by Peter Riva
Then Mbuno spoke swiftly in Swahili to the brothers, who listened raptly. They nodded from time to time, and their eyes got very wide when Mbuno explained that Bob was a policeman of sorts from America. But they trusted policemen, especially because Mbuno said they should trust Pero and Bob. Insofar as Teddy was concerned, that was fine with him. He spoke for the pair, “Kama wewe imani yao, basi ndivyo sisi!” (If you trust them, then so do we!)
CHAPTER 11
Ube Ni Wapi na Kwa Nini?—Where Is Ube and Why?
Deep inside, Pero wanted immediately to leave, to save his marriage. If it weren’t for Ube he would have driven off. Mbuno was right; Pero felt as if he had fallen off a cliff.
Mbuno, sensing the team needed to regroup, asked Bob to call the Interconti on satellite phone speaker to explain everything he knew. Turned out, it was precious little and didn’t explain Ube’s predicament.
Pero turned off the RT completely and sat back down on the stool, waiting for the flow of fresh information—information he really didn’t want but needed to have. Christ, all we wanted to do was get Ube back. Now we’re up against Russian gold smugglers and damn terrorists? Terrorists again? Pero was feeling despondent.
The afternoon sun was waning; animals were waking to take advantage of the last hours of daylight before nightfall and the cooler air. The birds, especially, made screeching sounds in the canopy above. If there had not been such tension among the five men sitting in a half circle in front of the tents, it would have been a perfect naturalist’s dream. As it was, Pero was still furious and, he had to admit, a little scared. In the past two years or more, he had been shot at, poisoned with radioactivity, landed in the hospital twice, and narrowly escaped major catastrophes that would also have affected his friends and hundreds of thousands of innocent people. He was proud of what he had helped achieve, but that did not diminish the terror he felt at the prospect of a repeat trial against an unknown enemy. And, he suddenly realized, they are indeed an enemy because they have kidnapped Mbuno’s son.
Mbuno and the two brothers, emulating the Mzee, waited calmly. Bob, for his part, felt as if he were drowning in his own stupidity. He launched into recounting what he knew. From time to time, Mbuno explained to the brothers, but mostly, Mbuno only told them what they could understand or what he felt they had to know.
“The satellite images we have been collecting, especially the synthetic-aperture images, show that as soon as the forest is cleared—all trees cut down and taken away to be milled—the next step is that the soil is transformed, flooded, and an interim crop grown. After thirty to forty weeks, that crop disappears, overnight sometimes, hundreds of acres at a time. Normal imagery, when we can prioritize satellites passing overhead, shows the newly empty fields being bulldozed and then planted with orderly rows of crops. We don’t know what the first crop was, but the vegetation signature indicates it is a tall bush, about six feet high. The second crop appears to be a variety of tobacco. The only guess on the first crop is that it is Erythroxylum novogranatense. You know it as the coca plant.” Bob seemed to want to stop.
Mbuno, sensing his reluctance to carry on, pressed him, “Mr. Bob, you must finish.”
From the satellite phone speaker, Heep said, “Finish it up, Bob. Some of this Lewis already told us.”
“Okay, when we looked at the quantity being grown, we could not find processing facilities on satellite anywhere nearby. And no trucks or trains going anywhere outside of this region with hundreds of acres of dug-up bushes. And, man, we looked. There was no heat signature of anything boiling in any factory, so we assumed it was all small and local, like in Colombia, to keep the processing small, movable, undetected. But then we managed to put a tracer on a bag of Siberian gold, and it went here—well, nearby to here. That’s when I was sent to join the safari—my office arranged for Mr. Winter’s doctor to advise him to take a medic in case of a heart attack since he had had one a year ago. His doctor was told to recommend me.”
Heep asked, “Where did the gold go, Bob? Where did it end up?”
Bob was chagrinned. “We don’t know where it ended up.” Pero shook his head in disbelief. Bob continued, “No, honestly, it got to the station in Kombe and then went silent. The man following the RFID signal said it was there one moment and gone the next. He was only certain the guy carrying it got off the passenger train in Kombe. That’s when I was sent in. The plan was to accompany the safari, get them interested in going to the southern end of the Moyowosi or Kigosi reserves, learn the terrain, act like a tourist. Then, when they were done, drop them off and come back where I would be considered another tourist or maybe an itinerant village doctor and see if I could find clues.”
Pero looked at Mbuno, who nodded. This told Pero that Mbuno had assessed that Bob was telling the truth. Pero was silent, waiting for Heep. He knew Heep would want to tell them about Lewis. It didn’t take long.
“Heep here. Look this is clearly more than just Ube being missing—”
Mbuno interrupted, “No, we have seen him. He was in the back of a truck.”
On the satellite phone, the voices of the three in Nairobi came through, jumbled, but they all had the same demand that Mbuno explain where Ube had been taken, and whether he was okay.
“He was beaten. I saw his eyes, he saw me.”
Pero said, “One of the Zanzi-Agroforestry SUVs was leading a Nissan beat-up pickup, and in the back Ube was sitting with who we presume to be a guard. They were headed south, back toward the airfield. Well, in that direction anyway.”
Heep asked, “Did you follow?” Pero looked at Mbuno.
Mbuno explained they needed time to research what this Zanzi-Agroforestry was, where it was located, and who ran it. And then he added, “I think nighttime is better for scouting.”
Mary came on the line. “Okay, fellows, here’s what we have on the Zanzibar outfit. First, it’s Zanzi-Agroforestry; took us a while to get to that name.”
Pero said, “Sorry.”
“Understood. It’s owned by a German outfit, registered offshore on the island of Zanzibar, has mainly ex-colonialist Germans running the show”—she paused—“and Pero, you’re not going to like this one bit: The principal shareholders—over 60 percent—are your old friends at Treuhand Banking.” Pero and Mbuno’s hackles rose at the same moment. Treuhand Bank was staffed with the remnant of the East German Stasi, many of them ex-Nazis and not any of them to be trusted. Pero, Mbuno, and Heep had encountered them in Germany the previous year when Treuhand’s director was trying to smuggle radioactive material to terrorist groups.
Mary continued, “The business of—let’s call them Zanzi-Ag—is to, and I am quoting here, ‘help terraform the State of Nyamwezi’—that’s where you are—‘and make it possible to cultivate cash crops for the benefit of the Tanzanian economy.’ In short, they clear and plow the land, and then farmers, large and small, plant cash crops.”
Bob added, “The crops are tobacco, and the farmers are legit insofar as we can tell. Chinese backers and buyers, mostly.”
Pero interjected, “Yeah, but there’s an interim crop while they so-called clear the land, likely to be coca plants.” Pero thought of something. “When does Zanzi-Ag turn the land over to farmers?”
Heep delivered the answer in a rush. “Your powerful pals, the Singhs, especially the one with the fish on his wall that you two caught, remember? Well, I spoke with him in Dar on the phone—by the way he advises you to stay out of trouble because his brothers are investigating Zanzi-Ag and suspicious partners—and he said, with some disgust I might add, that there are almost weekly television PR events with one or another minister at a shovel and ribbon ceremony as the cleared land is handed over to a farmer. You know, it’s the age-old good PR event: Your ancestors lived here on the land, trapped by the trees; now we have freed you and cleared the land and will make you wealthy as you grow the crop we tell you to plant. Oh, and the Dar papers are full of the articles exposing the corruption, the people displaced, the wildlife
slaughtered; and, of course, after the new farmer fails, the usual conglomerate farming companies move in to get the land for pennies while the locals are made homeless.”
Bob looked amazed. “How did you find all this out? We didn’t know any of that.”
Pero, for once, took pity on him. “Look, Bob, do yourself a favor. You can’t just parachute into a place and find things out all by yourself. It takes a team—team effort, team resources, years of being in the region to have real contacts—not just satellite images.” Pero had a thought. “Heep, can you call Singh back and see if you can find out where the Tanzanian authorities are looking and for what? There is no way Singh won’t be on top of the corruption. Maybe that’ll tell us what, who, or where the drugs go. And if they are not drugs but just the leaves of the coca plant, they must be selling them to someone who then processes them.” Pero turned to Bob. “Look, Bob, Zanzi-Ag may just be harvesting and selling the raw leaves to someone else. The border is porous here, and Lake Victoria, just about fifty miles northwest, means you can ship a bunch of vegetation almost anywhere. That may be why you are not seeing smoke or processing locally.” Bob was nodding agreement.
Pero wanted next to find out why Lewis had called them at the Interconti, but Mbuno held up his hand and asked, “And a question for the Singh brothers: Is there a coup?” Everyone fell silent. “It is not normal to cut trees in a park reserve. It means the government is all right with cutting trees.”
CHAPTER 12
Hatari ya Uhusiano—The Danger of Connections
After Teddy and Keriako pulled the safari bread from the embers of the fire and dished up more food, Mbuno told them to go to collect firewood for the night. They did as they were told, guessing Mbuno wanted them out of earshot. While Mbuno busied himself preparing the meal, Pero took the time to speak privately to Susanna, cupping the phone off-speaker, assuring Susanna he had had no idea. She called him their pet name a few times and made it clear she knew this was just really bad luck. All that mattered was that they get Ube and everyone back safely, including her dummer Mann, so they could return to their lives.
Pero assured her that was one hundred percent his plan. Anything larger or more than a rescue was not his involvement or intention. Her response was a simple “I love you,” which sealed the moral deal between them. Pero hoped he could live up to it.
When Heep had the phone back, turned onto speaker, he asked, “Mbuno, why do you ask about a coup?”
“It is not unusual these days.” Mbuno gave a flat statement of fact, and Pero realized that he was right. After Kenya’s recent electoral troubles and the Arab Spring all over the region and the Middle East, change seemed to have infected everyone.
Pero continued, “The Singhs are very powerful. If they wanted to, they could have taken over years ago. That makes them not likely as fomenters. But they would hear things. You remember that one brother is the only Toyota dealer, and the more powerful brother. Another is head of the regular police and the secret police, and then the oldest one is a government minister.”
Heep agreed they were powerful but asked again why Mbuno thought there may be a coup. Mbuno saw human dealings in the region as a wildlife food chain, complete with a pecking order, like animals. “You have warthogs digging up the land. Someone is feeding them. You have vultures scavenging off the land—someone is leaving them nyama.” (Meat.) “You have the local animals, people, driven off by jackals from the government. None of these is in charge. Somewhere, there is a very large pride of lions permitting all this. And lions eat a lot of nyama. Someone, maybe the Russian bear, is feeding them. The truth about lions is that once they can get more meat, they become more hungry.”
Finally, Heep prepared to sign off, saying, “Okay, understood. We have a lot to talk about and do here. We’ll call later. Susanna has your phone’s code and number.” Bob said she couldn’t have, and Heep assured him that she did. Pero cryptically explained to Bob that Susanna was a genius and to take it on trust. The truth was, Susanna had pressured Director Lewis to supply it, saying he owed her favors after nearly getting her husband killed in Berlin. Lewis had sighed and agreed.
The food was hot; the biscuits, as Bob called them, wonderful. They drank a glass of water each as the brothers returned with armloads of firewood. Joined by the boys, they finished their second plates of food silently. After a short while, Mbuno began to explain to the brothers what he could. They were nervous at the news of drugs and kept looking at Bob, the man they saw as a policeman. Mbuno assured them that Bob wasn’t after them, just the men who took Ube.
Mbuno looked at Pero, who was finishing his last mouthful, and said, “You have to make the call.” Pero nodded but did not move. Mbuno waited as Bob looked back and forth between the two men, thinking, What call?
Pero looked about. He could see three giraffe, maybe two hundred yards away, calmly feeding on acacia leaves, the sun setting slowly behind them with maybe two or three hours of light left. Pero knew that the small furry hyrax would begin their throaty call soon after, making noises as if they were giants. Here they were far enough away from the river not to have to worry about hippo or crocodile, but hyena and lion were a real danger. Leopard would likely stay away from a fire. Into this perfect East African late afternoon, Pero would have to inject the reality of Director Lewis and the CIA’s vast resources. If it were just Ube and a logging company, they would reconnoiter, decide on a rescue, and go through with a plan. But Pero knew Mbuno was right—you didn’t have this type of large quasi-industrial operation in Tanzania without some very top-heavy support. There was serious money involved even before you got to Russian gold and drug smuggling; that only made it worse. The brand-new, Volvo eighteen-wheelers told Pero that. Only the richest of operations had firsthand trucks like that in East Africa. And that level of support meant the support of factions of the military, guns everywhere, and the ability to bury everyone, literally and fast. If they were going to rescue Ube, they needed to know things the opposition could not know. And for that they needed eyes from above. And that meant Lewis.
Taking the satellite phone, he pushed the speaker on, then the sequence of buttons he knew to reach Lewis. He heard two clicks, meaning they were listening. “Baltazar here. Get me Lewis.”
Lewis was waiting. “Expecting your call. Go ahead.”
“How did you know to call Interconti, over.”
“Skip the over. Your arrival in Kenya was being watched. Hines of ONSI on daily sheet. Same location, same time, Mara Airways. Too much coincidence. Knew your usual hotel. Asked for Baltazar, got your wife.”
“Yeah, okay, but I object to being reinstated.”
“This dance again? Look, I had to tell ONSI you were in charge and that meant reinstatement. You make the calls, not their field agent; he’s not experienced enough. And besides, he doesn’t have an improper private team as you so rightly like to remind me.”
“Okay. But all we want to do is rescue Mbuno’s son, Ube. Zanzi-Agroforestry has lifted him, and we do not know why.”
“The why is an interesting question. The secrets and activity they have are more interesting. The cloak of terraforming for economic stability with tobacco crops covers a route and trade of drugs and gold in return. If you happen to find out how, we’d be most grateful.”
Pero knew Lewis was being solicitous. No orders, only appreciation, which was more likely to keep Pero from quitting—again. “Okay, Lewis, that’s unlikely because, as I said, once we find Ube we’re out of here.”
“Understood. Now what can we provide to help a quick in and out?”
“We need a satellite look-down in our vicinity—suspects somewhere near or between an airstrip at Mgwesi, called Moyowosi Airport—and any town north or south of here, probably a rail town: real time, continuous, today. The map shows the road to the airstrip continues south. Maybe there’s access to the main artery there?” He meant transport artery: rail, road, commercial plane.
“Looking for?”
“
Mercedes SUV followed by a Nissan pickup, two men in the flatbed. Where’d they go?”
“Time?”
“Between three and five hours ago.”
“Standby.”
“Okay, also how trustworthy is the ONSI man here, Bob Hines.” Bob started to protest, but Mbuno told him to be quiet.
“Look-down evaluation wait is plus two hours. I’ll call back then. Hines is Marine, capable, not operative”—he meant not a field agent with operational authority—“but record shows he’s able and trustworthy. He’s to take orders from you and, I assume, Mbuno. He listening?” Pero said they both were. Then Lewis broke with protocol. “Good. Hello, Mbuno. Oh, and Bob’s office, on the other hand, are rank amateurs.”
“That was my impression, too. Thanks, Lewis.”
“Yeah, well I promised that wife of yours . . . over and out.”
Bob mumbled mostly to himself, “Great, I work for an amateur outfit, and I am demoted in the field, more likely fired. Second time it has happened. Guess I’ll resign when this is over before they can fire me.”
Pero laughed. “Demoted? Hell, that’s the nicest I’ve ever heard Lewis describe anyone other than CIA people and, of course, Mbuno there, who he thinks can walk on water.”
Mbuno said in his most subservient manner, “Not walk on water, bwana sahib. I ask the water gods to carry me.” The three of them laughed together, easing the tension. Mbuno continued, “We now must rest.” He turned to Teddy and Keriako, telling them to keep watch and to wake him if anything or anybody came near. He handed the phone to Pero and went inside his stifling tent with three cots to sleep. Pero and Bob looked at each other, shrugged, and went to do the same. As he drifted off to sweaty sleep, Pero thought, Was it only this morning that we were happy at Lake Rudolf?