. She put two drinks down on the dashboard in front of him and then rested a hand on his shoulder. The woman was young, blonde and pretty, dressed in a short black cocktail dress. He registered a glimpse of toned golden thigh above the cruiser’s gunwale. Luke fired off another five shots and the camera stopped.

  ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Bloody memory card is full.’ Luke ejected the full card, slipped it into the pocket of his shorts and found a blank card in the front pocket of the camera bag. He reloaded and refocused on the boat, which had now passed them.

  Hassan turned to the woman and they kissed. A lingering, lazy kiss. The touch of lovers.

  ‘That old dog!’ Piet said. ‘What did I tell you? That oke likes his mzungus – whiteys.’

  ‘I wonder where they’re heading?’

  Piet cracked open two more bottles of Safari with his pocket knife. ‘Hey, I know where I’d be heading with her, man. Somewhere quiet, under the moonlight, one of the islands maybe, or a romantic little cove. Some place where you will not want to be disturbed for a few days! Get up and drink your beer, man.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Luke said, sitting up now that the cruiser was nearly out of sight, around the point, heading towards the main channel between Zanzibar and the mainland. He checked the small camera screen and cycled through the images of the couple kissing. It was growing dark now and he didn’t know if the pictures would be useable, or even how a picture of a half-Arab businessman and a European woman would fit into his story. Still, he had worked around photographers enough to know that when an opportunity presented itself you were better off shooting the shit out of everything rather than waiting for a posed photo opportunity. He took a last glimpse at the boat and saw that Hassan bin Zayid was now talking on a mobile phone.

  The woman had moved to the back of the boat and was looking back, holding a wineglass as she leaned on the rear safety railing. It seemed to Luke she was staring directly at him. Bin Zayid, too, was looking pointedly at Piet and Luke.

  ‘You’re not snooping, are you, man?’ Piet asked.

  ‘No, no. But I know that sometimes people don’t like to be photographed, particularly if they’re heading off somewhere with a beautiful woman.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell Hassan you were looking for him, next time I see him.’ Piet put the outboard in neutral and they glided close into a berth at the dock, between two dhows.

  ‘That’d be great, Piet. Thanks for the ride.’ Luke thought his openness had put the South African at ease once more, now that he knew Luke wasn’t hiding from the Arab.

  ‘No problem. You OK to get back to town from here? Where are you staying?’

  Luke gave Piet the name of a cheap hotel on Humzvi Street and the South African snapped his fingers and said, ‘Hey, man, can you do me a favour?’

  ‘Sure, name it.’

  ‘One of the tourists who came out diving with me today left his daypack here. He’s staying in the place just up the street from you – the fancy hotel. You know it?’

  ‘Sure. I’d be happy to.’

  Piet opened the daypack, giving Luke a quick inventory. ‘Just a mask and snorkel, some sun cream, a water bottle and a dive knife. I’ve got to refill all the bottles tonight, so you’re saving me a walk.’

  ‘No worries.’ Luke took the pack, which had clearly seen better days. It was crusted with sea salt on the front and sweat stains on the back, and the nylon fabric was so worn it had already started to tear in a couple of places. He had to push the sheathed dive knife back inside the bag, as the tip was protruding from a small rent. ‘Happy to help.’

  ‘Thanks, man, and good luck with your story.’

  *

  ‘Why don’t you get us another drink,’ Hassan bin Zayid said to the woman. He could still taste her white wine in his mouth from their kiss and was hungry for more of her. That could wait. When she drifted away he called his office from his cell phone.

  ‘Zayid Enterprises, how may I help you?’

  ‘Grace, it’s Mr bin Zayid.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That journalist who called and left a message for me today, what did he look like?’

  The African receptionist thought for a moment, then said, ‘He was a white man, sir. Long hair. A small beard, you know, just the moustache and the chin. Blue shirt, too, I think.’

  ‘Thank you, Grace. That will be all.’

  ‘Oh, sir, please, one more thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr el Mazri called. Sir, he said the journalist – it was the same man – visited him at his antiques shop earlier today. It was Mr el Mazri who gave the man the address of the office. He said he wanted to warn you that the reporter was asking questions about your brother.’

  Hassan stared ahead into the growing gloom of the channel. News of his brother’s death was known to the world and it would not be unexpected for a reporter to claim to be wanting information about a downturn in the tourism industry, while really seeking information about his family’s links to a terrorist organisation.

  ‘Thank you, Grace. You did well. Please call Mr el Mazri back and thank him for the information. You won’t hear from me now for a few days, as we discussed before.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Goodbye.’

  No, the fact that a reporter was asking questions was not unusual – Hassan had half expected more journalists to come looking for the family once it was revealed in the American media that Iqbal had been born on Zanzibar. What was of concern to him was the fact that the reporter who had visited his offices was quite obviously the same man who had been taking pictures of him and the woman. The man had made himself even more conspicuous by trying to hide behind the gunwale of the dive boat.

  Hassan weighed the risks in his mind. He had come too far. He could leave no loose ends at this critical stage of the operation. He dialled another number.

  ‘Yes?’ came a deep African voice.

  ‘Achmed, it is Hassan. I have work for you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go to the office. Ask Grace for the business card of the mzungu who visited her today. It will have all the information you need.’ Hassan gave Achmed the rest of the detailed instructions, imagining the broad smile that would be splitting the man’s scarred face at the prospect of the night’s work ahead. Hassan had met some tough characters in Africa, but none, he thought, was quite so threatening as the tall African who had served his family’s business interests so well and for so long.

  ‘Here’s your drink,’ she said, returning to his side in the cockpit. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  There was no turning back now, he told himself. Not that there ever had been.

  The centre of Stone Town was fully awake. The lanes and squares were alive with the sounds of music and chatter, the aroma of exotic foods and spice, and the sharp tang of sweaty bodies. Luke meandered his way through the throngs of tourists and locals.

  He decided to get some food and maybe squeeze in a drink at the
Africa House pub before delivering the diver’s pack and turning in at his own hotel. Down on the waterfront, near the Old Fort, rows of vendors had set up their stalls for the evening food market. Luke’s mouth watered as he inspected skewered prawns, fish, beef and chicken pieces sizzling atop smoky charcoal braziers. Pots of deliciously spiced curries simmered on gas burners, adding to the heady mix. He ordered two skewers of prawns, one of chicken and a couple of pieces of unleavened bread to wrap them in. From another vendor he bought a cold can of Coca-Cola, then found a space on a park bench overlooking the harbour.

  After he had finished eating he headed off in the direction of the Africa House. Away from the waterfront the streets were quieter and he found himself alone as he cut through a narrow side alleyway. He admired the ornate doors on the ancient homes and wondered what it would be like living in a centuries-old house. His reverie was broken by the sound of hurried footsteps behind him.

  His mobile phone rang and he scrabbled in his camera bag for it.

  ‘Luke Scarborough speaking.’

  The line went dead. Luke checked the screen of his phone, but no number appeared in the received-calls box. He heard the footsteps again, close now. He turned and saw a tall black man. The man was smiling, but his face was not friendly. A puckered scar ran from his right ear to the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Hello, my friend,’ the man said.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve already got a place to -’

  A blur in front of his face. The sound of his nose breaking. Blackness. Intense, blinding pain. Luke felt his body tumble backwards, onto the cobbled lane.

  Achmed grabbed the Australian around the throat with one massive hand, lifted him to his feet and drove his other fist into the boy’s belly He glanced up and down the laneway, then dragged his victim into the deepest shadows. He grabbed the reporter’s left arm and twisted it up hard behind his back.

  The backpack and camera bag slid from Luke’s other shoulder to the ground. From his pocket, Achmed pulled a knife and held the point against Luke’s throat.

  ‘Lie down. If you make a sound I will kill you.’

  When Luke was on the ground, face down, Achmed placed a foot on his back. He unzipped the camera bag, found the Canon and ejected the plastic memory card. He put it in his pocket, then grabbed the camera by its long lens and smashed the body against the stone wall of the nearest building. Its shattered innards rained down on the pathetic figure writhing on the ground. Achmed tossed the ruined camera aside. He retrieved the memory card from his pocket, folded it between his thumb and a finger until it snapped, then dropped the two halves next to Luke’s face. Next, he methodically searched the camera bag’s many pockets, looking for other memory cards.

  Luke could not move his body, with the African’s huge booted foot on his back, but his arms were still free. Slowly, he moved his hand across the cobbles. He felt jagged pieces of the trashed camera, the least of his problems. His fingers reached the daypack belonging to the absent-minded scuba diver. He traced the worn fabric of the pack and found the rent through which the knife protruded once more. Gently he eased three fingers inside the hole and then spread them, pleased as he felt the tear expand. Now he was able to get his whole hand inside the bag. Suddenly the other lens for his destroyed camera landed near his face and he stiffened, not daring to move in case the man looked down at him.

  When moments passed with no further blow, Luke carefully ran his fingers along the length of the knife’s scabbard until he was grasping the handle securely in his right hand. With his thumb he eased part of the blade from the sheath.

  ‘Hey, what the fuck are you doing, boy?’ Achmed said as he reached down for the daypack.

  Luke felt the pressure of the foot ease slightly on his back. As the African tugged on the bag, the rip in the side expanded even further. The fabric snagged on the loosened scabbard, and when Achmed pulled harder, the bag and sheath came away, revealing the glittering nine-inch blade of the dive knife.

  Luke rolled hard to the right and lashed out with all his might. The blade sliced through the leg of Achmed’s jeans and the flesh of his calf. Achmed yelped and lost his balance as Luke followed the knife slash with a fist up into his opponent’s groin. Achmed hit the building wall and fought for balance, lashing out with his own knife. Luke ducked the swing and lunged wildly with the bigger dagger. Achmed ignored the blood running down his leg and saw the clumsy thrust coming. The boy was no fighter. He sprang to his right. However, instead of landing on the smooth stone of the pathway, his right foot rolled on the cylindrical body of Luke’s smaller camera lens. Achmed’s ankle turned, and suddenly he was on the ground, falling hard on his right side, trapping his knife hand under his body.

  Luke screamed, the sound animalistic, demented, and pounced on his fallen attacker. He drove his right arm forwards as he landed on the bigger man. There was a split second’s resistance as the point of the blade pushed against the other man’s skin, but with Luke’s weight behind it, the knife broke through and slid up and inside the African’s rib cage. Air hissed from the growing wound as the knife nicked a lung. Achmed’s eyes bulged wide and he tried to scream, but no noise came from his mouth.

  Luke’s right hand was suddenly wet, spray-painted red with the force of air from the dying man’s lung. The reporter squealed as even more blood pumped from the wound. He wondered if he had pierced the man’s heart.

  Luke tried to free the blade, but found it was stuck. He rolled off the man, rocking back on his knees, and raised a bloodied hand to his mouth in horror as the body convulsed, then was motionless.

  Luke looked around him. There was no one in the alleyway. He saw the broken memory card on the ground near the shattered remains of his camera and telephoto lens. This was no robbery. The man was after his camera gear, but not for resale. It was clear he wanted to destroy the images stored in the camera’s memory and on the card. Fortunately, he had not had a chance to search Luke. The first memory card he had used when photographing Hassan bin Zayid and the woman was still in his pocket.

  Luke stared at the body. He started to shake and couldn’t stop. He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around himself to try to still the shivering. He did not want to touch the dead man, but he knew he had to. With a trembling hand he touched the corpse’s arm. It was still warm. The smell of the spilt blood, and the contents of the man’s bowels, which had been voided when he died, made Luke gag. He tried to gulp air and swallow, but couldn’t hold back. He turned his head to one side and vomited on the ground next to the dead man. Tears streamed from his eyes as he emptied his stomach. The vile mix of smells around him made him dry-retch over and over again.

  Finally Luke caught his breath and wiped his eyes. He summoned the courage to look at the corpse again. The pistol was tucked in the man’s belt. Someone would surely come soon. He had to search the dead man. Clipped to the belt of the man’s jeans was a cell phone. Luke knew he shouldn’t touch it, but he wanted to confirm his suspicions. He eased the phone from the belt and scrolled through the menu. He checked the ‘dialled calls’ and was not surprised to find his own cell phone number at the top of the list. The man had called him just before the attack, and then hung up after confirming the identity of his victim.

  His shaking calmed a little, now he was acting like an investigative journalist again. Luke had a very good idea how the man got his number, but selected the ‘received calls’ function to confirm his theory The top entry read Private number; the next, however, he recognised as the office number for Zayid Enterprises. He wrote down the other numbers in the ‘received calls’ list in his notebook, and scrolled back and did the same for the dialled calls. He wiped the phone’s leather case with his handkerchief to remove his fingerprints, then replaced it on the dead man’s belt.

  He searched the man’s pockets but found no wallet or other identification. However, he did find a plastic bag filled with white powder. Whether it was cocaine or heroin he wasn’t sure, but it seemed the would-be assassin
was multiskilled in his life of crime.

  The telephone on the dead man’s belt started ringing.

  ‘Shit,’ Luke breathed. The tremor returned to his fingers. The chirping sounded fearfully loud in the confines of the alley. He picked the phone up and ended the call. ‘Shit,’ he said again.

  The screen showed the caller had blocked his or her number from showing. It was probably the same person who had called before. Luke kept the phone and ran down the alley and back out into the broader laneway, towards the waterfront again.

  A young African man wearing board shorts and a T-shirt, his hair a mass of dreadlocks, stepped out of a doorway and said, ‘Hey, my friend, looking for a hotel? Some ganga maybe? What happened to you – been in a fight, man?’

  Luke stopped and looked at the man, who stared back, uncomprehending. The phone rang again.

  Luke looked at it, then at the young African again. His voice was deep, just like the man who had attacked him.

  ‘Want to make twenty US dollars?’ Luke croaked, his throat raw from being sick. He coughed and spat.

  The man looked wary. ‘Hey, man, I’m no faggot.’

  The phone kept chirping.

  ‘No, no! I want you to impersonate someone on this phone, I’ll tell you what to say. It’s a joke on a friend. Twenty bucks – OK?’

  ‘Sure, why not.’

  ‘Hold the phone away from you – I want the caller to think it’s a bad line, so he won’t recognise you. Keep your answers short.’

  Luke pressed the green key and held the phone out to the young man. Luke mouthed the word hello.

  ‘Hello,’ the man said hesitantly.

  Luke brought the phone back to his own ear, motioning the man to stay where he was.

  ‘It is me,’ a male voice said on the other end of the line. ‘Is it done yet?’

  Luke covered the mouthpiece and told the young man what to say ‘It is done. This line is bad.’

  Luke took the phone back. The voice said, ‘Good. You planted the drugs in his bag, in the hotel room? A kilo, as we agreed?’

  ‘Fuck,’ Luke whispered, covering the mouthpiece. There was nothing like a kilogram of powder in the bag the man had been carrying. That meant he had already planted the drugs in Luke’s pack.