by Peter Riva
Getting into the minivan, Mbuno greeted the two brothers, who were openly welcoming and happy that Mbuno was back safe. They peppered Mbuno with questions, who answered in short bursts, the fatigue still affecting him. Finally, Mbuno held up his hand and said, “Kutosha kwa sasa.” (Enough for now.)
As they pulled onto Langata Road, turning east and heading into Nairobi, Pero said to Tone, “We need your help, Tone. There’s a problem.”
Pero’s serious tone of voice caused the van to swerve a little and Tone Bowman to exhale. “Okay mates, but let’s get Ube settled and then go to my house?”
“No, we need to regroup at the Interconti with the whole team, and I’m including you, if you agree.”
From the back seat, Mbuno said simply, “Ndiyo, Mr. Tone.” Tone nodded his agreement and pressed on to the hospital in silence.
As they approached the center of town, Pero asked to be let out. His clothes were thoroughly filthy from the hours winching in the muddy forest. He explained that Mbuno could take care of the Aga Khan, reminding Mbuno that any bill should come to Pero, money was no matter. Tone briefly argued that since Ube was on his safari, Tone would cover all costs and had already instructed billing at the hospital. In the end, Mbuno understood that Ube would get the best care possible. Tone further explained that Sheila from his office was picking up Mbuno’s wife, Niamba, from Giraffe Manor, where she and Mbuno lived, to take her to the hospital directly.
Giraffe Manor was a charitable giraffe sanctuary in Langata that had some very serious international patrons. Some of those patrons had gifted a small house on the estate for Mbuno and Niamba to live in, complete with running water and an inside toilet. Although Mbuno would have preferred to live among his tribe, the Liangulu, way past Tsavo on the way to the coast, he could no longer return since, as he described that night at camp, he’d been banished for disobeying the tribal chief and killing his wife’s brother in self-defense in his fight to stop an elephant slaughter. What Mbuno had done was also recognized as having saved his tribe from being branded as poachers, but tribal rules were rules, and he accepted his banishment. Niamba, who was the chief liabon, or doctor, for the tribe, stayed with him, forcing the tribespeople to have to call on her to ask, politely, if she could make a village-call. Dutifully, Mbuno often drove her down, staying in the car while she administered to the sick and needy once every few weeks. While he sat in the car, often a borrowed Giraffe Manor Land Rover, for hours, one by one the villagers brought water from the river and simple traditional meals to the Mzee. Soon after, the elders were always followed by most of the village children coming to hear the tales of their ancestors and the fables of East Africa and how the Liangulu became elephant hunters and the elephant’s protectors. Mbuno was loved, Niamba was respected and somewhat feared, and life continued, village honor upheld.
The van arrived at the first roundabout, skidding around, and went straight on. As they entered the outskirts of Nairobi, Tone said, “Just another ten minutes; not much traffic today.”
Pero borrowed Tone’s cash, whatever he had. As they reached the inner ring road in town, Pero asked to be let out, promising to meet them all at the hotel within the hour, if that was not too soon for Mbuno. Tone slowed the van, and Pero opened the door and exited before the vehicle came to a full stop. He waved them on and then hailed a taxi and asked for United Nations Avenue. The US embassy had been rebuilt after the previous one was bombed in 1998. It was now located miles away from the center of Nairobi in the northwest part of the city—easier to protect, set back away from street traffic. When Pero saw the building a hundred yards off, he told the driver to stop, gave him cash, and exited. Walking up the avenue, Pero made sure the video cameras spotted him approaching, muddy clothes and all.
By the time he reached the gate, the Marine on guard was turning away visitors, pointing at the sign that clearly said, “Opening Hours, Nine to Five.” When Pero stood silently before him, arms at his side, the Marine listened to his earpiece, glancing up at Pero, and then waved him through. Pero was met at the main door by a uniformed officer with a pale-blue blouse who directed him away from the main lobby and through a side door leading into waiting room. Pero sat at the small, nondescript Formica topped table, folded his hands, and waited as the woman officer watched his every move, scowling at his filthy clothing. She watched clumps of baked mud fall off his trouser legs, tracing their descent to the linoleum floor. Pero shrugged his shoulders apologetically.
Less than five minutes later, a door opened and she was summoned away.
Pero remained sitting alone, waiting. He heard muffled voices, then the door opened and a young man entered. He looked along the skirting board, spotted a receptacle, and plugged in a phone. He put the phone on the table in front of Pero and left the room. The phone immediately rang.
Picking it up, Pero listened. “Standby.” He kept silent. Then again, “Standby.” Pero responded by pushing the star key twice.
Director Lewis of the CIA came online. “Pero, all safe?”
“Yes and no. Ube has been drugged; we’re hoping nothing permanent. He’s been taken with Bob Hines, the ex-Marine, to the Aga Khan Hospital, along with Mbuno.”
“Congratulations.”
“Well, it was mostly Mbuno’s doing. There is another issue. Secure line?” Pero was aware this was a telephone, not a satellite connection. Telephones can easily be tapped.
“The line you are on is the Ambassador’s, scrambled. We insisted. Local One”—which was diplomatic speak for the top local diplomat, in this case the Ambassador—“well, Local One has ordered full assistance. Seems your previous exploits in Berlin and Kenya stand you in good stead.”
Pero thought he detected a hint that the current “exploit” might not be seen so favorably and wondered why. He pressed on with the questions he had been mentally preparing. “Any local station around?” Pero meant CIA top staff at the embassy.
“Local station is in New York. Deputy station is in Kenya, whereabouts unknown. Need further assistance?”
“Depends on two things: one you will not like, and one I suspect you knew and withheld from us.”
“Proceed.” Lewis’ voice wavered, seeking to calm Pero’s anger that he believed was coming. “And nothing was withheld; it was simply too dangerous.”
Pero was, indeed, fuming. What only he and Mbuno had seen at the lumber mill was deeply troubling. “Okay then, the thing you knew. Boko Haram.”
Silence from Lewis. Pero waited him out. Lewis gave in. “Okay, yes, we suspected they are involved. NSA cell phone traffic picked up hints of Boko Haram personnel traveling to the region. It tied in with illicit funds traveling to and from the region that ONSI tracked.”
“Oh, really? That all?” Pero was getting angrier.
“Need to know.”
“Lewis, do not play that game with me. I’ll walk out of here straight to the press and tell them everything I know if you play that game.”
“Oh, stop it,” Lewis responded, getting angrier himself. “There are things you do not want to know, Pero, really dangerous information that would require you never to travel to places where you could become a target. Even to places like where you are. I can’t tell you everything; how we get information, what sources we have . . . that would make you have to live behind a desk like me.”
Pero thought for a moment. What Lewis was saying was true, but . . . and then Pero realized what was bothering him. The risk to himself didn’t matter. What mattered was that because he had a relationship with the CIA, he always seemed to place his friends in danger. He had taken Mbuno, Teddy, Keriako, and Bob into harm’s way based on classified secrets from the CIA, satellite imagery, special coded phones. Any one of these sources made him—and by extension all of his friends, even those at the Interconti—targets of dangerous enemies. It was, he realized, once again, all his fault, all his meddling. But what was I supposed to do, wait? Wait for what, for whom?
Lewis seemed to read his thoughts and said, ge
ntly, “I warned you not to involve your friends.”
“Can I get out? Can they ever be safe again?”
“Look, this will all die down. You rescued Ube. Hopefully, he’ll be fine. But, listen to me, leave well enough alone and move on.”
Pero shook his head. “I wish it were that simple.” He knew, right then, that there was no waiting. Mbuno was, he was sure, already planning, ready to move.
In Africa, danger was always a step away, like a ticking bomb. Pretending it wasn’t there could get you killed. Foolishly mishandling nature and the men that threatened savage harm could be suicide. The only way to survive in Africa was skill and knowledge. He knew Mbuno had more than enough skill for them both. Now he, Pero, could use his resources to get the knowledge they needed.
Lewis wanted to get the conversation back on track. “Can you give me a verbal report on exactly what you did and saw? That intel would help us plan next events.”
“Yes, but before I do, I need to order information. I need an assessment of the mill plant after we rescued Ube—changes in vehicles, train traffic, movements, anything different.”
“Different than what?”
“Oh, come on, compare satellite images for the past month and then tell me if there is an ant swarm of people suddenly after our escape, around zero-one-hundred Zulu this morning.”
Lewis was on his guard. “What the hell do you need that information for?”
Pero concocted an excuse. “Look, if they are coming after us, if they think we’re a threat to their whole operation, they would be bugging out, and that would mean they would come after us. If they resume normal logging operations, then a few investigations may be had, why and how Ube escaped, and they may not know who we are or where we are.” Pero knew that was a lie; the warning at Tabora Airport that someone was asking about them told him they at least suspected who was involved. Pero was not going to tell Lewis that. Pero also knew the Zanzi-Agroforestry men at the Moyowosi airstrip would remember the film producer they encountered—they would recognize the man they told to get lost. However, Lewis would, Pero hoped, believe Pero’s simpler reason for needing the intel.
Lewis relented. “Okay, I’ll find that out for you and pass it along. You need a secure phone, not the ONSI unit. I’ll have the Ambassador’s security detail—you met her already—hand you one. Keep it hidden. Same codes as before. Give me a few hours for your intel. Now, can I have that briefing?”
Pero complied, telling Lewis everything about the forest track, the lake, elephants, the logging mill, the approach, the train access, the buildings, the bales inside the buildings, the dining hut, and the dormitory where they rescued Ube. He told him there were men armed with AK-47s, likely Boko Haram as they spoke Hausa. He told him that the guard on the barge was probably unconscious when dumped overboard to waiting crocodiles. He told him that Ube’s escape might appear real—there had been no gunfire, and the man guarding Ube was silenced. He did not say by whom, thinking, No point in implicating Mbuno. Lewis knew better than to ask for names anyway. In the end, Pero summed it up with a promise to supply a progress report on Ube when he knew more.
Lewis responded professionally, “Excellent job. We’ll take it from here. You’re clear.”
“Well, we still have film to assess, and if they are coming after us, we’ll have to deal with that . . .”
“Agreed, but limit yourself to that. Within the month we’ll have better intel to deal with Boko Haram in Tanzania and forces in place. You stay clear.”
A month? Pero wanted to change the subject, so he asked a question. “What do we do with Bob?”
“He’s leaving tomorrow night; his flight is being arranged via London. Tell him to call in.”
“Is he in trouble? He really was instrumental in the rescue. I’d stick by him anytime.”
Lewis laughed. “And make him part of your team? No chance. He’s finished at ONSI, but I have an interest . . . if you think I should.”
The thought had not occurred to Pero before that moment. “Hey, now that’s an idea, Lewis, thanks for the suggestion . . .”
“What suggestion—oh, God, no, that’s not what I meant—”
Pero cut him off with, “I’ll expect your call in two hours, please. Signing off.” He hung up the phone. Almost instantly, two people entered. One was the phone guy who had unplugged and removed the phone; the other was the officer in light blue who gave Pero a small cardboard box with a stenciled 1 on the lid. She gave a salute and even a little smile as she opened the exit door. Pero walked through and out of the embassy, past the Marine on guard, and whistled a cab ambling down the avenue. Minutes later he arrived at the Interconti, dreading the reunion, the questions, and, not least, his wife’s possible fury at what he was more than ever sure was to come.
CHAPTER 19
Timu Pamoja—The Team Reunited
Pero’s first stop at the Interconti wasn’t with his friends and wife but with Mr. Janardan, the under-manager in the backroom offices, which were devoid of any glitz or glamour—paint peeling, air conditioning barely working. They had known each other for years. Unlike the usual Swiss manager whose bearing and dealings were precise like a Swiss watch, Mr. Janardan was Asian, warm, open, and helpful. “Mr. Baltazar, how very, very good to see you again.” It was his standard effusive, singsong greeting, which he gave whether Pero had been away for just a few days or months.
Pero’s reply was always the same; it was their ritual: “Keeping the whole hotel together I see, Mr. Janardan.” He extended his hand. “I’m glad to be home.”
They cleared away money business, which was plaguing Pero’s producer’s conscience. Mr. Janardan assured him there was no issue. “We know Mr. Heeper very well, very well. He offered his credit card, but I refused, knowing you would regulate accounts in the usual manner.” Pero knew they preferred a bank draft, saving the credit card commission. “I hope the rooms on the fourth floor, all adjoining, that we were able to secure were satisfactory? Yours and Mr. Heeper’s, of course—small suites as normal.”
Pero told him he was sure they were. He signed the bank draft order for the local bank where he kept their production funds and thanked Mr. Janardan for the loan of the shortwave set his team had been using. Mr. Janardan again expressed the hotel’s pleasure in serving a long-standing customer, but had to ask, “Will you be needing it for much longer?”
“No, I think we’re done for now. I expect we’re going to go on safari, more filming, more crocodiles—probably Tanzania, Pangani—maybe tomorrow.” Pero didn’t like lying to Mr. Janardan, but he was already covering tracks in his mind. “As you can see,” he indicated his filthy clothing, “I really need a hot shower and some clean clothes.”
“I will alert the laundry staff to give your rooms priority service. Cleaned and pressed within two hours, if you will just call them.” Pero stood, they shook hands again, and Pero walked back into the lobby toward an open elevator and asked for the fourth floor. Staring into the nearly empty lobby from the elevator as the doors shut, he was aware of two men, both with blond hair, sitting on the lobby couch and hardly reading the local paper. Their eyes were tracking Pero, of that he was sure.
On the fourth floor, he stepped out and was stopped by the askari guarding the residents and rooms. “Key, sir?”
“I have none. I am joining my friends and wife.”
“No sir, you must have a key. Please go down and get a key.” Pero chose, instead, to call out to Susanna, Heep, and Mary. Two doors quickly opened, and Susanna and Heep assured the askari that Pero was with them. “Ah, very good.” Then, addressing Pero, he said, “Please, bwana, next time have the key, please.”
Pero was impressed at the efficiency of the fellow and told him so. “Mr. Janardan will get a report from me about this. I am very pleased, thank you. Good job.” The askari beamed.
When he reached Susanna, she fell into his arms, her cheek pressed up against his muddy shirt, and he held her tight. Heep was patting him on the back
while Mary, exiting the room, peppered him with questions. “Some of what happened we know from the Mara Airways people—Sheryl, actually, who told us you had Ube and were en route. But where is he and Mbuno? And that ex-Marine, Bob?”
From two rooms down the hall, Nancy and Tom appeared and rushed over, babbling that it was good to see him.
Pero motioned them all into his room, to the little ante-living room area. Susanna was still hugging him as he shut the door. Then he told them all he knew, leaving out what he called the dangerous detail—“For later,” he explained. When he was through, he quietly said, “Look, when we know more about Ube . . . maybe Tone will call from the hospital, then we can have a discussion on what’s next. For now, I’m dead beat. I stink.” He indicated his mud-caked clothes. “And, well, to be perfectly honest, I am not sure what’s next. Mbuno needs to be here for me to explain further.”
At that moment, Heep spied the cardboard box Pero was clutching and asked, eyes squinting with premonition, “What’s that, Pero?” Pero handed it over. Heep opened it and held the radio in his hand, knees buckling, sitting on the bed. “Yours or Bob’s?”
“Mine. I do not know if I need it yet.” Pero hoped Heep would not open it in front of Tom and Nancy who, so far, could not be sure of Pero’s connection with the CIA, or especially if it was current.
His wife looked up into his eyes and saw only concern and worry. She took charge. “Out, out, everybody out. I need time with my husband alone. When Mbuno is back with Bob and Tone, we can discuss. Heep, you make sure we have more rooms, please? One for Mbuno nearby and Bob, too, if possible.” Heep nodded. “Okay, so, no more discussion. Everyone out.” She started shepherding and pushing the team toward the door, saying, “Later, later . . .” They went reluctantly, but they understood her authority and concern for Pero.