by Peter Riva
The BBJ took off fifteen minutes later. The flight plan was filed en route, to Zurich, the nearest large public airport, for a quick stop. Sergio Negroni was the sole pilot, there wasn’t any better. Pero sat right seat. Once they were aloft, he told Pero it was only a fifteen-minute flight and put it on autopilot. “Hand me that case, will you Pero?” Pero passed over the standard pilot’s map case. From inside, Sergio pulled out a Panasonic Toughbook tablet computer. He used his finger as the mouse and soon had selected the Schaffhausen region. He punched up the map. “Jeppesen maps, worldwide, every airfield, all the frequencies. Zurich I know by heart. We need to make a decision pretty soon if we’re going to divert to Schaffhausen, not Berlin, after Zurich. Only one airfield in Schaffhausen there that can handle this plane. See?” He pointed at the map.
Pero could tell by Sergio’s voice he was bragging, as usual, le lion never changes. But what he was bragging about escaped Pero for the moment. “Yeah, you’re brilliant, got that, but can you or can’t you set us down in Schaffhausen?”
“No, is impossible, see the time conditzione? No runway lights, no services. Cannot do.” He kept Pero waiting for effect. “But we will do, you wait, you see. Now we land in Zurich. What you collecting there?”
“A friend, a master tracker from safari.” And Pero explained Mbuno’s, capabilities.
Sergio was skeptical, “But this ain’t Africa, and he’ll be out of his depth. No way he’s gonna be useful here.”
“It’s his thinking I need. He understands animals—all animals, especially human animals—better than anyone I know. Having him here might make all the difference. Do you mind bringing him aboard?”
“Nah, he’s a friend of yours, he’s welcome. And I’ll be interested to see if your otter skills are still good … you used to be good at scheming.” And he laughed.
Touchdown at Zurich was uneventful. As they pulled off the active runway, the little van with the flashing yellow light and illuminated Follow Me sign led them toward the private hangers’ side of the field. Sergio got on the radio, gave his call sign and said, “Zurich Tower, request parking and refueling near the main terminal. We’re here to collect an incoming passenger from Nairobi and will request immediate take off once he comes aboard, bound for Saanen, return.”
“Zurich Tower here, hold current position.” They did, waiting. The Follow Me van turned toward the main terminal as the radio squawked, “Zurich Tower here, follow the leader to park at Terminal B and shut down.”
Sergio confirmed and did mostly as he was told. Shutting down the engines, he told Pero, “We can restart without their generator, but I’ll have the tanks filled. That’ll be normal.” Pero went to the main hatch, rotated the handle, and as the door came open, the steps emerged from the hold below and extended to the tarmac. As he was about to descend, he told Sergio he should be back within the hour or two, hopefully. Sergio called back, “Make sure you do. I’ll have to shut down all the systems if any longer and then I might need de-icing, it’s getting cold.”
Pero sprinted in the frigid night air to the man emerging from the Follow Me van and got directions to collect a passenger from the Nairobi flight. The man told him that it would land in a few hours and then asked if the pilot had authority for fees and charges. Pero assured him Sergio did with a laugh, “The pilot? He owns the BBJ.”
Then Pero went into the terminal warmth, found a quiet corner, and got some shuteye.
Mbuno, emerging from the customs hall carrying only a straw basket of effects, was smiling while two very pretty air hostesses, either side, were chatting across him. Pero approached and said, “Welcome, Mbuno, good to see you.”
“Ndiyo, Pero.” He turned to the two women and, reaching into his straw bag, took out and handed each one a small leafy packet tied with raffia. They looked at each other with puzzled looks. Mbuno explained, slowly, “It is honey. A young Okiek boy collected it for me yesterday. I do not need it as my friend,” he gestured at Pero, “is here and he always has honey for me.” The two women were busy saying thank you, one gave him a kiss on the cheek, he nodded and further explained, “It is very good honey, Okiek honey, it is very sweet.”
Pero wanted to get a move on, “Thank you, ladies, come on you old mzee you, let’s get going, your private jet awaits …” And he led Mbuno away, waving at the pretty women, toward the BBJ waiting on the terminal apron, the refueling tanker pulling away.
Mbuno stopped at the bottom of Sergio’s jet, looking up. “It is safe?” Pero assured him is was, that it was a private jet belonging to the pilot, an old school friend called Sergio, who had the nickname le lion. Mbuno nodded and started to climb the stairs, “Lion always like to make a show, prove how powerful they are. But lion are trustworthy, that is good.”
“Yeah, well my nickname in school was otter …”
Mbuno stopped climbing the stems, lowered his head, and gave a chuckle. “Ah, yes, otter. Always capable, always making what you call plans. Very hard to catch. Bad eating.”
Pero coughed, “Just as well …”
Sergio and Mbuno shook hands on the flight deck, and Sergio asked Pero if they could, please, leave immediately, “I’m getting flak from the tower.” Pero gave him a thumbs up, pulled open the jump seat, and settled Mbuno in place. Sergio soon got the port engine running smoothly, so then he started the starboard engine. As Pero settled into the right seat, they taxied to the end of the late night runway. Brakes applied, tower called, Sergio then ran up both engines, went through all the pre-flight checks, and got permission to roll.
Seconds later, they were in the air gaining altitude. Pero asked, “What’s the plan for Schaffhausen?” Sergio put his finger to his lips. He called Zurich ATC and told them he was experiencing a minor problem with pressurization, and that he was descending to a lower altitude. They asked if he was declaring an emergency. He said no, but he needed to descend to a lower altitude to make sure there was none. The Swiss hate emergencies. He assured them he would sort it out over Lake Constance, away from housing, and then report back to them. “Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, before I call you back.” They agreed, and he swung the plane over to the north, left and descended. Even at night Pero could make out the shores of Lake Constance, it was the only place that had no lights, was jet black. As they loitered over the lake at 6,000 feet, Sergio entered in the GPS coordinates of the runway, beginning and end, into the onboard computer. “Flying by instruments, using GPS, have to do this all the time in China, real bad ATC there.”
Then turning them eastward again, he passed over the edge of the lake and, immediately, Zurich ATC asked where he was going. He said, very calmly, “Busy, Mayday …” and switched off the radio. He made a controlled descent, checked headings, watching the blinking GPS indicator. “Good to within eight feet, very reliable, especially here. In China, it’s twenty feet.”
At the end of the most nerve-wracking thirty seconds of Pero’s life of flying, seemingly flying blind, he saw houses pass beneath the nose. Sergio suddenly flicked on the landing lights, pulled the nose up, and eased the throttles back. He was committed to landing.
Before them was … nothing, then grass, then an outer marker of sorts. On either side, there were faint lights from street lamps and houses. The wheels touched just as Pero saw runway under the landing lights. Sergio applied the brakes hard and the full reverse thrusters. They stopped before the end, on the warning stripes, and taxied to the very end of the strip. Sergio swung the plane to the right, got two wheels on the grass, and did a U-turn to point back the way they had come. “Taking off will be easier.”
Mbuno, behind Sergio, said as if talking to a child, “Lion, they always show off.”
Sergio laughed, turned on the radio, and called Zurich ATC. “Sorry Zurich, we had what I thought was a problem. We’re down safe in Schaffhausen, turned around, ready for take-off. The problem appears to be a faulty circuit breaker. We’re fixing it. Can you give us a half an hour before we take-off? We need to take a breath.”
Zurich Air Traffic Control was less inclined to let matters pass. On the cockpit speaker came an authoritarian voice telling the plane to await the arrival of the police. Sergio blithely said, “fine” and switched off. “We’ve got about a half hour, let’s go.” He switched everything off, leaving the plane in darkness, inside and out. They made their way to the door and extended the steps.
“Where are we, Sergio?”
Le lion’s timing for a boast was always impeccable: “Welcome to Brinker’s private airfield. No reception committee I see. Pity.” As he said that, he took out a pistol from the hidden cabinet next to the door and handed it to Pero. “Your show. Useful in some places I travel to. You never know.” Pero suddenly realized that Mbuno’s assessment of Lion was perhaps too accurate. To make his fears worse, he suddenly remembered that le Lion’s favorite films were always James Bond.
Pero handed his gun to Mbuno, who checked for safety and stuck it in his belt. Sergio’s raised eyebrows and nod to Pero showed he was reassessing his evaluation of Mbuno.
Brinker Metallarbeiten Fabrik had its own longish runway. It made sense when Pero thought about it, as they shipped precious metals and very valuable cargo to all parts of the world. This way they could avoid the expense of handling agents at commercial airports.
It also meant Tische could ship contraband cargo, slipping in and out of there virtually undetected. About two hundred meters away, behind a double chain link fence was a huge, unlit factory complete with smokestacks. In the distance was a car park and access to the main road. Closer to the runway, on their side, were low-level, modern, buildings with their own, taller security fences through which the runway taxiway ran. They could see loading docks for trucks and well-lit open concrete aprons. The apron sign said Brinker in bold letters. In the middle of those buildings was an aircraft hangar where the taxiway headed. This was the exit ramp from the runway, and it dead-ended at those low-level buildings and the hangar.
They sprinted across the runway in the dark toward the gate by the side of the taxiway that lead back to the hangar and loading docks midway down the runway. The gate opened into the Brinker compound. There was no guard at the gate, but they could see lights coming on, a garage doorway being opened, and inside lights flooding a parking lot. Then, they could hear voices in the cool pre-morning air. Negroni took a cell phone from his pocket and made a call as they watched the Brinker men gather forces: “André? Bonsoir, c’est Sergio Negroni, I have a problem …”
Le Lion explained that he had needed to divert to Brinker Metallarbeiten Fabrik in Schaffhausen to use the private runway but landed safely, thank you, “but now armed men are threatening us and …” Taking out his gun, he squeezed off a shot, “they’re firing at us.” After listening and saying grazie a few times, he hung up.
After they had heard the shot, Mbuno and Pero looked across at the Brinker forces who were wondering what to do. Pero quietly asked, “Who’s André?”
Sergio kept his eyes focused forward and whispered, “Guest at my chalet. He’s sort of head of the Swiss Internal Police, Major André Schmitz.” Pero knew that colonel was the highest rank in Switzerland, so the rank of major was pretty high. Sergio interrupted Pero’s thoughts, “So, help is on the way, hopefully before Zurich ATC sends local cops. Now, what do you want to do until they get here?”
“Rescue my friends. If Mbuno is right, this is a hyena meat locker.”
Sergio looked even more confused but shrugged his shoulders in acceptance. “You have interesting friends, old amigo.”
The three made their way, crouching, running across the grass and over some train tracks and approached the car park, out of the line of sight of the open garage. There were four more garage doors in the back of the building facing them, but only the one was open with five men standing, pointing at the plane, talking, and gesturing. Pero shot a glance back. The plane was visible by the black silhouette blocking the slight glow of early morning, which highlighted its shape against the factory on the other side of the runway about a half-mile away. Pero, Sergio, and Mbuno waited until the Brinker security men made their minds up, piled into an open truck, and sped off toward the plane’s position on the airfield. They had left the garage door open, and the space appeared empty.
The three men watched the truck go far enough down the taxiway before they ran into the garage and then went into the back of the building. Pero was somewhat thinking aloud, “Mbuno, if you were hiding someone here, someone you had kidnapped, where would you put them?”
Mbuno responded, “Somewhere … where most factory workers from the factory complex never go. Somewhere not used very much.”
Sergio nodded and chimed in, “I think we should go to the fire station, look at a map or plan of this factory … I know there will be a building plan, there is always … cost me a fortune every time I build a factory.”
Mbuno nodded and followed as Sergio led the way toward the front of the building.
In the front lobby, behind waist-high frosted glass, they saw the security station with a man standing facing the main entrance doors, looking at monitors, his back to them. As the three were behind the reception guard, he never looked back at them but stared instead, intently, at the screens and through the glass entrance doors at the front parking lot. An open door off to the left, on their other side of the security partition separating them from the security guard, had Feuerkontrolle (fire control) in red lettering. Hiding under the frosted glass, the three crouched and crept past the man’s back and into the room.
Sergio put his hand on the plan, stroked the aluminum panel, read the Swiss German captions for each station, and finally said, in a whisper, “Here, here I think, Pero. See the sign for toxic chemicals? Let’s try here first. Nothing else fits.”
As silently as possible, they passed down two corridors—Pero in his ski suit making nylon on nylon noises that seemed to him to be loud enough to wake the dead, Mbuno in his Chinese rubber-soled sneakers slightly squeaking on the polished floor, and Sergio in Gucci loafers with a tinkling buckle. They made an odd trio. Maybe it was that oddness that gave them the edge. Pero certainly saw the surprise on another guard’s face before Mbuno dropped him with the handle of the gun. Sergio, who was a black belt and had always been athletic, was surprised that this small old man had moved so quickly and decidedly. Sergio shook his head and patted Mbuno on the back, “Grazie.”
Carefully, they tested the door the guard was stationed at. It was locked. His pockets had no key. “It means there’s someone inside, another guard maybe.” Sergio whispered, “We need to get him to open up. That door looks solid.”
“Agreed, but what do you suggest?” Pero whispered back. “It isn’t like we’ve been very stealthy so far. There’s the plane, the call to the police—ah, are those their sirens now? Hear them?” Pero frowned and then shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Change gears, Mbuno, give Sergio the gun.” He did. “Now, let’s make a real racket.” The guard on the ground was not coming to. Pero went over and threw the nearest fire alarm. All hell broke loose—lights, sirens, everything one would imagine. Pero counted to ten to himself, mouthing the numbers silently as he folded fingers. Sergio watched the corridor they had come down, pistol ready.
Mbuno dragged the unconscious guard out of sight around a corner as Sergio and Pero flattened against the wall, out of the line of sight. At the count of ten Pero banged on the door and yelled “Feuer! Feuer! Jeder aus!” Fire! Fire! Everyone out! The police sirens were loud, obviously outside the main door now. Pero realized that it helped that police and fire sirens were almost the same in Switzerland.
Immediately, they heard the door being unlatched.
With the chain on, the man looked around. Not seeing anyone, the guard shut the door and removed the chain. As the door opened, Sergio stuck the pistol in the man’s face, poking one eye, and told him to setzen sie (sit). He did as he was told, he couldn’t have been older than twenty. Behind him was a security door with a keypad. No on
e else was around. “Sprechen Sie Englisch?” asking him if he spoke English. In his Swiss accent, he said he did, so Sergio pressed on, “Who is in there?”
He said the men who were working there had gone to their hotel for the night. There were valuables in there. He was guarding them. After more questions, it was clear he had no code for the door lock. The guards, being cooperative, were desperately affirming that only the two Germans did. Pero thought, Germans working in Switzerland? A bit unusual … The guard wanted to know if he could leave because of the fire. Pero told him to stay seated, the police were coming. “There are men trapped in there, being held prisoner, we need to get them out.” The guard looked shocked.
“What now?” Sergio asked.
“I am thinking.” They had only moments, Pero was sure of that. Mbuno’s evaluation of the hyena came into his mind. The hyena would put everything together, keep like with like—it could be … “Watch the corridor, hold this guy here. If the cops come, give up. No gunplay okay?” Sergio nodded. “Mbuno come with me …”
Pero went over to the keypad and tried 2-3-4. Nothing happened.
“Press the pound key between tries, it clears the memory.” Sergio called back. He obviously was familiar with such keypads.
Pero tried U (the number 8) 2-3-4, nothing happened. The young Swiss guard spoke up, eagerly, “It’s eight numbers, I’ve seen them put them in.” Pero tried 8 (for T) 4 (for i) 7 (for s) 2 (for c) 4 (for h) and 2-3-4. Tische 2-3-4. The door lock clicked open.
Mbuno and Pero saw two men, obviously Danny and Heep, bound, sitting in chairs, each with a full rubber hood tight over their heads with only two slits for nostrils. Their legs were tied to the chair legs, their hands were tied together and attached between their knees with a rope that passed under the chair and back up the chair back to a noose around their necks. If they raised their hands, they would choke themselves.
