Elephant Dropping (9781301895199)

by Trzebinski, Bruce

  Patel smiled back. ‘Bastards can be made sweeter and time after all is money, isn’t it?’

  The agent looked surprised. ‘You’re willing to pay?’

  ‘Yes,’ Patel nodded.

  ‘It’s going to cost you,’ he warned.

  ‘No problem. How much?’

  ‘I’m not making any promises.’ He made a call.

  Patel listened as the agent argued his case. A stand-off ensued. Patel interrupted. ‘I will give double.’ The agent relayed this information; an agreement was quickly made.

  ‘Forty thousand,’ the agent raised his eyebrows.

  Patel reached for his wallet and counted out the money on the desk. The agent smiled and put the phone down. ‘You have the car keys?’

  Patel handed them over. The agent walked to the door. ‘Get me a driver up here quick,’ he instructed his secretary. He turned back to his desk and efficiently filling out forms, handed Patel the modified documents. ‘You or your agent must present these at our office in Barcelona to claim the car in two weeks time.’

  There was a knock on the door. The agent spoke hurriedly to the driver, handing over the keys and papers. ‘Quickly,’ he said.

  Patel watched nervously over his shoulder. ‘How does he know which is my car? ’

  The agent smiled and closed the door. He crossed his office and pulled open another window blind. ‘Here look,’ Patel walked over to see a view of the car park. He watched the driver get in his car and drive off. Transfixed, a silent prayer on his lips he saw his four million dollars go round a corner, out of sight. ‘You’re very lucky, your car won’t even queue they are going to load it straight away.’

  Patel watched with baited breath as his car was driven to the head of the queue, he turned to the agent. ‘Now there will be no problem in Barcelona?’

  ‘No, just don’t lose those papers.’

  Patel shook hands and thanked him as he left. Now on foot he walked away from the offices towards the port gates. He patted his pockets looking for his phone, remembering where he had left it. At least the car has gone, and it went better than he had expected, he consoled himself. It was time he got out of Mombasa, he would have to take more risks and time was of the essence. He reached the top of the hill and saw a line of waiting taxis. He was ushered into a battered London taxi.

  At the airport check-in counter, he spoke to the girl. ‘I have a ticket booked for Dar-es-Salaam would it be possible to change it to the next available flight to Nairobi?’

  The girl checked her computer. ‘Yes, there is a seat on that flight in an hour Mr. Shah. However, there is a surcharge.’

  Patel protested. ‘The ticket to Dar-es-Salaam costs more.’

  The girl looked at him over her glasses. ‘Do you want to fly to Nairobi from here sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ he relented, ‘ok I will pay.’

  ‘Do you have any identification on you Mr Shah?’

  Patel pulled out his ID from the bank in Mombasa. ‘I am sorry this is all I have,’ he handed over a laminated card.

  The girl looked doubtful. ‘Don’t you have anything with a photo?’

  Patel smiled and took a large bill out of his wallet. ‘I forgot here is my photo.’ She quickly took the money, her printer whirred and she handed him a boarding pass.

  ‘Do you have any luggage?’ Patel shook his head. She handed back the ID, and the ticket. ‘Have a nice day Mr Shah,’ she said cheerfully as Patel walked towards the departure gate.

  *

  The policeman outside the hotel looked nervously at his watch. He fingered the expensive mobile; surely the muhindi would not leave this behind. He decided to wait some more. An hour later, he went to confer with his colleague at the front of the hotel. He found him dozing in a broken chair under a huge mango tree in the central road reservation.

  ‘Hey,’ he called out, his colleague looked up at him myopically.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ The sleepy cop asked, rubbing his eyes. He explained what had happened holding out the mobile.

  His colleague flicked it open. ‘Look it has a camera,’ he enthused.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, taking the phone back and putting it in his pocket. ‘What do you think we should do?’

  ‘We? You’re the one who let him go.’

  ‘Don’t you think I should tell the boss?’

  The sleepy guard shook his head, and yawned. ‘No, that one will be well drunk by now, and if you tell him he will create shit for both of us. I’m hungry. Let’s go and get something to eat,’ he stood up and stretched.

  ‘What about the muhindi?’

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ He replied crossly. ‘The boss will find out tomorrow, don’t you want the mobile?’

  ‘You’re right,’ he agreed as they crossed the road walking away from the hotel.

  *

  Fimbo was enjoying himself. The empty beer bottles on the table were only starters and he was now going through the spirits in the mini fridge. He sat in front of the TV, volume turned up and watched a football match, turning occasionally to Susan who lay half-naked on the rumpled bed looking bored. ‘Did you see that!’ He enthused, ‘he heee, that foota is good.’ The match came to an end; Fimbo elated his team had won.

  The next match was in half an hour, he stared lustfully at Susan. Their first session had been quick and he wondered idly if he was ready to take her again.

  ‘I’m going downstairs,’ he announced, getting up and taking a mini bottle of whisky from the fridge.

  Susan rolled over on the bed onto her stomach. ‘I’m hungry; bring some food back with you.’

  ‘Use the phone,’ he pointed, ‘room service. Order what you want,’ and went out of the door, bottle in hand, dressed in trousers and his vest.

  He caught the lift down, leering at two female housekeepers in the corridor. On the ground floor he strode out to the car park. He tried the door of the Landcruiser, it was locked. Thwarted he moved to the Mercedes, same thing. ‘Shity,’ he muttered.

  He opened the whisky and took a swig, wondering what to do next. He took out his mobile and called Patel, to no avail. Next, he rang one of his men. ‘Where are you? Come to the car park,’ he barked. He ran his big hand over the bonnet of the Mercedes possessively, a look of pure avarice on his face.

  His two constables came through the main gate and stood nervously waiting for him to notice them. Fimbo squatted down in front of the saloon and fingered the shiny chrome on the grill, looking at his distorted reflection.

  He looked up and saw them. ‘Come here, where did the Indian go?’ pointing at the empty parking space.

  ‘He went with the car,’ the constable offered.

  ‘Ok, but where is Patel?’

  The constable shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  Fimbo stood up. ‘You don’t know?’ He turned to the other man. ‘Did Patel come out of the front of the hotel?’

  ‘No sir, I did not see him,’ the other cop replied truthfully.

  Fimbo burped and took a swig on his bottle. ‘You like my cars?’They both nodded enthusiastically.

  *

  David heard a knock on his door. ‘Sir, a man here wants to see you.’

  He looked up from a file he was working on. ‘Who is it, what does he want?’

  The receptionist looked frightened. ‘You better come sir.’

  Closing the file and sliding a paperweight over it he stood up stretched and walked out to the reception. ‘Where is he?’

  The receptionist nodded at a tall man sprawled in a chair across the hall in a leather jacket and jack boots.

  Not another cop. David walked over and introduced himself.

  The man did not smile, giving him the once over. ‘You are the manager?’ He asked.

  ‘Yes I am. How can I help you?’

  The man glanced out towards the foyer. David followed his gaze and saw two other tall men similarly dressed standing watching them. More cops, now what?

  The cop took out an ID badge and fl
ashed it. David read the words CID in large letters before it went back in his jacket pocket. ‘You have a guest in this hotel, an Inspector Fimbo from Malindi.’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded David, ‘with his wife in Suite 501.’

  ‘He came with two other policemen. Do you know where they are now?’ The cop asked.

  David shook his head. ‘They are not staying with us.’

  ‘Where is Fimbo now?’

  ‘I think he is in his room. I can find out.’

  ‘Wait, do not call the room. Do you have another key?’

  ‘Why?I won’t allow my guests to be disturbed unnecessarily.’

  ‘This is police business and it is necessary. Get the key, we will go with you to the room,’ he waved the waiting men forward.

  David hesitated and then got the master key. The four of them rode up in the small lift in silence; the three taller cops dwarfing him, their controlled aggression filling up any empty space.

  When they got to the door, the cop pushed David aside and leaned his ear against it listening, he could hear the TV. He drew his pistol and silently motioned David to open the door.

  The cops rushed in, guns at the ready. Susan leapt off the bed squealing in fright as the men burst into the room. One cop went in the bathroom; the other one switched the TV off at the plug. The silence was palpable. ‘Where is he?’ The first cop waved his gun at Susan. ‘Fimbo where is he?’ He repeated menacingly.

  One cop pushed the curtains aside and looked out; he called David to the window. ‘Is that him?’ He asked.

  ‘Yes that’s him.’

  The cop waved his gun at the other two. ‘Quickly!’ he shouted as they bolted from the room. He barked instructions into a radio as he followed, leaving David by the window watching Fimbo.

  He looked at the mess in the room. Empty bottles, the rumpled bed and finally at Susan, who was curled in a ball of terror hugging a pillow, looking very ordinary, fat silent tears on her cheeks. ‘It will be ok,’ he said kindly as he left the room and shut the door.

  Fimbo looked up in surprise as the gates to the car park opened and a police Landrover drove in at speed. Two uniformed policemen with machine guns jumped out of the rear as the Land rover came to a sudden stop.

  ‘Hands up!’ They shouted and pointed the guns menacingly at them; the two constables raised their hands.

  Fimbo sneered at the armed men. ‘And who the fucki do you think you’re pointing those guns at?’ He took a swig of his bottle and glowered at them defiantly.

  Three men, leather jackets flapping, ran towards them from the hotel, they stopped behind the men holding the machine guns. ‘Inspector Fimbo?’ One of them asked.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘CID,’ the man flashed his badge.

  ‘What do you clowns want with me?’ He laughed.

  ‘You’re wanted in Nairobi.’ He read out two names from a piece of folded paper, looking expectantly at Fimbo’s companions. They both nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said the cop putting the paper in his pocket. ‘All three of you are to come with us to the airport. Now.’

  Fimbo took another swig of his bottle. ‘You musti be joking, put your arms down,’ he told his constables irritably, ‘we are not going anywhere with these fools.’

  They hesitated, half lowering their arms watching the armed men for a reaction. ‘Keep them up,’ barked the man in the jacket. He walked over and under Fimbo’s smouldering gaze, frisked them both, removing their pistols. ‘Ok, get in the car.’

  ‘Stand still! Blast you!’ Fimbo cursed them.

  The man with the jacket reached into his waistband and pulled out his pistol. He walked over to Fimbo and discharged the gun in the air beside his ear. Fimbo dropped his bottle, ducked down and made a grab for the gun with one hand.

  The man was too quick for him and struck the exploring hand with the pistol, drawing blood. Fimbo yelled out in pain.

  ‘I don’t have time to fool around,’ the man told him and waved his other men forward. ‘Cuff them,’ he said.

  *

  Azizza was startled by noise of the gun. She pulled back the curtain and stood back, gasping in shock as she recognized the large figure of Fimbo, handcuffed and being bundled by a uniformed policeman into the back of a Landrover. She watched the car reverse - other men pile in - and then quickly drive out of the gates. She sat on the bed. Oh my God, what has Patel been up to now? A shiver of fear ran through her, she tried his mobile number, it was switched off. She called his room on the house phone. It just rang and rang.

  *

  Patel sat on the plane, a row of seats to himself. He looked out at what he thought might be his last view of Mombasa.

  There was little sentiment in his gaze, instead he was thinking about what to do at Nairobi airport. He had a ticket for London, in the name of N.J. Shah but it was booked from Dar-es-Salaam. Fimbo had really fucked things up for him. He would have to buy a new ticket in Nairobi and risk using his real name and passport.

  The aircraft’s engines revved up. He relaxed, he had a whole hour to come up with a plan - there would be a way round this he was sure. He had to leave Kenya today; he could feel the law breathing down his neck. Patel smiled to himself as he envisioned Fimbo waking up, hung over and expecting to drive his new cars home, what a surprise he was going to have and giggled at the image. Abruptly the noise of the engines died down and then stopped. Now what?

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen please remain in your seats; we have been requested by the airport authorities to wait,’ the pilot announced over the intercom. Several passengers groaned aloud at the news, Patel shrank down in his seat in fear.

  The stewardess opened the aircraft door. From where he sat he could see the tarmac; it was a long drop if he decided to run. His thoughts were interrupted by the noise of a large helicopter decked out in military camouflage. It landed with a clatter not far from the aircraft and a police Landrover raced over towards it. Other passengers craned to watch the drama.

  The helicopter door slid open, fold down steps appeared and several uniformed cops got out. Police officers seemed to be helping someone down from the back of the car. Patel unbuckled his seat belt and leant over the seat in front of him for a better view. He gasped aloud as he recognised Fimbo in a blood-smeared vest being taken up the steps in handcuffs. He watched in horror, his mind racing. The door to the helicopter slid shut, the Landrover backed away and the aircraft departed, the clattering noise receding; passengers murmuring among themselves.

  The stewardess shut and locked the door; cheers went up. The pilot came on the intercom, honey smooth. He told them he was sorry for the delay and the ground temperature they could expect in Nairobi. Patel had a thousand questions running through his mind.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  It was almost dark when the helicopter landed in Nairobi, the pilot had radioed ahead and two police Landrover pickups were waiting to meet them with Firdus in the official Mercedes. The prisoners were offloaded; Katana stayed back to thank the pilot and shake his hand. He walked over to where Firdus was standing by the car.

  ‘Well done,’ Firdus congratulated him with a smile.

  ‘We didn’t get Patel or Azizza,’ Katana apologised.

  Firdus waited for the helicopter to take off before he spoke. ‘Don’t worry, this lot will help us get them.’

  ‘Yes I hope so, what happens now sir?’

  ‘I have told Cyrus to escort them to the police station at Westlands - I have already spoken to the OCS and they are expected. We will let them cool off overnight and begin the interviews tomorrow. My nephew and Nicholls should be here in a few hours. Let’s get back to the hotel and you can brief me on how it went.’ Firdus put a fatherly arm around the detective as they walked to the Mercedes. ‘Well done,’ he repeated as they watched the two Landrovers drive off.

  Fimbo was in the second pickup, together with Cyrus and an armed policeman. He was handcuffed to the steel frame holding up a torn canvas awning that flapped urgently in t
he wind and was cold, dressed only in his vest. Now less defiant, he had spotted Katana talking to a tall distinguished older man at the airport. There was something about the man which sent a chill down his spine, he searched his mind for a memory. The torn canvas let intermittent flashes of light into the back, spotlighting Cyrus’s face.

  Fimbo could see him watching him and said. ‘I remember you, you came looking for Patel. What is this all about?’

  Cyrus moved closer so he could hear. ‘What?’

  ‘This arrest, it’s to do with Patel?’

  He didn’t reply, and then said. ‘Yes.’ Fimbo could not see the loathing on Cyrus’s face, in the mixed shadows.

  ‘Help a brother out,’ Fimbo asked lowering his voice.

  ‘I can’t hear you.’

  He moved his manacled hands. ‘Please help me brother. I’m just a simple cop, I’ve done nothing wrong, you know what’s going to happen, they will blame me for everything.’

  ‘You want to make a run for it?’

  Fimbo hissed. ‘Yes, help me brother.’

  Cyrus stared at him and then quietly undid the handcuffs as Fimbo watched the other cop over his shoulder, keeping his hands in position by the frame.

  Cyrus moved away giving him room. Fimbo gave him a nod of thanks and then turned to look at the tailgate of the Landrover, the canvas awning left a gap big enough for him to get through. He carefully moved his legs up from his sitting position, now squatting on his haunches, tilting his head sideways his peripheral vision on the armed cop. Cyrus moved unseen, carefully he un-holstered his gun, a glint of excitement in his eyes.

  Fimbo waited as the vehicle slowed and speeded up in the traffic, judging his moment carefully. The car all but stopped, and Fimbo made his move. For a big man he was surprisingly quick. He spun round, put his hands on the tailgate and vaulted sideways out through the gap, the canvas gave slightly and then flipped back hiding him. The armed cop looked up as the pickup bed bounced and he shouted out, but Cyrus was already across the gap following Fimbo out, gun drawn.

  Fimbo hit the ground feet first, losing his footing and crashing onto the bonnet of a following car. The woman driver screamed. He rolled onto his feet - stood up to run - and Cyrus shot him through the back of the head. The inspector fell forward onto the road, arms out, quite dead.