by Peter Riva
Bob was visibly shocked. You could almost see the thought process: a little African guy, not much more than one-hundred-and-sixty pounds, an overweight African policeman, and, what, a middle-aged CIA spook? He looked out the window at the three women and two men, none of whom had any military bearing whatsoever. Then he thought about the CIA card with the words “Render every assistance” printed on it and decided to comply. His report took under ten minutes. It was thorough.
He told them he estimated ten to twelve different voices, but no vehicles—nothing wheeled could be used in that terrain. Whoever they were, they had quickly made a ring around their position. “I figured they were going for a snatch, a kidnapping.” He heard accented command voices, perhaps of German origin, maybe Dutch; hard to say as they were speaking Swahili, which Bob did not understand. He did catch the words wagen and baum, which he guessed meant truck and tree. “Little Christmas tree is O, Tannenbaum, no?”
None of this made any sense to Pero. What the hell would a tree have to do with Ube being in immediate danger?
Mbuno asked more pointed questions. “How did you get past them?”
Bob turned to Mbuno and reported, “In the deep ditch, we crawled for maybe a mile or more, right past the men in the encirclement.”
Mbuno knew field craft better than anyone. He addressed the Marine, “Bwana, maybe those two”—Mbuno pointed to the men still seated on the leatherette couch—“crawled belly down, but you would watch. Most ready. You would crawl or swim, face up. You saw.” It was a statement of fact. Pero had not considered it.
Bob had not thought anyone could know. “Okay, yes, I saw, but in that marsh, I could not see more than boots, a bit of leg. The first boot I saw was old leather, cracked, repaired laces. The trousers were camo, torn and repaired. The man was on his heels.”
Pero had to ask, “What does that mean? That he was poor?”
“No, his weight was back, on his heels, not ready to run, amateur for a soldier.” It was clear the ex-Marine was assessing combat conditions in case he needed to fight. “The other guy, a little later on, maybe twenty yards, was on the other side of the ditch. We could see where he had crossed, breaking the bank. I figured he was staying away from the edge in case it collapsed, and that’s why he couldn’t see through all the marsh grass as we worked our way past.”
Mbuno said, “Exact picture, please.”
Bob turned to face Mbuno. “Stocky legs, muscled. New camo trousers, maybe a uniform, couldn’t tell. Machete on the left side—tells me the right side might have had a holster unless he’s left-handed. Upside-down AK-47 muzzle tapping back of left thigh, so maybe the guy is six feet tall. Boots: synthetic fabric, olive green, new, laced straight across, German style.” Bob paused. “And this guy was fit; even in that mud, he was pitched forward, ready to move.”
Mbuno nodded to Pero, and Pero said, “Okay, Bob, that’s helpful . . .”
Bob said, “It’s the guide, Ube, right?” Mbuno nodded. “When he took the idiot’s hat, I knew he would be the decoy. The damn thing was bright orange, a Stateside hunting hat to show your fellow hunters you’re not a damn deer.”
Pero agreed. “Good thinking. Ube was probably trying to decoy them. Mbuno thought so, too, earlier.”
Bob raised his eyebrows, looking at Mbuno. “One more thing, mister . . . those two askari or bearers, whatever you call them?” Mbuno nodded. “They kept their heads. I’d like them in a firefight. I felt bad leaving them with the Land Rover at the airfield. I figured they would go back to the campsite. That might be dangerous.”
“How far was the campsite from where the incident happened?” Pero asked.
“They wouldn’t have known where we were camped; that’s my hope. Ten or fifteen miles by Land Rover, plus the four miles on foot. Is it far enough away? But you have to know, we weren’t traveling traceless; we were only taking goddamn pictures.”
Pero knew what he meant. A professional could easily trace their route back to camp, step by step, if they wanted to.
Mbuno understood it, too. “It is why Ube stayed. These bad men would not know how many came. If they chased only him, they might not know there were others.”
The ex-Marine nodded. “Brave man, as I said. Need a hand rescuing him?”
“What makes you think we’re gonna try?” Pero asked.
Even Sergeant Gibson, watching Mbuno’s face, chuckled. Bob answered for both of them, “Man, you ain’t asking what’s next, nor waiting—you’re planning. Count me in.”
CHAPTER 6
Katika Hatari—Into Danger
Bob was right, of course—a rescue was precisely what they were planning. Bob went back to sit on the couch. As they left the Coke machine alcove, Pero turned to Mbuno and asked, “Have you been to Moyowosi before?”
Mbuno looked concerned. He took Pero aside and explained that Moyowosi was a hunting reserve—a game reserve, not a protected park. And since his tribe, the Liangulu, were forbidden to hunt, he had not been there, nor had he wanted to, for over twenty years as Liangulu were not welcome. Pero understood. Mbuno’s ethnicity would be transparent to anyone in eastern Tanzania.
“It may be all right,” Mbuno said, explaining slowly. “Authorities are now running the hunting camps, not the local tribes who hate my people. Very rich hunters pay eighty thousand US to hunt elephant there. It is big business.” Mbuno pronounced big as “beeg,” as most Africans do. “And the Kigosi Game Reserve is also next to Moyowosi, and the police run that reserve.”
But Pero wanted to know if Mbuno was confident about going to Moyowosi with Pero without any firsthand knowledge. Mbuno didn’t answer. Instead, he called the ex-Marine over to walk out with them. “Mr. Bob, do you think you will know the place again? Can you lead us there?” Bob replied strongly that he was sure; once they got to the Land Rover parking spot on the road from the airstrip, he would know the direction.
Pero then asked, “What did you do in the Marines, Bob?”
“I was a field medic, you know, first aid in battle conditions.” That especially seemed to satisfy Mbuno, who mumbled something about first aid being a good thing.
The Mara office door clicked shut. Pausing just outside the doorway, Pero turned to Sergeant Gibson. “Okay, Sergeant, we’re going to load up the Cessna we’ve hired and go back down to the Moyowosi airfield at Mgwesi and go into Moyowosi Game Reserve, link up with the Flamingo Tours’ two askari, probably stay with them in the tents there, and, with a little luck, find Ube.”
Sergeant Gibson knew Ube was Mbuno’s nephew. As the whole of the Langata region was the Sergeant’s beat, he took in tourist and guide activity at Wilson Airport regularly. If you worked Wilson Airport, you got to know all the best safari guides, and Ube was considered one of the very best, trained by Mbuno since a young age and trusted as a sole safari overseer by Anthony “Tone” Bowman, the ex–white hunter and owner of Flamingo Tours. It didn’t take Gibson long, therefore, to convince Pero and Mbuno that he, too, wanted to help. He concluded with, “Ube is a very good man. I am ready.”
Pero explained that the cameras and film the three men had were most essential and that he was going to ask some of his crew to oversee it being developed at Nairobi Labs, the professional development lab in Kenya, and then carefully inspect it to find out if the two photographers happened, by accident, to photograph any of the attackers. Or kidnappers. Or whatever they were.
“So, what can I do, Mr. Pero?” Gibson wanted to know.
“Sergeant, the cameras and film must remain in your possession. If there is any evidence there and if it is needed for a court case, it must be overseen at all times by a strong and honest police officer to be considered as proof in court. Can I ask you, tafadhali”—(please)— “to help us with this?” Gibson said he would be very pleased, puffing out his chest. Pero wasn’t just flattering Gibson; Gibson had proven to be both strong and honest at the time of the terrorist attack at Wilson Airport.
Pero knew it was time to address the two oth
er people on the couch, but before he could reenter the office, Bob held his arm and asked to be allowed to have a go. Pero watched as Bob entered the office, marched over, sat on Pero’s vacant chair, and leaned forward. “Mr. Winter, my job was to protect you, provide emergency medical assistance on safari, and see you safely back to Nairobi or home. I consider that task complete.” Harry Winter, Jr., nodded in agreement. “As for you, Richard, relax; these fellows have work to do, and you’re too small a fish to bother with. But here’s the problem you two are faced with. If anyone ever, and I mean ever, hears of your exploits here and the tale of the chase through that swamp, then you will put a man in danger. And I suspect that Mr. Pero here will make sure the New York Times exposes the fact that you ran away for your own personal safety despite the danger posed to the guide you left behind. That can ruin a reputation in a hurry. Me? I honestly don’t care. Mr. Winter, I know you care. And if you, Richard, are smart and want to keep your job, you will care, too.” Both men were open-mouthed. It was clear that the medic-bodyguard was in command. “So, are we agreed? You go back to the Hilton, enjoy a day or two in town, and then fly home.”
Harry Winter wanted to know about the safety and return of their safari film. Pero called over from where he was, “Courtesy of the US government”—well, Pero knew that was a little white lie, but he continued—“all your film will be professionally developed and reviewed and then sent to you as soon as possible. The Sergeant here will personally oversee its safety, and experts are on hand to properly screen anything you took, just in case you accidentally captured something vital or of interest. Agreed?” Their response was unquestioning and keen. Bob stood, looking down at them in a commanding way. Pero continued, “Good. And if you need to give testimony later to prove you took an image of interest, I assume you will cooperate?” Again, they assured Pero they would be cooperative. “Good, good. Then the Sergeant will take down your address here in Nairobi, telephone numbers and personal addresses back in the US, and so on. Just to make sure they can get your cameras and film back safely.”
Leaving Gibson in charge of the two tourists, Pero and Mbuno motioned for Bob to walk outside with them to join the waiting crew. Heep, Mary, and Susanna, along with assistants Nancy and Tom, were standing in the shade of the building next to their pile of equipment. Pero made introductions, related the story as Richard and Bob had told them, and asked Bob where the camera gear and film was. Bob pointed to a small pile of equipment on the other side of a chain link fence a hundred yards away, baking in the equatorial sun but still inside customs. Pero went back in and asked Gibson for help. Not ten minutes later, the tourists’ equipment was cleared through customs, and the camera bags were handed over to the Sergeant who took them inside the air-conditioned office. The personal items from the tourists’ safari remained on the concrete, ready to load into a taxi that would take the men to the Hilton.
Heep asked what the plan was. Pero wasn’t sure.
Mary looked at Susanna, who nodded and said, “You had better stop right now, mein dummer Mann. You are not going anywhere until we make sure it is safe.”
Heep, about to speak, was shushed by Mary, who glared at her husband and spoke to those assembled. “Not again, no you don’t, you two.” The ex-Marine looked confused. Mary looked at him and explained, “These two have been up to some very dangerous”—she paused for effect—“activities. Yes, let’s call them that. Okay, the first time around Pero saved my life and my uncle’s life . . .”
Pero interrupted, “No Mary, we all did it together.”
Mary was having none of it. “Yeah, fine. We helped, but it was your work with the CIA that got us into trouble and got us out and stopped those al-Shabaab terrorists. Right?” She said it so forcibly that Heep, Pero, and Mbuno all nodded in unison.
Nancy and Tom looked dumbfounded but completely engrossed.
Mary continued, “And that was enough excitement and people dying for a lifetime; but no, that wasn’t enough for you two. Heep then gets kidnapped and almost killed, you stop some uranium smuggling and get radioactive poisoning . . .”
Pero, needing to keep some of this secret, held up his hands in surrender. “Please, Mary, okay, okay . . .”
She was angry. “No, not okay, Pero. Susanna and I are agreed. No more little plans and scheming . . .”
Pero looked beseechingly at Susanna while pointing at Mbuno and the ex-Marine. “Darling, we just need to rescue Ube. There’s no plan . . .”
Susanna was ready. Clearly, she and Mary had a plan. “Yes, you do, I know you. You are already planning; it’s what producers do. But listen, please. Let’s get this clear. We’re a team. You will stay in constant contact, we will have a plane here waiting to come and join you, with force,” she emphasized. “Yes, you heard right, with force to get Ube back and then return to our tranquil life of filming wildlife in dangerous places. Correct?”
Heep was smiling by this time. “Sorry, Pero, they went into the back of the plane and hatched plans.”
Pero didn’t really mind. Mary and Susanna were acting out of love and concern. What worried him was how to divide the team to be most effective. Susanna was right, he was the producer—aha, that’s my angle, he thought. “So, can we all agree that I need to produce this rescue?”
Susanna took her husband’s arm and pinched it, hard. “Dummkopf, you think I didn’t guess you would try that? No, we will all agree on a plan and you, mein dummer Mann, will stick to it. If anything, in the bush Mbuno must be in command.”
Pero had no choice. “I give in! You win. Look, here’s where we are now as I see it. The three of us, Bob, Mbuno, and I, fly down there and pick up the askari. Mbuno tracks Ube, we assess and radio phone you at the Interconti with what we find, and then make a final plan. Of course, maybe Ube has already returned to the campsite, and all we’re doing is flying down and back. Okay?” Everyone thought that would work. “Meanwhile, Heep, Mary, and my darling not-so-dummer wife . . .” Susanna dug her nails into his arm again. “Ouch, okay, all three of you will hole up at the Interconti along with Tom and Nancy. You, Heep, and Mary will babysit and then review the developed film Sergeant Gibson will be taking to Nairobi Labs. I have Wolfie’s radio if this cell phone can’t find a signal.” He pulled out a phone from his breast pocket. “I’ll call the service repeater and get them to telephone the Interconti or leave a message.”
Heep chimed in and assured everyone that the Interconti had an HFRT he would borrow for their room. Susanna told him she already had the frequency of Wolfie’s radio set. But Heep wanted to know if Pero had one of the special satellite radios from the CIA on this trip.
Pero groaned and pointed to Tom and Nancy, shaking his head. He had been hoping for secrecy, but knowing it was futile, he explained to everyone he wasn’t doing anything for them anymore. “So, no, I have not got one.”
Bob wanted to know if he was still CIA or not. “Hey man, you showed me a current ID, pal.”
Pero felt Susanna’s nails dig in again. “Hey, ouch. Look, I am, I guess, still part of that team technically. But even Director Lewis told me to stay out of trouble, and, no, I am not currently on any assignment and frankly don’t want to be again. Enough was enough. I endangered all my friends.” He waved at the people standing there. “I don’t plan on chancing my luck again.” Impatient to end the discussion, Pero explained he wanted to get going but wasn’t sure what they would need as equipment.
Mbuno took charge. “Pero, we need what we already have, but we must move very quickly, I think.” Mbuno looked down at his feet, clad in the new hiking sneakers Pero had purchased for the whole crew. “These will do. We will need a medical kit.”
Bob walked over to the reduced pile of stuff from the Tanzania safari and plucked out a green canvas bag with a shoulder strap. “It’s a little wet, but everything inside will be sealed dry. And if we find the tents, I have a full medical kit there, including a defibrillator.”
Susanna addressed Pero with a sly smile, “Ah, mein d
ummer Mann, you want to go off on an adventure, nein?” Then she narrowed her eyes. “But you will need to transmit what you find, right? Or get in contact if you need real help, is that not right? So, we can hook up my Silke Wire to that transmitter Wolfie gave you, and as long as you are within one hundred meters of it, it’ll transmit.” Susanna, a serious brain trust on her own, had already worked out communications. She explained in a manner that was so encouraging she never made Pero feel like he was deserting her. “I have made note of the frequency and will have that radio working at the hotel before you even land. Now, I must connect the Silke Wire microphone receiver to the Oasis radio.” She lifted Wolfie’s green canvas bag and her Otterbox waterproof case with all her microphone equipment and sat down in the shade to connect the units together.
Heep and Pero knew the Silke Wire transmitter was so thin and undetectable that Pero or Mbuno could wear it under their safari shirt collars. The Silke Wire transmitter base had standard audio jack outputs, which Susanna clicked into the microphone input of the RT set. She looked up to make sure they were watching what she was doing so they could repeat it later if necessary. She explained, “Here, look, if you leave the base unit on with cables attached to the Land Rover battery, it will transmit anytime you speak into the microphone wire. That will key the transmitter base and the radio will detect incoming signal and then will transmit. We will be listening. With luck, the frequency modulation will not wander too much. It is not perfect, but should work.”
Bob was clearly impressed as he held and examined the Silke Wire microphone in his fingers delicately. The transmitter tube was smaller than a cigarette, about half as long, with a thin, dangling, four-inch wire. On the stub end of the tube was a push button. “This thing? Where’s the microphone?”
Pero smiled. “Bob, we’ll explain on the plane, later. That is the whole microphone, just the wire. And it’s the antenna, too.”
Susanna gave her warning: “Yes, but you have to be close to the radio, maybe one hundred feet, no more.” Bob, Pero, and Mbuno nodded.