Kidnapped on Safari

by Peter Riva

  Ube, sitting behind Madar, put his hand on Madar’s shoulder and said, “It is good. You do good. It cannot be wrong.” Madar nodded.

  Pero asked, “Any idea how many are on board the train in the driver’s cab?”

  Madar nodded. “We have been busy while you slept. Tanzania Railways Limited is now partly private, and Virgi’s Toyota dealership shares some of the same board members. He called some colleagues after you left yesterday, and others he woke up late last night. We have made some arrangements without arousing suspicion. It seems there is a cargo of dried fish from Zanzibar recently arrived in port that has to go to an important client in Kigoma. It is a real client and a real shipment that happened to miss yesterday afternoon’s train, which my brother made sure of. So, a boxcar has been added to the eight flatcars that the mill ordered for today’s shipment. Virgi made sure it was a normal business arrangement.”

  Pero looked at Madar approvingly. “Well done. But will the boxcar be detached before the train enters the mill?”

  “No, it is not possible. Some workers at the depot mistakenly hooked up the boxcar next to the locomotive. It seems that the side track that the mill is on, a spur line as you call it, requires the train to stop on the main line. Then the points—what Americans call switches—are thrown by the driver by hand, and he backs the train into the siding, all the way into the mill. The mill does the loading and securing of cargo as part of their contract. The locomotive moves back and forward as required to position each flatcar where the crane can deposit the logs. It takes them four or more hours to load the logs apparently. The train cannot rejoin the main line until at least ten at night when the track is clear. Last time the train driver said the men were lazy and took six hours to load the logs. Also, there is a signal, you know—red, yellow, green at the siding points—and the train cannot rejoin the main line if the light is not green. We have ensured there will not be a red light.”

  “Incredible. How’d you manage all this? And how’d you talk to the driver?”

  “The train driver, the engineer as you call him, for today’s freight had beers with my assistant who was disguised as an official of the company. He had said he hates going to the mill because they never let him leave the engine cab, don’t even offer him a beer or chai. He even said they won’t let him down to urinate so he has to carry extra plastic bottles.”

  Pero was more and more confident. “That means we don’t have to hijack the train, yet. We’ll let everything proceed as normal and, I presume, hide in the boxcar with the dried fish. Right?”

  “That is my plan, yes. You have a better one?” Madar sounded a little testy.

  “Nope. You did brilliantly. Thank you, Madar. Really great job.” But Pero had to ask, “And I suppose the only popgun we have is your twenty-two?”

  “Ah, thought you would never ask. Brave or foolish of you. Feel under your seat, there is a drawer . . . and you, Bob, in the back, feel behind the seat for a shotgun I keep there. There is also a box of shells.” Pero felt the drawer, pulled it out, and extracted a Luger. Next to it was a box of nine-millimeter shells. Pero looked at Madar questioningly. “Left over from the war, the Great War. Found it when I was twelve. Quite good German engineering. Can you use it?”

  In response, Pero took out and loaded the clip. Before he put it back in the grip, he cycled and dry fired the pistol. Satisfied with the action, he inserted the clip. “Nice gun. For you?”

  In response, Madar shook his head and opened his coat. He showed Pero he was wearing a shoulder holster with what looked like a cannon under his left armpit. “Python, powerful, American three-fifty-seven magnum.” Pero nodded.

  Sounds from the back seat told them that Bob was cycling the pump-action shotgun. Bob simply said, “Ready.” For Pero, the armament did not give him comfort; it only made him more aware of the dangers they were facing. Then he remembered the faces of the girls and tightened his resolve. Courage certainly does come in waves, he thought.

  Off to their left, paralleling the highway, Pero could see the glint of partial moonlight on steel rails. The road signs for the airport began to get more frequent, but at the last kilometer before the main passenger turn-off, Madar turned left and started down a paved but deserted road. Up ahead Pero could see there were lights.

  Madar said, “Good, he is there. Now we go here . . .” and he yanked the wheel, skidding off the road to the left, bumping across open ground and dodging dumped rusty car carcasses and other trash. Pero saw an abandoned and leaning hut just ahead, its gaping roof caught in the headlights. Madar stopped the SUV to the right of the hut and said, “Now we’re on foot.”

  Everyone got out. Madar made sure he put his brother’s house keys in the glove compartment. Then he went around and manually locked every door, whispering, “Don’t want the damn thing to beep.” Gathering their gear, they marched single file, with Madar in the lead lugging a two-gallon water cooler toward the train tracks, a hundred yards to the east of the road they had been on. As they took up their positions, lying down next to the two-foot-high rail embankment, Pero could see that there was a large white delivery truck positioned across the tracks, and that the truck’s driver was swinging a bright light in their direction, back and forth, back and forth, causing Pero to muse, The train driver would have to be blind not to see that . . . or asleep.

  There was no need for silence anymore, yet the men retreated into their own reverie. Suddenly, Bob asked, almost to himself, “Anyone ever jump a train, like a hobo? God, it’s dangerous. You have to make sure you get a good grip with your hands and then find good footing.”

  Pero said, “Bob, the train should be stopped. We’ll just get on and into the boxcar.”

  “Yeah, I know that’s the plan, man, but if he don’t stop, I’m getting on anyway. Better to be prepared.”

  Nancy offered, “I’ve done this before. He’s right. Hands first, feet last. Maybe knees next. Get a firm grip; that’s critical.”

  As it turned out, Bob was indeed right. At that moment, they saw the triangle of three lights on the oncoming locomotive to their left. To their right, another truck pulled up next to their decoy truck and was helping, shouting, and then pushing the stranded vehicle off the crossing. Madar’s man did the best he could to make that job impossible. Even from where they were, in the reflected headlights, they could see the two drivers start fighting. But Madar’s driver wasn’t waving the warning light anymore, and the train wasn’t applying brakes yet. Damn, he is asleep . . . Then the train’s horn sounded quickly, followed by the sudden screech of emergency brakes. The ear-ripping squeal nearly deafened the five prone hijackers as the locomotive rolled on, albeit more slowly, past them. Pero had to shout to be heard, “Now, let’s get running, we have to get on!”

  Even though Bob was carrying the water container, he was the first aboard the boxcar. While holding the metal rail next to the sliding door, he pulled the latch pin and kicked the door all the way open. He reached back and caught Nancy by her free hand, as she held the shotgun in the other, and swung her inside. Then Ube jumped on and dropped to his belly and extended his arms out the door to try and help Pero and Madar. Pero was urging Madar Singh along. The roly-poly man, as Mary had described him, was having trouble, his small feet slipping on the train gravel beneath him. But the train was slowing, and he caught up with the help of Pero who was pulling his hand, tugging him along. Ube let Madar pass and instead reached for Pero’s jacket’s shoulder material, grabbing a handful. When Madar got to Bob, he reached up and firmly grabbed the handrail. Bob grabbed his jacket collar and landed him like a fish on the deck of the boxcar. Pero leaped up as Ube flipped him up and over the boxcar sill, dropping him next to Madar.

  Bob slid the door closed just as the train came to a halt. The men waited, wondering if they had been spotted. They could clearly hear yelling. They were close to the truck drivers. The argument abated, and then the train started up again. Smiling, Madar said, “My assistant will probably want a bonus for this.
”

  Pero looked around. It was predawn dark. Truck lights were barely filtering through the sides of the boxcar, but he did not dare turn on his flashlight until they were clear of the outskirts of Dar. As the train sped up and they crossed roadways, the flashing red crossing-barrier lights shone through the old boxcar side planks, giving them enough light to stack crates of the dried fish and get comfortable. The old, pitted, planks of boxcar wood allowed sounds to seep in, and when Pero pressed his face against the wood sides, peering through cracks, he could see the crossings roll by. About forty minutes in, they passed through a station, brightly lit. Madar said, “Ruvu. Now we climb to Kilosa and then down to Dodoma.”

  In no time at all, Pero could see no more lights or houses, as the train started the steep and slow climb over the Mitumba Mountains. Pero lit his flashlight and checked to see that everybody was settled. Like a travelogue, Madar continued, “The Kaguru people live here. They are loyal.” It seemed to Pero that Madar was conducting a census of who could be trusted if there was indeed a coup. Pero thought that even in modern-day East Africa, so much was still dependent on tribal loyalties.

  Madar continued, “When we reach the top, it is a plateau for twenty kilometers, all Kaguru land.”

  Ube seemed to like the Kaguru people. “They are good people. They are a woman tribe.” Bob asked what he meant. “The women are the bosses; they own the cattle.”

  The train rolled on and then seemed to speed up as they stopped climbing. “The plateau,” Madar explained. When they reached Morogoro, Pero realized it was a major town, well-lit in the predawn. The train came to a complete stop at the station, and Madar and Pero whispered their fear that someone would open the freight doors—“to steal a little,” was how Madar put it. Luckily, no one approached. All breathed sighs of relief when the train started up again. Madar passed the water cooler around, suggesting they keep hydrated. “It is going to get hot in here soon.”

  Pero asked for Madar’s phone, extended the antenna through a crack in the wall slats, dialed, and Wolfie answered. Pero gave him an update and asked that Wolfie reach Tone and tell him they were in the boxcar. Ten minutes later, Pero turned the phone back on and called Wolfie to confirm. Wolfie gave him the good news. “Tone and Pritchett have linked up; we have Pritchett’s cell phone number. They are waiting for first light, but before sunrise, to fly. Mbuno and Teddy have already driven through Tabora—they called Pritchett on Tone’s mobile, which Mbuno had kept. They are going south, and they will be approaching the mill from the south side, over a stone hill, they say. Tone agrees to join up with them there. He’s going to go west on the lake, away from the mill, through marshes on the south side, and climb over the rocks to link up with Mbuno.” Pero was delighted with the news and, on sharing it with his team in the boxcar, spirits rose.

  The run to Dodoma was fast, mostly on the downgrade, and pretty. For three hours, light filtered in as the sun rose in the east. The track wasn’t straight. Several times, some of the team fell off their crates as the train rattled and rocked its way across Tanzania, sometimes heading north, sometimes south, slowly making its way toward Tabora in the west.

  Dodoma station again called a halt to the train’s progress, but Pero could see they were past the platforms. “Probably waiting for a green to proceed.” The curiosity caused Pero to shift his view from the side of the boxcar to the gaps in the slats at the front. What he saw there frightened him. There were two men on the platform at the rear of the locomotive. They were smoking and talking. One man had a bottle with clear liquid. The way they drank told Pero it was likely water. In a whisper, he explained this to his crew.

  “There is no need to whisper, Pero. There is too much noise from the diesel engine.” Madar was right, but still Pero felt nervous in case their voices carried and alerted the men.

  “Who are they?” asked Bob.

  Madar pressed his eye to the slat gap and had a closer look. “They are wearing TRC uniforms; they work for the railway. Here, take more water.”

  “Oh, deadheaders.” Bob seemed relieved and then drank.

  “What is this deadhead?” Madar asked.

  “It’s an expression for someone from a transport company, you know, like pilots or flight attendants, who are traveling to work or traveling home. They are likely to be dead tired and are not pleasure travelers.” Bob seemed happy to have a normal conversation. The train journey was already monotonous and long, the calm before battle. Bob recognized the anticipation, the boredom factor he had felt in Iraq years before. He changed the topic back to avoid too much pre-battle nerves. “So those two are simply taking a ride to go to work somewhere or return home, right?”

  Madar seemed to think so. On through the station of Manyoni, hour after hour, the two railroad employees stood or sat there on the locomotive platform, smoking, talking, or dozing off. It was only as they approached Tabora station that they seemed to become animated again, and as the train slowed, entering the Tabora siding to allow downgrade trains to pass, both men alighted onto the gravel, skipping along next to the still moving train. Pero watched through the side slats of the boxcar intently to make sure no one opened the door. The train came to a dead halt. The heat became instantly oppressive without the flow of air. Pero kept watch. For over an hour the train waited, ticking metal sounds punctuating the silence. Then the engine revved up again, and they heard a passing train on the other side. Pero climbed over boxes to peer out the left side, only to watch a locomotive and—he counted them as they passed—six flatcars loaded with lumber roll by. He whispered, “The cut lumber train from the mill.”

  Their train started rolling. They knew they had only two hours left before they reached the mill.

  The approaching event started Pero’s mind working on the complexity of the mill operation. He felt that the more he understood what they were doing, the more likely he would be able to improvise when they got there. Before he started talking, he checked to see if there were any more deadheaders. Good. None.

  “Anyone besides me ever been to a sawmill, a lumber yard like this one?” he asked. Bob said he had, much smaller. The others shook their heads. Pero felt an inexplicable need to explain, perhaps even clarify his own knowledge. “Here’s what happens—” Madar interrupted to ask what purpose his explanation had for their rescue. “Humor me,” said Pero. “I have these hunches. Something is missing in our planning, and maybe we can talk it out.”

  “Very well, sorry.”

  “Okay. The logs are cut down miles away. They use the massive Volvo trucks to transport the cut logs to the plant, using the barge and winch across the lake. When the trucks arrive, they offload the logs, stack them, and, in daylight presumably because we didn’t see the mill operating at night, they begin to saw the logs into planks. Some of the logs they do not slice up or cut up with the saw. Some are chosen, maybe because of species, to be uncut and loaded and exported to a client far away. Where?” Pero thought out loud. “Yeah, where?”

  Madar had already found that out. “It is on the rail cargo manifest. From Kigoma they travel across the lake to Kalemi in Zaire, then by rail down through Zambia to Zimbabwe to Mozambique, where they are loaded onto a freighter at Beira.”

  “Do you know where the freighter takes them? What is the end destination?”

  “I do not know.” He picked up and waved his Interpol phone. “But I can find out. The shipping company, I do know. It is still Siagwa-Bagir.”

  Pero asked, “May I borrow that for a moment?” Madar passed it over. Pero extended the antenna and pointed it through a gap in the car’s wooden side. He dialed the numbers he had memorized for emergencies. “Baltazar requesting patch to Lewis, urgent.”

  “Standby.”

  Moments later: “Where are you? Never mind. What phone is that?”

  “It is Commissioner Singh’s Interpol phone—remember him? And the speaker is on. I have a question that needs answering. Siagwa-Bagir, big cargo company, ships logs out of Tanzania, long train route,
ending up in Beira onto a freighter, we presume.”

  Lewis cut in, “What is that background noise?”

  “It is a train—stop asking. I need the destination of the freighter and logs, paramount importance. Also copy this, possible coup being mounted in Tanzania by nephew founder, one Stephan Nyerere using Russian gold being shipped in, possible connection, hiring mercenaries Boko Haram, all located at the mill site. With Madar Singh now, exploring realities.” Pero thought that the word exploring would set Lewis’s teeth on edge. “Will be at the mill shortly. Will keep you informed. Meanwhile, this phone will be with Singh. Urgent you get Siagwa-Bagir information ASAP.”

  “It won’t take that long; it’s on their website. Beira departures show freighter leaving ten days from now with what is manifested as raw lumber as a contracted load, bound for—now that’s interesting—North Korea. It has been there, in port, loading whole trees, according to their port license, for three weeks. What’s in this log business?”

  Pero had the aha moment he had been waiting for. It had been tickling his memory for some while, and Lewis’s comment of “what’s in this log business” brought it to the fore. Pero smiled as he explained, “That’s where the resin is, in the logs. Lewis, remember that German logging company in Bolivia that was hollowing out the Amazon logs and using the massive logs as smuggling containers for cocaine? That must be what they are doing here, too. Only they are smuggling cocaine resin for refinement later. Large quantities, too. I saw hundreds of bales of the leaves in a storeroom, waiting for processing, I guess.”

  Madar interrupted, “Our labs estimated that the number of cocaine plants that they have grown could produce over twelve tons of cocaine. But unrefined? Ten times that weight.”

  Lewis heard Madar and responded, “I was saying, the cargo manifest for that freighter leaving Beira says max cargo weight is one hundred thousand dry-weight tons. Assume half that is the ship’s weight, that leaves a cargo-carrying capacity of fifty thousand tons. Hang on a moment.” They heard Lewis asking someone to find out what a log weighed. “Any idea how big the logs are?”