Brian was at a loss. ‘No I’m sure not, it must be a mix up. So are you going to arrest me?’ He challenged.
‘I wouldn’t take that tone Nicholls,’ he cautioned him, ‘our jails are no place for a white man. I’m going to give you a chance. I think you better go and look for your passport and sort out your papers, before you come back to Malindi again.’
‘I see, so I should thank you,’ Brian said sarcastically.
‘You’re most welcome.’ Mugo said and hung up.
Brian swore out loud in frustration, before calling Evans.
Evans in turn, called Azizza, updating her on Brian’s latest plan. ‘That’s good; get him on the afternoon flight. By the way, I’m submitting sixty more loan applications this morning.’
‘Sixty?’ queried Evans. The most they had ever done in one go.
‘Yes, we need to have a small celebration.’
‘He will be back,’ Evans warned.
‘Good, we will be ready for him next time.’
‘What does that mean?’ He asked, alarmed.
‘You worry too much, everything will be fine.’
Evans hung up and asked Florence to organise Brian’s ticket to Nairobi. He sat at his desk and brooded, he had trouble at home. His wife had been taking driving lessons and in a rash moment, he had promised her the small Toyota. Now she had passed her test and was demanding to know why the service on the Mercedes was taking so long. If he handed over the car, he would be without transport. He was a bank manager for Gods sake, who ever heard of a bank manager having to rely on public transport? Coupled with that, the housemaid ignored any instructions he gave her out of earshot of his wife, she just stared knowingly at him, making him feel uncomfortable in his own home. The bank staff having had their expectations raised at the arrival of Nicholls were now speculating over what had gone wrong and creating even more pressure.
Florence interrupted his thoughts. ‘Sir, Mr. Nicholls is here to see you,’ she announced.
‘Here in the bank?’
‘Yes Sir.’
‘Ok, show him in, do you have his flight details?’
‘Yes Sir, he is booked on the two thirty flight to Nairobi.’
Brian entered his office. ‘Morning Evans, don’t get up, just thought I would pop in quickly. It’s a complete mystery, this work permit saga. Did you contact the directors of Golden Palm?’
‘Um, not yet Sir, I will try again today.’
‘Ok, let me know as soon as possible. I will catch a taxi to the airport.’ Brian got up and held out his hand. ‘Thank you for your help,’ and as they shook hands, ‘see you soon.’
Evans went back to his brooding, that damned Indian was making his life very complicated it was time he made some changes.
SIX
Brian’s flight was uneventful and he left Malindi with more questions than answers. Paying off the taxi at his apartment, he noticed the Range Rover had a puncture. When he entered the flat the first thing he saw was his passport and a brochure on the floor. Elated, he flipped through the pages, finding his work permit tucked inside. How could I have dropped my passport without noticing? He should call Njenga with the good news.
Brian unpacked his suitcase and tossed the novel he had been reading onto the bed. It bounced once and fell open. A pink slip fluttered to the floor, he froze when he realised it was a receipt for three hundred dollars he had changed at the airport on his way down to Malindi.
He sat down heavily on the bed and stared at the piece of paper, all the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, there was no way he could have forgotten his passport at the flat. He went back to the hallway and getting down on one knee examined the floor noting a faint swathe of disturbed dust, a clear pathway where the brochure had slid across the floor. As far as he could tell there had been no other entry, only his footprints in the faint dust.
He fished a beer from the fridge and then emptied his briefcase on the kitchen sideboard, carefully going through each document, all was in order. He turned his attention to the locks on the briefcase, he didn’t know what he was looking for, the case was new. There were no scratch marks on the combination locks, but presumably someone who knew how to unlock them would leave no trace. Had I left the combinations open? He went through the motions of shutting the case, automatically spinning the tumblers shut. No, someone had gained access to his briefcase to deliberately get hold of his passport. Why? He racked his brains for a motive. He was not allowed to work as a result of the police questioning, was someone after his job - had he aroused a hidden jealousy - how many people knew he was going down to Malindi?
Finishing the beer, Brian decided to change the tyre on the Range Rover, to restore order to his racing mind. As he unloaded the jack from the car, the security guard on the gate strolled over to watch. Brian asked if anyone had called to see him in the time that he was away. The askari said no one had called whilst he was on duty - which was the day shift - perhaps Brian could ask the night guard.
Brian jacked up the car and started to loosen the wheel nuts, getting all but one undone. The last one was very stiff, and as he rummaged about in the tool kit looking for penetrating oil, the askari seized the wheel brace and gave the bar a mighty heave, sheering the nut off at the bolt.
Brian was furious. ‘What the hell did you do that for?’ he demanded. The askari held the t-bar looking puzzled at the question. ‘You have broken the bolt; now I will have to take the car to a garage to get it replaced, just don’t touch anything else.’
‘It was rusted.’ The askari said, holding out the end of the bolt.
‘I know it was, but I didn’t ask you to undo it did I?’
‘I was only trying to help. There is no need to swear at me, I’m not your servant,’ he belligerently waved the wheel brace.
‘You haven’t helped,’ Brian grabbed the brace, the askari held on, ‘let go, please let me fix my own problems.’
The askari glowered at him, reluctantly released the brace and returned to the gate. Brian changed the tyre seething silently. He tightened the remaining three nuts on the wheel and put the tools away, stowing the spare in the boot. Attempting to start the Range Rover the engine barely turned over, the battery was flat.
He punched the car roof in frustration. Was this also the handiwork of an unknown adversary - the puncture and the flat battery all designed to keep him at home? He decided that he was being paranoid. But somehow being able to drive and be independent was of great significance. ‘Bugger it,’ he swore. He went and asked the guard for help to push the car.
‘It’s not my job to push cars,’ he told Brian haughtily, folding his arms across his chest. ‘I’m a Maasai.’
Brian was tempted to ask if being a Maasai was an illness of some sort. ‘I see, can you find someone outside the gate?’
‘Go and look.’ The askari pointed with his chin.
Brian went out and hailed a passer-by. ‘Excuse me, I need help to push my car. Would you be willing? I will pay a small amount.’
The man stopped. ‘Where is your car?’
‘In there.’ Brian said, pointing. ‘I need at least four people.’
The man called in Kiswahili to other walkers on the road. They eagerly hurried over to where Brian stood. The first man turned to Brian. ‘How much will you pay?’
There were now up to six people crowding around him. Brian smiled. ‘One hundred each, ok.’
The group muttered amongst themselves. ‘One fifty.’
‘Ok, follow me.’ He said walking towards the gate eager to get his car going, and put the askari in his place.
‘These people are not allowed in the compound,’ the guard informed Brian, looking menacingly at the group.
They hissed at him. ‘Ahh, come on,’ they chided, ‘would you begrudge us a few pennies?’
‘Listen, they going to help me push the car,’ said Brian.
‘They are your guests?’ the askari asked.
‘Yes,’ Brian said sardonically, ‘the
y are my guests.’
‘They will have to fill in the visitors book.’
‘Now come on, be reasonable. They are only going to be two minutes, just to push my car.’
‘It’s procedure.’ The askari was adamant, handing over the guest book to Brian. ‘Here,’ he indicated with a pen, pointing at a column of names, ‘fill this in.’
Brian took the book and turned to the first man. ‘Sorry about this. What is your name?’
‘Ahh, I’m busy. I was on my way home,’ he said, ready to leave.
‘No wait, this will only take a few minutes.’ Brian hastily wrote in the book as the men crowded round. A. Smith, B. Smith, entering the last name as Fu. Smith, all working for Shove Off Ltd.
‘Come on.’ Brian urged the six men, holding the gate open as the guard studied his book. They needed no second bidding and followed him through the gate.
The askari pointed at the entries in the book. ‘These names, you wrote are all the same,’ he complained.
‘Yes,’ yelled Brian from the driver’s seat, ‘they are all brothers!’ The car trundled out and down the road, the pushers clinging to the rear end like large ants. ‘Faster!’ Brian shouted, putting the car in second gear and turning on the ignition. He released the clutch, the car slowed abruptly then coughed and fired once.
Brian stepped on the clutch. ‘Come on! Faster! It will start now.’ They picked up speed. This time, Brian turned the key as he released the clutch. The starter motor whirred, and the car started, leaping forward. The pushers lost their balance and one or two of them fell. Brian kept the revs up, the large V eight roaring throatily. The men enjoying the noise, surrounded the car in triumph. Brian took out a thousand shillings from his wallet. ‘Who do I give this too?’ he asked.
The first man reached for it. ‘I will take it,’ he announced.
The others clamoured out. ‘No, no give it to me.’
‘Listen,’ Brian said. ‘I’m going to the petrol station, I can get change there, climb in,’ he invited, ‘we can all go.’ They piled into the car, laughing like children, two squeezing onto the front seat, jeering collectively at the askari, as they drove past the gate.
‘Smithy, Smithy,’ they shouted out in delight.
At the petrol station, Brian paid off his helpers, and filled up the car, keeping the engine running. ‘Do you know where I can find a mechanic?’ he asked the station attendant.
‘Doug should be back in a few moments, he has a workshop in the corner of the station,’ he pointed it out.
Brian paid his bill, and drove over to the garage. He peered in through a grimy window, to see various car parts and tools spread out on a bench, and wondered if he should wait. A large black, motorcycle appeared on the forecourt, and raced over.
The rider, silver grey hair swept back, kicked the bike onto it’s stand in a well-practiced move. Holding out his hand and smiling, ‘I’m the owner, name’s Doug. What can I do you for?’
Brian shook hands. ‘Nice bike,’ he said.
‘Yes she’s a honey. What’s up with your donkey?’ asked Doug, pointing at the still running Rover. ‘Timing?’
‘No broken wheel stud. I’m Brian,’ he introduced himself, kicking the offending wheel, ‘and the spare is punctured.’
Doug squatted down by the wheel. ‘Hmmm rusted solid, not sure I can do it today, first thing tomorrow? Engine sounds a little rough want me to fix that too?’ He asked skipping round the back and peering at the exhaust pipe; he inserted a finger and held out the soot covered digit for Brian to look at.
‘Battery was flat, had to push start her,’ Brian explained.
‘Hmmm that soot is bad timing, these V 8’s chew fuel, exhaust should be near white.’
‘Can you get it all done by noon tomorrow?’
Doug reached into the car and popped the hood. He lifted it and peered inside the engine bay. ‘Hmmm I could try. Want me to change the oil and filters, if you get the timing fixed?’
‘Normally the company mechanics take care of the service.’
‘Which company?’
‘NNB bank.’ Brian answered.
‘Probably have a contract with Amass Motors?’
‘To be honest I don’t know of any contract. I’m new at the bank.’
Doug reached for a crumpled pack of cigarettes in his jeans, selected a stick, offering the pack to Brian. ‘Smoke?’
‘No thanks.’
‘So what do you want to do with the car?’ He asked lighting up.
Brian said. ‘Can I leave the spare with you? I could drop the car round tomorrow for the wheel stud and you could do the timing. How much would that cost? It’s not company money.’
‘I could do the job for three thousand,’ Doug quoted. ‘A thousand down so you don’t waste my time, agreed?’
‘Ok sounds good,’ agreed Brian. ‘What time?’
‘I’m open at eight.’ Doug answered, taking the thousand off Brian. He went round to the back of the car, removed the spare tyre and rolled it towards the workshop.
Brian eyed up the bike. ‘That a CBR?’ He asked.
‘Yup Fireblade, I modified it a little, you into bikes?’
Brian nodded. ‘I had a Suzuki 750 in the UK, not sure I would
ride a bike here, roads aren’t made for it.’
‘True,’ Doug agreed, ‘most people have off-roaders. Me, I like this baby,’ he said proudly. ‘Mombasa-Nairobi in three and a half hours and I only stopped for fuel.’
Brian asked. ‘You don’t wear a helmet?’
‘No can’t hear the engine, besides it gives me a false sense of security. I wear one when it’s raining though,’ Doug said smiling.
‘See you tomorrow,’ Brian said as he climbed into his car.
‘Ok Brian mate,’ the mechanic replied cheerfully.
Brian made his way to a local supermarket, backing the range rover into a parking space on a slope. He sat in the car wondering if he should call his boss Njenga. What could he say - that his passport had been stolen and then mysteriously returned? He didn’t know who was involved in the theft; it could be anyone trying to keep him away. From what though?
That night Brian cooked himself pasta at the flat and later with a pen and pad, using his analytical accountant’s brain, he wrote out all the events past and present that had led to his hiring by NNB bank. Drawing up a diagram with arrows, boxes, dates and names, he was able to analyse as best he could where the threat was coming from. He decided not confide in anyone for now. What was clear, was that it cantered on his job and so far emanated from Malindi, with a large question mark over the accident with the tuk-tuk. Had it been deliberate, or just opportunistic? He was surprised to notice it was past midnight by the time he had finished.
*
Doug was waiting at the workshop. ‘Morning captain,’ he called out, cigarette hanging from his mouth. ‘Traffic’s a bit heavy; want me to run you into town?’
Brian hesitated. ‘On that?’ Pointing at the fireblade.
‘Sure, you look like you could use a hit of adrenaline.’
‘Yeah what the hell, do you know the Westlands branch of NNB?’
‘Yup, let’s go,’ Doug replied flicking his cigarette away, climbing on the bike and firing it up. ‘Hop on,’ he invited.
Brian tucked his briefcase under one arm. ‘Take it easy eh?’
‘Yeah, being a biker you’re probably a lousy passenger?’
‘The worst.’ Brian agreed.
‘Ok, leave the steering to me and keep your body loose, go with the flow.’ The powerful bike pulled out into the traffic, headlight on full beam. The latent growl of the 1000 cc motor turning into a snarl as Doug feathered the clutch to alert other road users of his presence. He manoeuvred the black Honda through the cars, flicking it left and right through gaps hardly using the brakes with competent ease. Keeping ahead of the traffic they stopped at a set of traffic lights and were joined by a fellow rider on a large BMW.
Doug exchanged pleasantrie
s with the other rider, whose response was somewhat muted by the full face helmet. It was only as the lights changed and the BMW pulled away from them did Brian notice the rider was a woman, judging by the hips and figure.
‘Friend of yours?’Brian asked.
‘I wish!’ He replied chuckling. ‘Like to ride both.’
Brian was enjoying himself. The wind in his hair and early morning sun on his face gave him a sense of freedom and well being. He soon got into Doug’s rhythm and was sorry when the ride was over outside the bank. ‘Thanks, I enjoyed that, see you later.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Doug replied handing Brian a card. ‘My cell phone number, call me first in case of any delays.’ With that he blipped the throttle and shot back into the traffic. Brian watched with envy as Doug rode quickly out of sight.
*
Patel registered the NGO Company while Kamau supplied immigration documents on two Danish nationals. A further hand over of cash had the NGO’s inception back-dated to the previous September. In the ministry records the organisation would appear legitimate. Armed with an original certificate and an official letter appointing Golden Palm as the agents, he flew back to Malindi. He was surprised by Azizza waiting for him at the airport.
‘Thought I would collect you,’ Azizza explained, smiling.
‘Really my dear, it’s best we keep a low profile,’ Patel said looking around nervously. He almost shouted when he spotted the Mercedes in the car park. ‘You drove here in that?’ He demanded waving his briefcase at the car.
Azizza was hurt. She had missed him, and now he was angry, and spoiling her surprise. Patel stood holding his briefcase, surrounded by hustling airport touts. He looked as though he would take up the offer of a tuk-tuk ride to town. Instead, he moved towards the car. ‘Ok, let’s go.’
Relieved, she walked eagerly alongside him. ‘Did you get the papers? Nicholls left for Nairobi and he found his passport,’ she reported all in one breath.
‘Can’t you wait until we get to the office,’ he rebuked her. Patel did not like surprises. As Azizza drove, he challenged her. ‘What is the idea of using the Mercedes, have you been driving it all over Malindi? I hope to God Evans hasn’t seen you in it, or worse a friend of my wife’s.’
Elephant Dropping (9781301895199) Page 10