by Peter Riva
Out of the hotel, Pero waved away the offer of a taxi and turned left, heading for the US Embassy a few blocks away. When Schenker had given Pero information that another private package was arriving, it meant Pero’s actions were being monitored by Tom and people at State, but Pero had no idea why he would be getting another special phone, if indeed one was arriving in the new special freight that night. It was all a little puzzling. They had left the north, so why was State assuming he’d need a special phone? There was only one safe place to gather such information safely in Nairobi. Pero set off for the Embassy.
It was a logical port of call even if anyone was watching him. Pero had made a point, on checking into the InterConti, of asking for his passport back after registration so he could get extra sheets glued into the back. Room for visa and entry stamps was getting “a bit thin,” he had exclaimed. On the street, Pero tapped the passport openly on one hand, and then slipped it into his front pocket.
Idly he thought, Why do people put things in their back pocket? If a pickpocket puts his hand in my front pocket, you can be damn sure I’d feel that! His brain was doing its sideways thinking. Nerves always had that effect. He only had six blocks to walk, but checked window reflections and passing cars out the side of his eye. Nothing looked suspicious. Pero could spot no tail, yet. All US embassies are watched. But it was a risk Pero had to take. It was the only place Pero could now safely get a call through to Tom, and ask him, “What the hell?”
Pero knew that any information or instructions for the crew’s safety must come from a mouth he can trust, anything else is a risk—either to who or where you are, or, worse still, it could make you a pawn of an unseen party, or perhaps the deadliest risk of all, a pawn in inter-agency politics. Pero had read too many stories of State Department agents like Valerie Plame being used that way. So, basic instinct told him that he should not ask nor accept instructions or information from anyone except Tom. If Tom said somebody else at the Embassy could help, then fine, but otherwise, Pero had decided to confide in no one outside of Mbuno, who seemed to know everything anyway. Well, not everything, he reminded himself.
Pero had no illusions. He wasn’t a field agent or some action spy (but you jumped off a cliff in a hang glider, his inner voice reminded him)—he should be of no threat to anyone. Besides, Pero didn’t really have the aptitude nor the desire for intrigue. That’s why events in Gurreh territory that morning had upset him so much. It was the first time he had ever endangered people, especially friends and colleagues, and unknowingly at that.
Pero walked seemingly carelessly for the six blocks, coming to a halt before the concrete barriers now so common in front of any US embassy. The gates were guarded by cameras and a pair of Marines just inside “US soil” so they could carry their weapons, loaded and ready.
Every embassy is technically a bit of foreign soil to the country it is in. Nairobi, with the ramshackle building needed renovation, was no exception. On US soil again, Pero asked the Marine where he could get passport pages inserted and the Marine pointed at the main door and said, “Turn left on entering, past security.” Pero made a point of looking up at the security camera as he approached the building.
Past security screening, Pero turned left and was stopped by a sweet young female Marine Sergeant. “What is your business, Sir?” Pero explained he was there to get pages put into his passport. “If you will take a seat, I’ll take your passport and arrange for an appointment . . .”
“I really need to have it done now, if I can.”
“Of course, the appointment will not be long. Can you wait?” And she gestured towards the wooden bench. Pero sat, dutifully. The sergeant turned and crisply walked off.
When she came back within ten minutes, Pero was impressed. She simply pointed at a door marked “Waiting” and handed him the passport. It felt thicker in Pero’s hands, but he avoided checking.
No one else was inside the “Waiting” room, four chairs, and travel posters for Amtrak the only amusement. Pero sat and looked at the security camera again, open-faced. As the door shut behind him, Pero had heard the clack, locked. The sound happened again and then the door on the other side of the room, painted to match the wall, buzzed open. “Thanks, Charlie,” a man said over his shoulder as he walked in. Pero knew the voice.
Mr. Phillips had been at the US embassy at the UN in New York for many years. Pero had met him several times in the post-Regan era, when they worked on a TV project Pero produced in the General Assembly. Arnold Phillips had been very helpful, intelligent and, above all, honest in everything he did, some of it against his superior’s orders. His penalty for “disloyalty” against someone must have been severe to land him here in this backwater.
“Arnold, how good to see you.” Pero stood and offered his hand.
Arnold didn’t exactly refuse Pero’s hand, but he did sit in a hurry after giving Pero’s fingers a quick wiggle. “Pero, you look healthy, glad to see you as well.” Arnold looked older, more worn-down, somehow less engaged. Without remarking on any surprise at seeing Pero here now, especially for this purpose, more than fifteen years after their last meeting, he launched into his task. “Look Pero, I have been briefed to tell you that you will have a special envoy arriving tomorrow on the 5:00 a.m. flight, KLM-Kenya Airways connecting through Amsterdam, one Tom Baylor from DC. He needs to debrief you in person. You must meet him at Wilson Airport, Hanger 16 beyond the Bluebird Charters’ entrance ninety minutes after his plane lands. Only wait up to one hour in case he’s late. Got it?”
“Okay, Arnold, I’ve got all that. But what the hell is going on? This sounds like spy stuff. I’m no damn spy, someone or somebody, maybe al-Shabaab were chasing us up north. We’ve ditched them, I’m pretty sure. Why the hell is Tom coming all the way here just to talk to me? Haven’t you got a secure line in this place?”
Arnold’s eyes gave him away. His head never moved, but his eyes shifted to the security camera. “No, no, Pero, it’s just that . . .” he hesitated, “well, all this clandestine stuff is not my department—didn’t know it was yours. I’m just a messenger, that’s all, but, because I know you of old, I was the only one here who could be selected to speak to you,” and his eyes refocused on his hands, clasped on the edge of the table.
Pero’s blood froze and his voice dropped. “Arnold, how many people did they ask? Just how did they choose you?”
He answered in a whisper, “I wasn’t the first choice.”
Pero jumped up, the chair tipping over and smacking the concrete floor.
Arnold’s head sank onto his chest, “Look Pero, I’m sorry, even I can see this is hardly a secure way to tell you something. You need to trust State, to meet this Tom Baylor. But everyone here was in a flap when the news came that al-Shabaab may be active back up north, so the Ambassador simply asked his secretary to ask if anyone here knew you. He didn’t want us giving the message to the wrong guy.”
Pero was furious, at both the State Department and the Ambassador—together they had provoked an open staff question and response at this embassy, an embassy full of local Kenyan employees. Pero was exposed, Arnold was telling Pero that other people were openly asked, there was a whip-around for Christ’s sake, his name and past history were openly discussed and they finally choose someone who was perhaps not even secure, certainly not secret.
Pero knew, right then, East Africa was on fire, hot as could be. If you’re exposed, you’re blown, even if it’s by your own people. Pero suddenly felt the need to get the hell out of there. He opened the passport and checked the added pages were glued in. “Thanks for this, Arnold.” His face showed disgust.
“Look Pero, it’s not my fault.”
Pero managed a small smile, “Yeah, Arnold, I know, but answer me this, does anyone but you know what the message was?”
“Well, the Ambassador knew, it came in to him red-coded,” Pero wondered what that meant, “all he asked his secretary was to find out if anyone in the Embassy knew you by sight.”
“Yes, is that what happened?”
“It is the truth. But make it sound like you suspect the TV crew were incompetent, okay?” Pero wanted the attention on the accident, how it could have happened, under whose care, not the death.
“Okay Pero, will do.” Arnold stood, “No hard feelings?” Pero assured him there was none. But what idiots, he thought as he left the Embassy as quickly as possible.
It wasn’t his job to figure all this out, just run. Pero was only a small cog in a bigger game, collecting information. As an Outside Asset, what Tom had referred to as a friend of State willing to help out now and then, if Pero used imagination to interpret what was going on, how it was useful, if it was safe or not, then the role Pero played might become too important, his minor usefulness might become too dangerous and the temptation to get involved could become too great. Outside Assets die that way.
Tom had summed it up last January as they sat having tea at Fortnum’s in London after an accidental meeting walking down Regent’s Street. Tom took the off the record meeting to catalogue Pero’s need to stay away from getting involved. “Pero, the most dangerous thing about this job? Thinking. If you think it’s important you will wait too long to dump it. If you think what it means, you will try and build on it, and expose yourself. And if you think you are indispensable, you are wrong, someone will use you, sometime. You’re just an Outside Asset, that’s all. A messenger boy. Helping color the map or helping someone who does the coloring. Let someone else do the watching, reading, and planning. Don’t ever let yourself become more involved, stay away from thinking you’re GI Joe out there. Don’t ever get exposed. If you do, run.”
So, here Pero was, exposed. Was he angry? You bet. My own people have exposed me. The embassy was not secure. Any embassy is loaded with local staff that is not, in any sense of the word, trustworthy with one’s life. The Ambassador should have known that. Tom should have known that. What’s a red code anyway?
Emerging from the embassy, Pero never looked back and strode off in the direction of the shops. He was determined not to over think. At least not consciously, so he got back to routine. If there were a tail now, routine would help his cover. Just another mzungu going about his business spending dollars. Time enough to run and hide tomorrow, after seeing Tom. That appointment he was determined to make, and enjoy yelling a little at Tom.
So the rest of the day was spent, as is so often for producers in the field, doing a hundred and one little tasks. Their crew had a shopping list of needs (“double A” batteries, shaving cream, insect cream, sun cream, anti-malaria prescriptions, drops against water in the ear (swimmer’s ear), new desert boots, checking the weather and seeing Sheila at Flamingo. Lastly, he had the usual stop to see Mr. Ranjeet to order the cloth and kikois for relatives and friends.
Kikois, the traditional cloth sarongs and kilts worn by men and women in the heat of East Africa, are made in factories outside of Nairobi, the largest being in Thika that also has rampant malaria at a lower 3,500 feet. Malaria in Nairobi is rare because of the 5,000-foot altitude. Still, Thika is where the best kikois came from, malaria or not. It paid to wash the mosquito eggs out of them as soon as possible.
Mr. Ranjeet had first call on the Thika looms and he knew, if Pero were in town, he would sell a suitcase full and have it delivered to the InterConti for any planned departure. As they sat, they discussed the intricate weaving plaid patterns and Pero chose, no surprise here, the most traditional Kikuyu and Maasai heritage looks, always with the hand-tied fringe, sixty shillings extra. “Can I not interest you in the American kikoi?” It was a design of denim blue with a thin white line and a red stripe. Pero said no thanks and, having seen that his whole heart wasn’t in the purchase, Mr. Ranjeet asked if his wife, Acira, could interest Pero in some chai, only he meant real tea, Indian tea.
“A cup of your wife’s chai will do nicely Mr. Ranjeet, and if you have samosas, those sweet ones, I won’t say no.” A smiling Acira brought the tea tray with the samosas, whispered into his ear, and withdrew. Mr. Ranjeet and Pero sat there, on leather ottomans, in the middle of this cloth and clothing shop, customers all around, discussing the problems of the Asian community in modern Kenya, which continued to mount.
“There are just too many locals, Mr. Baltazar, who don’t understand the problem with AIDS and breeding. Then, when they see that their community,” (he meant the Asian community) “doesn’t have the same AIDS problems, they get angry and accuse them of having money not to get sick. But we don’t have their customs. I try and tell my friends, my Kikuyu friends, that it is dangerous to take your dead brother’s wife to your bed even if it does secure her safety and future. Adopt her, that would be all right, marry her even, but no sex please, your brother died of AIDS. It is most tragic.”
Pero agreed and prompted another conversation, aware that sex and AIDS were not conducive to a low profile in a shop. For Prabir Ranjeet, his shop was his living room and he would damn well discuss anything he wanted. Pero’s ticking brain, however, needed discretion. Pero lowered his voice, “After all these years, Mr. Ranjeet, could you not call me Pero?”
“Ah, Mr. Baltazar, in your custom, that is being familiar, is it not? An opening to friendship?” He knew it was. Pero nodded. “I prefer to treat you with respect, and think of you as a friend.”
“And I you, Mr. Ranjeet.”
“Then perhaps we can agree to the formality in name if only to keep up appearances?” Pero agreed. Mr. Ranjeet nodded vigorously. “Good, then, Mr. Baltazar, you must ask of me that which a friend would ask, not as a customer to merchant.”
Pero blurted out, “I need to know who—if anyone—is following me.” It was a simple request, if a bit blunt. If they had been in Istanbul or Cairo, Pero would have been asking the chief merchant in the Kasbah or Souk what was happening in his domain. Here, in Nairobi, Mr. Ranjeet was the equivalent.
“It is most strange. It is the first time you come here that you have been followed. Acira told me that our son, Amogh, back on holiday, remarked on it. Amogh is not quite a full man, yet, I have never given him, how would you say it, complete confidence? But he is growing up quickly now, since finishing university, becoming more . . .” and he smiled, “like his old man as you Americans say. In fact, he would like to know if you want the gentlemen apprehended. It is very brave of him.” Gentlemen struck a chord. Only a fish-out-of-water rival agency would use more than one for a tail. People on their home ground blend in, nor do they need the extra eyes. These were foreign “gentlemen.”
Ranjeet’s son, Amogh (meaning “always right”), was, Pero knew, indebted to him for a reference Pero gave him (and some secret financial help through a foundation) that enabled him to attend the London School of Economics (better known to students as LSE). Prabir Ranjeet had wanted his son to attend Oxford and was initially only willing to pay for that. Amogh had wanted the LSE because it was, well, less racist in his opinion and could give him the degree necessary to become a banker. The Ranjeets were into money, and the movement of money, not always legally. Pero had cashed US dollar checks with him, often, and received a better rate of exchange than the official Kenyan one. Once Amogh was at LSE, Prabir Ranjeet, was, at first, resigned and then secretly pleased his son had warranted a scholarship.
“Please thank Amogh for me, but no. I just want to know who they are. How’d he do at LSE, get the degree he wanted?”
“Ah, yes, LSE has been excellent, you and Amogh were correct over Oxford. He is presently getting a master’s degree there and has a position as a banker with HSBC starting just this July, it is most encouraging. We are very grateful to you.”
“Not at all, friend, one day maybe he’ll handle my meager savings a
nd make us all a small fortune. He’s a smart boy that one, you may be justifiably proud.” Prabir sat up straight, proud of the praise and the trust Pero was offering. To look after another’s wealth was the ultimate trust for Asian traders. Pero pressed home the question on the tail: “Any idea who the gentlemen are?”
“If you will wait a moment . . .” he went away into the bowels of the shop. A moment later, he was back, “Not good people, an Arab and an Afghani. The Arab is known to frequent the Pakistani shop next door. I could find out, very carefully, and call you. Would that be acceptable?” Pero thanked him and asked him, again, to thank Amogh for him. They sat drinking chai for a while longer, he coughed in the Asian way to break the conversation, so Pero rose, apologized for his need to press on with his errands, and they parted.
Pero had crossed the line. Pero was becoming involved, Pero was thinking, Pero was planning, Pero was not following Tom Baylor’s advice: “Let someone else do the watching, reading, planning. Don’t ever become involved. Don’t ever get exposed.” Some shufti up north had chased them and killed Simon—then someone on their side had exposed Pero. It changed all the rules. Pero thought, Pero, you had better gather some information of your own and plan a safer escape than just hiding in plain sight, they know you are here.
Three blocks over Pero stepped into the concrete doorway of Wessex House, walked up the three flights of stairs to the attic offices of Flamingo. No one was there. A notice was pinned to the glass door, which was firmly locked, saying “Envelope with the Doorman, show ID.”