Surely he had, Allan imagined, but nothing that had reached the tablet. He would like to offer something a little different, if it was of interest.
‘No!’ said Julius, as Allan continued.
At home in old Sweden, the Transport Agency had purposely sent its entire database to a company in Eastern Europe, contrary to the recommendation of the Security Service. They had outsourced the handling of secure information about fighter pilots and government agents. Now the newspapers were revealing that the director of the agency faced being fired and receiving seventy thousand kronor in fines and at least four million in severance pay.
‘Let me guess, Agent Langer, you have no colleagues stationed in Sweden. I can’t imagine that would be necessary,’ said Allan. ‘Up there, we have no secrets from each other or anyone else.’
Allan noticed that Julius was sulking in his corner. Because of a piece of news? Surely he could tolerate a little bit.
Trump was still Trump, it seemed, while Saudi Arabia seemed to be in free-fall towards Western decadence. Not only would women be given the right to drive, but now both men and women would be allowed to go to the movies for the first time since 1983. Maybe before the dust settled they would also be able to have a drink and feel normal.
When Allan received no response to his ponderings, even as Julius remained sulky, he changed the subject. ‘Maybe this will cheer you up, Julle.’ And he told them about the Ghanaian football referee who had just been banned for life after giving South Africa a penalty in a match when a poor Senegalese player happened to be hit with a ball in the knee.
Julius still hadn’t reacted (aside from a comment about how his name wasn’t Julle), in contrast to the German agent.
‘Isn’t hitting the ball with your knee allowed?’ wondered the woman who had spent her whole life avoiding sports as entertainment. Or entertainment in general, now that she thought about it.
‘Right, that’s the point. But FIFA – which is famous for its corruption, by the way – felt that the referee was corrupt. So now the match is to be replayed.’
Ongoing sour face from his friend on the sofa. There was only one thing left to try. In sports talk, it was called putting the ball in Julius’s court.
‘From one thing to the next: might you have any relationship with asparagus, Madame Agent?’
This was a question Agent Langer had not seen coming.
‘Asparagus?’ she said. ‘I have a long-standing, rather close and very good relationship with asparagus. My grandfather was born and raised in Schwetzingen.’
‘Schwetzingen,’ said Allan. ‘Sounds like some sort of mixer.’
Agent Langer said that those in Schwetzingen might certainly have a drink or two, and even a third before the night was over, yet the name of the city had nothing to do with alcohol but rather with asparagus.
‘Tell me more!’ said Julius, sitting up straight.
‘Welcome back,’ said Allan.
It turned out that Fredrika Langer had a lifelong love of asparagus – the white kind, but still. Her grandfather, Günther, had been one of the premier asparagus farmers in Schwetzingen in his day. He had crawled around in the sandy earth and seemed to be in close personal contact with each individual plant. And at home, with her grandmother, Matilda, he had created fabulous meals out of that white gold. Starters, main courses and even desserts!
‘White?’ said Julius. ‘Isn’t real asparagus green?’
This was the only thing he and Gustav Svensson had argued about in Bali. The Swedish-Indian had insisted they should diversify their operations, that 20 per cent of the plants should produce a white harvest rather than a green one.
Agent Langer smiled for what had to be the first time in a year. ‘With all due respect, Mr Jonsson, I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.’
* * *
Meitkini’s safari customers arrived as planned and were given a proper welcome by their guide. The Swedes and the German would have to manage as best they could for a few days.
Allan spent these days on the big veranda by the lounge, with a view of the verdant valley and the watering-hole, where there was fresh drama to watch just about constantly. After the dik-diks came the elephants, and when they had finished, the lion woke. A lone rhinoceros also made regular visits. And the giraffes, which were so poorly constructed that they had to do the splits in order to take a drink.
The hundred-and-one-year-old felt content with just about everything. The view, of course. The drinks young John at the bar delivered without even being asked. And John’s technical abilities! Just think: if you linked the tablet to something called a ‘network’, news from all corners of the world popped up five times faster. The same news, to be sure, but still.
Sabine preferred to sit further inside the lounge, so that her concentration was not continually disturbed by Allan’s many stories. She was devising various plans for bringing clairvoyance into a mass-meeting project, according to the principle ‘Better to cheat ten thousand participants out of a few dollars each than to get three hundred dollars out of one.’ And with a strong preference for leaving God out of it.
‘Mass clairvoyance,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘On Wednesday at eleven o’clock we’ll link ourselves up with Elvis. Ten-dollar admission fee. Twenty for a personal question.’
No, that was no good. What if she added a tea that would open up the participants’ minds? Secret tea? Maybe a little LSD in it to give their reputation a real boost …
‘How’s it going?’ Allan wondered, from a short distance.
‘Don’t bother me!’ Sabine responded.
Not too well, she thought.
Julius and Agent Langer mostly stuck to the other side of the lounge, with a view of the camp’s organic garden. They were in agreement that the climate there, at an altitude of two thousand metres, certainly seemed suitable for asparagus. But the same wasn’t true of the iron-rich red earth. Julius said that white crap-sparagus could probably be grown in just about anything, but the green kind required a fine, sandy soil. Agent Langer countered, saying that the white kind required the same, but it hardly mattered what sort of soil one grew the green stuff in: it would still be inedible.
The two asparagus-lovers generally got on well, aside from the part about green versus white.
Arrogant Agent A called, interfering. He reported that, in cooperation with the BND-payrolled chief of border patrol and eighty of his men, an invisible wall had been constructed between Tanzania and Mozambique. It was only a question of time before the smugglers drove into it. ‘Pity you’re not here. I’ll get all the praise.’
The formerly so meek Agent B had been energized by her new asparagus relations. Enough, anyway, to wish all bad things upon her boss. ‘So lovely for you,’ she said. ‘If the uranium slips through anyway, I’m sure it will be possible to make it all my fault, don’t you think?’
Lead Agent A wasn’t used to B arguing with him. ‘Now, don’t be upset just because you didn’t have the sense to be in the right place. How’s it going with Karlsson? Have you found him yet?’
‘No,’ Agent B lied. ‘But I did get stuck on the savannah in the car I rented. In a few days I can get help to tow it out of a stream.’
Lead Agent A chuckled. ‘Funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. So you’ll be staying up there.’ He told her that Honour and Strength was, according to reports, still heading for the Cape of Good Hope, Cape Agulhas and – in all certainty – the southern tip of Madagascar. That meant the smuggled uranium would be crossing the border between Tanzania and Mozambique any day now. ‘And then I suppose I’ll have no choice but to call the chancellor myself and tell her the news,’ said A.
Communicating it via the holidaying director of the BND, as instructed, would not give the proper boost to his career.
Agent Langer returned to Julius in the lounge. She noted that, in his company, she experienced something similar to a zest for life.
‘Hello, my misguided asparagus friend
, may I join you?’ She smiled as she said it. It was an affectionate battle, this clash between green and white.
Julius responded, ‘Hello yourself, colour-blind one. Have a seat.’
Kenya
The tourists left, satisfied after a few days in the area that’s called the eighth wonder of the world. Meitkini once again had time for Allan, Julius, Sabine and the German, who of course needed a hand with her car. Sabine had suggested that she and the old men stay a few more days at the camp, if that was all right. The lounge was conducive to thinking, but she still hadn’t got as far with her future business plan as she had hoped.
Meitkini was delighted. He would be more than happy to spend a little more time with the Swedes, now that he didn’t have work to get in the way. Except for the German and her car, of course.
‘The German’, thought Agent B. Or ‘Madame Agent’. Wonder what it would be like to exist in a context where you had a name and an identity you were allowed to talk about.
‘My name is Fredrika,’ she said. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Meitkini looked ashamed.
Fredrika Langer’s phone rang. What if the boss had captured …
No, he hadn’t. He just wanted, for the fifteenth time, to know if she was on her way. Fredrika gloomily responded that she was in the process. The car would be out of the stream in an hour or so, and then they just had to get the engine working. She could be at Musoma for a flight the next morning.
‘Fly straight to Madagascar and we’ll meet up there. Those bastards must have slipped through somehow.’
The call ended, and Meitkini went on: ‘Then should we just head out to the stream, all of us together, and tow out your car … Fredrika … make sure it works, and send you on your way? Then the rest of us can go on a real safari tour on our way home, before it gets dark.’
Allan said it would be interesting to get an even closer look at the activity he’d experienced at the watering-hole. He could always look up pictures of giraffes and leopards on his black tablet, but it wasn’t the same.
The others agreed. Julius was sorry Fredrika had to leave, but he understood that duty called.
* * *
With a few safari detours on the way, it took an hour and a half to reach the stream where Agent Langer had so infelicitously parked the front half of her Land Cruiser a few days earlier. The stream was still there.
The same was not true of the car.
‘It seems someone has already been along to help,’ said Meitkini.
‘And taken the car as thanks,’ said Allan.
Fredrika Langer hid her face in her hands. Someone had stolen the vehicle that was meant to take her back to Tanzania so she could continue her southwards journey. What on earth would she do now?
Meitkini urged her to buck up. He suggested that they return to camp after the promised safari tour. They would drop the Swedes off there, then drive to Musoma overnight. ‘You can report the car stolen, Fredrika, before you get a flight out. It could be worse, couldn’t it?’
Yes, that was true. Okay, that was the plan.
But things didn’t go as planned.
* * *
The safari tour was truly something special. Even Allan, who never allowed himself to be impressed, was impressed by what he saw. Meitkini had the right vehicle and the right status to be authorized to search for the animals where they lived, not where they just happened to be on a road. Or whatever one should call those rocky paths.
It was cheetah cubs play-fighting while their mother kept watch for lions. It was herds of zebras, Thomson’s gazelles and wildebeest. It was a humongous female elephant with a week-old baby tripping along between her back legs. It was the snouts and eyes of four hippopotamuses waiting for night to fall so they could leave the water and find food. It was, in short, fantastic.
No one in the group noticed, but it was suddenly about to get dark.
‘Oops,’ said Meitkini. ‘Time to track down the road again.’
He found what he was looking for and they began their journey back to camp.
Near the equator, the shift from dark to pitch black happens fast. Wild animals’ eyes glittered along both sides of the road: many were beginning their work.
After just over half an hour through the savannah, they saw something glowing red in the distance. The taillights of a car? Yes, indeed.
‘Gracious me, it’s a traffic jam,’ said Allan.
They came closer. The vehicle was standing still. It seemed to be having problems. Meitkini gave the group their orders.
‘Stay in the car! Not one foot outside! That goes for you too, Allan.’
‘Don’t you worry about me, Meitkini. I never move unless it’s necessary.’
Meitkini could tell from the wrench on the ground next to the left rear wheel that the tyre had a puncture. It was a blue Hilux with a large wooden box in the bed. A lone man sat in the front, cautiously peering out of the rolled-down side window. Meitkini drove the Land Cruiser up alongside it. Allan was in the front passenger seat, decently worked up. It was always exciting to meet new people.
‘Good day, sir,’ he said. ‘My name is Karlsson. Allan Karlsson. Might you have a name as well?’
The man in the Hilux was black, middle-aged and short of stature. He gave Allan a cautious look before responding. ‘Smith,’ he said. ‘Stan Smith.’
‘Imagine that,’ said Allan. ‘Do you play tennis?’
‘No, I have a flat tyre,’ said Stan Smith, unaware that he had a tennis-playing namesake who was white and almost two metres tall – not a fellow with whom he was likely to be confused.
Meitkini said he had noticed a wrench near the flat tyre and wondered if Mr Smith had left the car in the dark to change it. If so, this was absolutely not recommended.
Stan Smith seemed to hesitate before replying. ‘I didn’t leave the car. But my travelling partner did. He was taken by the lions twenty minutes ago.’
What horrible news. Yet Mr Smith appeared calm and collected.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ said Meitkini. ‘Would you like to climb across into our car, and spend the night at our camp nearby? I can make sure someone drives you back to help you change the wheel first thing tomorrow morning.’
Stan Smith shook his head. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I can’t leave my cargo.’
Allan looked at the large wooden box in back. ‘What’s in it, if I may ask?’
Stan Smith hesitated once more. ‘Necessities,’ he said.
‘Necessities,’ Allan repeated. ‘Yes, such items are good to have. Though it rather depends on what sort, of course.’
Imagine—
Stan Smith hesitated yet again. Allan was good at registering that kind of thing.
‘It’s for the poor,’ Stan Smith said, and it didn’t look as if he wished to expound any further on the matter. ‘Just go on. I can make it through the night.’
Meitkini shrugged and made a move to leave. Stan Smith was perfectly correct that he would survive the night if he just stayed in the car until dawn. And if he didn’t want any help, he didn’t have to have any.
With that, the matter would have been settled if it hadn’t been for Allan, who had a little more on his mind.
‘That’s a very nice briefcase, Mr Smith,’ he said.
The stranded man was startled.
‘The fact is, I once carried one just like it,’ Allan went on. ‘North Korean design. I’m sure of it, for I’m very familiar with the entire range of North Korean briefcases. It’s rather limited.’
That was all it took for the situation to go in a new direction. Goodluck Wilson, a.k.a. Stan Smith, quickly opened his North Korean briefcase and took out a revolver. He opened the sunroof of the Hilux, stood on his seat, and aimed his weapon alternately at Allan and Meitkini in the front, at the women and the man in the back.
‘Stay where you are!’ he said.
For one instant, time stood still. In that moment, Goodluck Wilson had time to analyse his situation.
He found himself in the middle of the pitch-black Kenyan savannah, where there were more wild lions than anywhere else on earth. He had perhaps seven kilometres to go to the local airport, where the box containing four hundred kilos of enriched uranium would be transferred that night, or the next night at the very latest. He had a flat tyre, but here was an alternative vehicle. He might be able to take off in it, with the help of the revolver in his hand. Revolvers, after all, are known for getting people to do what their owners say. In this case, that might be to demand that the old man, his driver and the three back-seat passengers exchange their car for his.
In which case, all that remained was the uranium issue. He couldn’t leave it behind. If he opened the box, he could force his hostages to move the forty ten-kilo boxes into the Land Cruiser, one box at a time. But that would require one to work on the ground – under threat of his weapon, yes, but also exposed to the lions. Would the revolver even be enough to maintain discipline over the group under such circumstances?
And, also, this group. Who were they? How the hell had that old white man recognized his briefcase? It was unreal.
Just think how much the human brain can manage to do when time is standing still. Goodluck Wilson continued his pondering. Another option was to shoot everyone who currently posed a threat to this whole multi-million-dollar affair. But that wouldn’t help him move forwards. Not until the morning, when he could change cars or tyres without aid. How many safari cars would have time to swing by before this?
And that was about where the instant ended. Time started moving again. As a Maasai, Meitkini had a throwing club on a loop on his trousers. With it he could strike a moving wild animal from a distance of forty metres. The blow would be hard enough to make the animal reconsider, to the extent that it could consider anything at all.
Animal or human, essentially there was no difference. From only three metres away, it would be easy enough to land a blow to the forehead of the man who called himself Stan Smith and was likely named something else. A buffalo struck in the side by the club would feel pain. A man who took it to the forehead would die on the spot.
The Accidental Further Adventures of the Hundred-Year-Old Man Page 30
