The Ethiopian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  "No. No. — No calls, this is private telephone."

  "I'm willing to pay."

  "No calls to Nairobi, very expensive. No. No."

  What now? … Wait a minute, maybe there’s a consulate. "How about a call to Mombasa?"

  "Ten shillings."

  "Okay, need to call the American consulate in Mombasa."

  His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You have trouble? We have no trouble here."

  "No trouble, just need to work out a problem with my passport." I put on my best smile. "Everything's fine here."

  With a sigh of relief, he pulled an old directory out from under the counter and found the number of the American consulate in Mombasa.

  "I will call for you."

  He dialed the numbers and handed the phone to me.

  It rang several times — no answer.

  "No one’s answering the telephone."

  He glanced up with a sly grin. "Perhaps they are closed on Sunday."

  Ten shillings poorer, I handed him the receiver and wondered what to do next.

  Survival was my first priority. Someone was keen to find me. When they found me, my life would be worthless. I still hadn’t figured out why.

  Twiga appeared to be a good place to lie low until I had a chance to call or go to the consulate in person. It was safe and perhaps I might hook-up with somebody headed inland to Nairobi.

  The lodge manager had about a dozen bungalows for rent in addition to the campground. Not wanting to stay with Rolf and his friends, I decided to take a room in one of the simple structures. The accommodations were basic, only a little better than camping. A metal roof overhead and the main walls an open-air checkerboard of coral blocks.

  * * *

  Twiga was an idyllic place, a true tropical paradise. An offshore reef enclosed a small lagoon. A cooling breeze came in off the Indian Ocean. In the afternoon, a thunderstorm blew in from the sea and rained for about an hour. During the storm, I ran to the thatched roofed restaurant for a drink and met Rolf and Max.

  "You guys having breakfast at this time of day?"

  "Ya," answered Rolf, "ve haf jus come from sleep."

  "What you do last night?"

  Rolf and Max squinted at each other, unable to remember.

  Max replied with rapt anticipation, "Ve are goink zu beach, old swartzer man haf ganja, prima ganja."

  "Think I’ll go down to the beach later and look around."

  Ya, you look out ze znak im wasser."

  "Znak? You mean snakes?"

  "Ya, znakz."

  "In the water? Are you sure?"

  A girl at the next table spoke up, "He’s right. You need to be on the lookout for poisonous sea snakes. They're lethal. Anyone bitten dies within three steps. Ones in the Indian Ocean are the worst. A Swiss died last week when he tried to take a midnight swim in a tidal pool. It's terrible, his eyes actually popped out of their sockets."

  With the macabre image fixed in my mind, I said, "Thanks, I’ll keep a lookout."

  After Rolf and Max left, I chatted with the girls. Noelle tall with dark brown shoulder length hair, and Jill short and less sociable, were from New Zealand They worked in South Africa for a year, and were on their way to London, planning to work before returning home. Noelle was good company and easy to talk to. However, I didn't need any more complications.

  A longhaired Swedish guy wearing cut-off shorts came in and asked, "Do you play volleyball? We need someone for a match." He smiled at Noelle. "You want to play?"

  Noelle glanced at her friend, who shrugged, and answered, "Yes, sounds like fun." She turned to me. "How about you?"

  "No, go ahead."

  Anxious to check out transportation alternatives, I finished my beer and walked down the crushed coral drive to the main road. A few trucks, cars, and the occasional matatu roared by. One thing for sure, I would most likely be the only white face in the crowded matatu, not a low-profile way to go if I wanted to avoid unwanted attention. At best, it shaped up as a last resort.

  I returned to the bungalow, nestled in a grove of palm trees, and stretched out on the simple bed. Decision time had arrived, my options limited. A conflict raged between a desire to reach American authorities in Nairobi and the comfort of immediate safety at Twiga beach. I still needed to find out why the men were pursing me, there had to be a reason. Staying on the beach was tempting but offered no answers. In the morning, I would leave for Mombasa or Nairobi. My destination remained unclear.

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon, rested and feeling better, I strolled among the palms to the beach. Sight of a fin beyond the surf brought a chill. Memory of the swim from the dhow resurfaced along with a sense of dread.

  Eventually, I ended up at the restaurant for fish and chips. Noelle and Jill came in half way through the meal and we spent an hour talking over a few Tusker beers. Noelle, cheerful and talkative, Jill remained taciturn and distant.

  Later, we joined Billy and his group sitting around a blazing fire on the white sandy beach. More people drifted in and soon everyone was busy talking, singing, and drinking. Waves crashed in on the shore. Palm fronds shuddered in the night breeze. Sounds of birds enhanced the tropical reverie.

  After a half hour, I decided to call it a night, and quietly slipped away back up the beach to the bungalow. The warm clear night air elicited a soothing effect. I was soon lost in my thoughts as I walked along the shore. An unsettling sense of doubt gnawed at my gut: What am I gonna do tomorrow? … Are those guys still looking for me? Why? … At least I’m safe here. The idea of staying at Twiga beach was overwhelming, but a little voice inside urged me to leave. I needed answers, answers that were not going to be found by staying on the beach, no matter how safe it seemed.

  Monday, 13 February: Twiga Beach

  A breeze heavy with mist rose from the waves and wafted a salt laden fishy aroma through the palms. Rough sand crunched beneath my sandals as I wandered down to the restaurant. After breakfast, I planned to go into town and find the American consulate or try to call the embassy in Nairobi. I felt safe at the campground and wanted to stay longer, but my sixth sense said it was time to leave.

  Billy and his group sat at their regular table. "Mate, join us for a cuppa and some grub."

  Pulled up a chair and took a seat. "What you recommend?"

  "Mate, gotta to try the omelets, they’re absolutely spiffy."

  Ordered an omelet and asked Billy, "Where you guys going today?" hopeful they might be driving into town.

  "Mate, we’re headed down the coast to try out this beaut of a beach we heard about. Have reliable information from the drum — listen to this Mate — an endless supply of Fosters. You want to come along?"

  "No thanks. Need to go into town."

  "Too bad Mate, you don’t know what you gonna miss."

  The omelet was indeed excellent, the eggs obviously fresh. Billy chattered on about the prospect of an endless supply of Fosters. Sounded like a fun day. My resolve began to waiver. Wait ‘till tomorrow. What the heck, I'll do it. I'm safe here. What's in Nairobi anyway? Most likely, just more bad news. Maybe I don't want to find out.

  Midway through a third coffee, my luck ran out. A black Land Rover pulled up outside the restaurant. Two people got out: the short dark-skinned man who accompanied the Arab on the streets of Lamu and the thin wiry Kenyan.

  The now familiar chill of fear spread. My body tensed in anticipation of imminent danger. They were still searching for me. However, there was one factor in my favor. I was sure they hadn't taken notice of me at the bus stop. They didn't know what I looked like. The dead Arab was the only one who could identify me. All they had to go on was his description. Decided to hold my ground and blend in with Billy and his group.

  They roamed around outside, then entered the restaurant and spoke to the manger. After examining everyone, the men left, moved down to the campground area, and started to poke-around. It was hard to tell if they had taken any special interest in me, both wore dark su
nglasses. No one else paid them any attention.

  Billy stood and summoned his companions, "All right you lot, we'll be on our merry way." He nodded and told me, "G’by Mate." They left, leaving me sitting alone. I almost joined them but chose to stay and keep an eye on the man in the brown outfit and his companion.

  The men ambled around, peered into the tents, and examined each vehicle. The moment they looked into the back of Rolf’s truck, I decided it would be best to leave because they might recognize Max or Rolf and question them.

  Time to go. I exited the open structure on the opposite side, hurried down to the water’s edge, and headed north up the beach. A stand of mangroves stood about a hundred yards away. Following a coral path into the mangroves, I continued up a rise towards a thick grove beside the trail. A sharp bluff rose above a seawater pool fifty yards ahead.

  At the top of the cliff, I paused and glanced back towards the campground. The Spanish speaking man plodded along the beach towards the trail in the mangroves. It appeared he was following me. The path opened up ahead and left little opportunity for cover. Seeing no other choice, I backed into the dark shadows of the dense mangrove stand and waited.

  The man continued up the beach and disappeared. The mangrove hid him from view. Moments later, he reappeared on the coral and cautiously inched up the path to the top. He paused several times, his attention focused forward up the trail.

  Slowly, he approached and halted less than two yards away. The hunter had lost track of his prey. He turned and peered over the edge at the pool below.

  A strange calm descended over me. One chance to get him, my life on the line — a primitive survival instinct kicked in — I charged out from the trees and gave him a hard shove in the back with my left shoulder.

  The attack took him by surprise. He stumbled, tried to turn around, made it halfway, lost his balance, and twisted back towards the water. At the last moment, the desperate man tried to grab my arm, but missed. He fell backwards over the cliff headed for the shallow pool twenty feet below. His body rotated in mid-air and landed face down with a huge splash.

  The man recovered quickly, rolled over, and sprung to his feet in waist deep water. He eyed me with blind rage, reached under his shirt, and pulled out a black pistol with a long barrel.

  An eerie sense of déjà vu glued me to the spot. I stood transfixed unable to move. A faint image from my past competed with the stark present reality.

  He raised the pistol and aimed straight at me.

  At the last millisecond, I dropped to the coral path. A short pop echoed off the mangroves. Two seconds later a bloody shriek reverberated across the pool. Every bird in the vicinity took to the sky.

  The screams continued: a high note of pure primal terror. I peeked over the edge. The man dropped the weapon and desperately swatted away at his head. Eyes wide with panic, he screeched at the top of his lungs. Attached to his face and neck — three small snakes. He writhed, convulsed, and after a few seconds collapsed. He had found Max’s poisonous sea snakes and didn't move again.

  Stunned, I laid still on the coral path. Sight of the body floating face down in the pool caused a numb sensation to creep though my core. For the second time in three days, someone died. This time no adrenalin rush, it had been pure reaction.

  Wanted to go down, see if he had any identification, and recover his weapon. It didn't take two seconds to decide. The sea snakes — never liked snakes — made it too risky. Way too risky.

  Gotta get outta here. Someone might respond to his screams or a passerby could come by at any time. Even worse, his companion may have heard him or be on his way to find him.

  A quick check down the path revealed the coast was clear. No one ventured up the beach, the screams had gone unheard. I raced through the mangroves to the campground. The restaurant sat empty, the manager nowhere in sight. I entered, tread softly in past the tables, and paused for a moment to look outside.

  Someone stood about 200 yards down the shore, the wiry Kenyan talking to a party of seashell hunters. I moved out, hid behind a tree, and watched him amble on down the beach to another group. He paused, spoke with them, and waved a hand back north. A tall blond man gestured a negative answer.

  He turned and headed further down the beach. One last party sat under a palm tree about fifty yards away. When he finishes with them, he’s sure to come back. Had to act and act fast.

  Hurried back to the restaurant and decided to check out the Land Rover. A newer four door long bodied model, most likely a rental for tourists to take on safari. The Rover would serve my purposes and blend in with the traffic, just another white tourist driving around Mombasa.

  Approached carefully, inspected the interior, and glanced at the dash. The keys were in the ignition, a good thing because I only vaguely remembered how to hot-wire a car. Opened the driver’s side door and slid into the seat. I turned the key and pushed the starter button. The motor coughed once and started.

  After a nonchalant glance around, I backed out on the crushed coral and drove at a normal speed to the front gate. Free and clear, for the moment. The wiry Kenyan would think his companion had abandoned him and if my luck held out it might be a while before someone discovered the body.

  Chapter 12 ~ Mombasa

  Monday, 13 February: Mombasa

  I headed north on the now busy highway and passed several matatus, all crowded, music blasting, with people hanging off the back. Not an inconspicuous way to move about, better to cruise on into town as a tourist. Less than an hour later, after crossing the harbor on the Likoni ferry, I vanished into the hectic traffic in the heart of Mombasa.

  My first problem was what to do with the Land Rover. If I abandoned the vehicle on the street, someone might find it and give my general location away. I had a better idea. Drove to the center of town, turned on Kilindini Road, and passed the Castle Hotel. Looked like a good place to dump the Rover, lots of foot traffic. I remembered being there before and recognized some familiar places.

  Circled around behind the hotel and pulled into a narrow drive, parked astride the sidewalk, left the engine running, and walked away. At the end of the second block, I glanced back over my shoulder. The black Land Rover had disappeared. Some thief would have a lot of explaining to do if the man with the thick mustache ever found him. More than likely, the vehicle was gone forever.

  My first priority was to get out of the dirty ragged clothes. They didn't know my face but might have guessed I was dressed like a hippie traveler. Wandered down Kilindini Road and found Rashid’s Safari Outfitters, a purveyor of tailored safari clothing.

  A well-dressed Arabic or Indian man with gray hair greeted and inspected me with a suspicious air. "May I help you?" he asked in a polite but direct manner.

  "Need a safari outfit."

  He examined my get-up and responded with a guarded, "Very well sir," and showed some less expensive outfits. Obviously, he didn't think I had much cash and probably wanted to get rid of me.

  The blood money allowed me to choose an unpretentious ready-to-wear tan safari jacket with matching shirt and pants. I followed Mr. Rashid’s suggestion and topped the outfit off with a white-hunter style wide brimmed hat favored by the more affluent tourist crowd. My worn-out sandals happily exchanged for brown buckskin safari boots. The owner seemed moderately pleased.

  Suitably outfitted and confident, I left Rashid’s and returned to the Castle Hotel. The open veranda wasn't crowded at mid-morning. I took a seat, ordered a Tusker beer, and decided to sit for a while. A wide variety of people walked past, locals, tourists, and visiting sailors. I sat and watched the world go by, unable to spot anyone who was obviously looking for someone.

  Thoughts of the past few days wandered through my mind: Killing the Arab made me sick, killing the man at the beach only numbed me. Wondered if it got any easier each time and hoped I didn't have another opportunity to find out.

  A blue Peugeot passed by — a tingle ran down my neck — only a taxi. All remorse dissolved, th
oughts refocused on reality and the task-at-hand: contact American authorities and find out what was going on. The sense of urgency to reach Nairobi competed with stress — the stress of survival.

  After a half-hour, I approached the front desk and enquired about the American consulate. The clerk checked a list and wrote the address and telephone number on a notepad. I shelled out a generous tip and walked over to the phone booths.

  Dialed the consulate’s number and after three rings, an officious female voice with a local accent answered.

  "United States Consulate, how may I help you?"

  "Can I to speak to the consul?"

  She curtly informed me, "He is not in."

  "May I speak to someone else in authority?"

  "What is your business?"

  "Need to deal with a passport issue."

  "Are you an American citizen?"

  "Yes, of course." I reined in my natural tendency for sarcasm and politely asked, "Is anyone else on duty?"

  "The only person on duty is the assistant vice consul."

  "Can I speak to him?"

  "She is not here at the moment."

  Forgot, Monday morning is too early in the week for a bureaucrat to be at work. Just my luck.

  "When will he… she return?"

  Her voice conveyed a casual sense of detachment, "That information is not available."

  "Okay, I'll come over and wait." My temper started to boil. I needed help not a run around.

  With anger about to get the best of me, I stormed out of the lobby to the open veranda. Need to cool down and regroup. At the top of the steps, I examined every passerby. No one caught my attention.

  Satisfied, I strolled over to the taxi stand, hired a cab, a blue Peugeot, and gave the driver the consulate's address. He pulled out into the chaotic traffic on Kilindini Road, and wheeled a U-turn.

  The consulate was only a few blocks away. The taxi turned the corner and I noticed a Peugeot station wagon parked about a block from a building flying an American flag.