Murder on Safari

by Peter Riva

  Pero was relieved to hear it. But the Commissioner still had another shoe to drop.

  “But a curious thing I just heard. The soldier charged with guarding Consul Jikuru will be moved by the UN security people to their office in Nairobi for questioning tomorrow. It is most irregular, all the more so because neither the Nigerian commander nor the Nigerian Ambassador made an objection to them holding him or the UN for taking him. Would you happen to know why?” And at this, he looked at Mbuno who had just come back through the flap of the tent.

  Pero spoke up, convinced that a bit of the truth would defuse the danger, “Mary asked Mbuno to make a call to see if her word was good enough to safeguard the fellow. It seems that the Nigerian killed the man who stabbed Jikuru just as he was also threatening Mary. She feels he saved her life.”

  “Ah, the power of her uncle then? I see. And who did you call Mbuno from here to make such an arrangement?”

  Mbuno didn’t hesitate. “My nephew, David Bariti, at Bluebird Charters at Wilson Airport. He believes.”

  “Most convenient. Mr. Threte, then, is his pastor?” Pero nodded, but Mbuno said nothing. “I should have so good an information service and contacts.” He turned towards Pero: “I will do all this because I want these people for other crimes, and they want Miss Lever dead which is inexcusable,” he still thought she was the target because of Arusha. He was perhaps assuming they were only in danger by accident, “I cannot allow that on Tanzanian soil. And I would suggest you make sure it does not happen on Kenyan soil.” That frightened Pero. And the implication is? Is he guessing? Pero had to play it out.

  “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  “Call your embassy, arrange protection, how else?” He never explained why the same solution would not work in Tanzania. He didn’t have to. They were being told to take their problem elsewhere and, if in the meantime they acted as bait for people he wanted for other crimes, so much the better. In the end, Pero didn’t care, an escape out was being provided. And Pero quickly formed a different escape route in his mind.

  “I suggest we all have a party Mr. Baltazar, your expense I am afraid, in an hour to celebrate Miss Lever’s brilliant swim with two, how does she call them? Living dinosaurs!” And he stood and walked out before Pero could agree. He didn’t have to have his agreement. It was an order.

  “Mbuno, get Ruis the moment he gets back. Tafadali.”

  An hour later, they were hunkered down in his tent, Ruis, Mbuno, and Pero peering at the map case. Ruis was turning it over in his hands, carefully. “Tricky boss, it is a booby trap, but I’m not sure what kind. I can’t defuse something if I don’t know what it’s set to do.”

  “Okay, Ruis forget I asked. And I mean forget.”

  As it turned over one more time, Ruis exclaimed, “No, wait Pero, look, see? It’s not a latch, and it’s very delicate, I mean really delicate. Touch that zipper and it would break, I’m sure of it. So that means it’s never meant to open.” He turned the case over, and looked at every side. “Ah, here it is boss, just like that special box of yours, it’s a molded plastic seam that is not quite a seam, see, I can slip my nail in it . . .”

  “No, Ruis don’t . . .”

  “And voila, it’s open, leaves the zipper intact. Pero can now take things out and put things in. Hello, what’s this?’ Pero and Mbuno leaned in, “Pero, Mbuno, get back, it’s a jelly device, soft molded blue burning jelly, probably ethanol in hydroxide propane concentrate. Just like camping stoves, only really condensed, very hot flash, not meant to explode just burn. I have got to defuse it if we’re going to examine this thing. I think if I put it back together wrong the case will go up anyway. So I might as well try . . . but you guys can go, please.”

  Mbuno shook his head so Pero said, “We’re staying.”

  “Okay, but first, Mbuno, take a peek outside the tent, someone coming in might startle me and poof.” Mbuno peered out the screen door through the flap. Ruis was concentrating, “Ah, I see it, it’s simple, no special tools, but four hands are needed. Pero, hold the strap, yes, that one, see the thread inside? Okay, now pinch it, so that it cannot slide, it must not move, okay? And with the other hand, I want you to support the whole case, palm up.” Pero did as he was told. “Now, I follow the thread to this little safety pin here—see it’s open?—and, if it were to pull, the fulminate of mercury switch would go off. Hold it there a little while longer, I just need to fasten that pin so it can’t slide out, ah, there . . .” he grabbed the case, and threw it into his lap, “safe as houses, well tents.”

  Pero took a breath. “Is it really safe?”

  “Yeah, mostly, but take out what you need and get rid of the damn thing, I wouldn’t want to bet on it. In this humidity, fulminate of mercury becomes unstable. Heat’s no problem, it’s the humidity.”

  Afghanistan is dry, was all Pero could think of. “Thanks Ruis. Now off the record and don’t tell Heep or Mary . . . get ready to bug out.”

  “When?

  “Tonight, but no-one must know.”

  “More trouble?

  “Nothing Mbuno and the Commissioner haven’t handled or won’t, but we need to be cool, but ready. Meanwhile, we’re having a party.”

  “Okay boss.” He got up to leave. “But really, get rid of that thing boss.” Pero planned to as soon as possible. Mbuno followed Ruis out to get everyone to the dining room. He knew Pero needed time alone. Map case contents were not his expertise. Pero doubted they were his own either, so he took macro photos with the small Olympus digital.

  With Mbuno keeping watch, moments later Pero raised the satellite phone antenna again. “Urgent report from Baltazar here, Pangani Camp. Afghani, name of Nadir, now dead, contents of his map case with booby-trap, now defused. Well, I’m going to plug in the camera playback USB wire and hit slide show. Hope you can get this . . . the handset hissed, without a double click, so Pero plugged in the mini-USB wire and pressed the slide show button on the Olympus digital camera now connected to the phone. As Pero watched the small viewing screen replay the images he had just taken, all fourteen of them, Pero still saw nothing that caused concern: The case itself; the detonation zipper device; the safety pin and thread (in macro); a copy of their Park permit, the one from the Chief’s office; a copy of their filming permit from the film office files in Nairobi House; a print of their itinerary marking Arusha Airport and Pangani Airport with final destination Pangani Camp; the name of the Land Rover hire company in Ramu and Debbie Rose; a torn Tusker Special beer label; a sheet with the call sign of the Cessna aircraft and company Mara Charters; some Wrigley gum and used wrappers; a Kit-Kat bar, uneaten; a number on a plain small scrap of paper that Pero took for the Zanzibari’s in pencil (Tanga 6430) with his name, Mustafa Purim and address; one free, tear-off tourist map from Hertz Rent-a-car at Tanga airport; and one Pakistani passport in the name of Saleh al-Nadir, resident of Islamabad, born twenty-three years ago in Khartoum. He hoped they would get all this at State. And he seriously hoped they could make heads or tails out of it. When the slide show had repeated twice, Pero unplugged the wire and continued his call:

  “I will destroy the map case because it is still dangerous. I’ll leave the contents for Commissioner Singh after departure. Urgent you inform and advise Tom Baylor. Also, we are planning decamp Pangani with a night drive to Mashangalikwa, there’s an airstrip alongside the railroad there. Urgent evacuation requested. A Cessna Caravan will do. Repeat urgent evac requested. I feel a drive all the way to Nairobi will be unsafe for Mary Lever. But we will wait at Mashangalikwa strip only until oh-four hundred Zulu. Over and out.” The two clicks followed.

  Zulu is Greenwich Mean Time. Oh-four-hundred Zulu was six am local. If they failed to make it, they were on their own, all the way to Nairobi. He didn’t like the odds, with the al-Shabaab terrorists or the local bandits, not to mention the border guards for Mary nor what would be, by then, an angry Commissioner Singh, who might come after them when he found out they skipped.

  Pero too
k the map case with him, nonchalantly walking past the open office doorway, said good evening to the manageress and, in a dark patch a few feet into the overgrowth, threw the empty case into the dark, as far as it would go, over some dense Wait-a-minute thorn bushes alongside the Pangani River. The fuse followed two steps later. He had had Ruis separate the mercury fuse from the jelly, so when it went off, someone could only think it was a gunshot by the river, not uncommon in these parts. Pero had also filled the case with rocks, in case it made it to the water.

  Mbuno had retrieved Pero’s secret battery case from Ruis and together they put the map case items in there. Pero planned to leave the key and the battery safe for the Commissioner as they left. He would figure out the rest.

  There was a heck of a good celebration going on. Heep and Mary had seen the footage, and they were showing some of it to the tourists on the laptop computer, a digital download for security, copied and put on DVD just in case. Everyone, tourists included, was gathered around wowing or whooping depending on nationality with a few “merdes” thrown in from a Canadian French couple. It was spectacular footage. The copulation scene with the two crocs was an open water first. “Emmy time” was heard again and again. Heep was in his element. Mary was radiant, proud and, Pero thought, a little in awe of her good fortune. Pero was glad it had all turned out okay. The job of a producer is never to take the credit at the end; it is always limited to the responsibility of the shoot, the achieving of a standard. When that standard is reached or exceeded, as was the case that day, the credit rightly always goes to that which the producer did not plan for: fate, luck, and artistic talent. It is the nature of the job. Pero was happy. Well, as happy as he could be. At least half his life was in order.

  Pero watched the Commissioner, who was as good as his word. Drinking fruit juice, he was toasting their heroes and the SeaSled over and over. When the footage was shown, again, of his heroics, he was the toast of the whole crowd of tourists, crew, cops, and waiters alike. He reveled in it. Pero took his picture “For your brothers, to see you at your moment of glory!” The Commissioner laughed, genuinely pleased.

  “To Grosse Heidi” someone yelled and Pero knew the old girl would be an international celebrity before long.

  The party went on like that for about three hours and then people started to drift away. Pero went to get some sleep. He was going to need it. Mbuno left when Pero did.

  Pero checked that the police were standing guard and walked Mbuno safely back to the driver’s hut. Along the way Mbuno confirmed the Land Rovers were ready, but reminded Pero that he would have to drive one, they couldn’t take the driver that came with them, after all they were stealing them. He put it this way “You cannot ask the driver, Joigi, to help steal a Land Rover he is supposed to keep from harm.” Pero agreed, reluctantly. Pero talked with him about the balloon tires, now on the Land Rovers for the sand of Pangani beach, not the rough road, nor ever intended for pavement, towards Mkomazi. Pero thought they could handle the road, but at a slower speed.

  Mbuno agreed, “At night, bwana, it is better to drive slow with lights, many lights.” He was right, of course, animal collision was the worst they had to fear. They both hoped.

  Pero told Mbuno about the hoped-for flight out of Mashangalikwa. “Will you tell the others?” Mbuno asked. Instead, Pero explained they would deal with telling them when they got away from here, and there was always the question of “if” the plane would arrive.

  Back in his tent Pero went through his sleeping ritual. Lying on his front, right arm crossed under Pero, Addiena’s name, her tattoo, against his chest. “God, I miss her,” he said softly and began to look for refuge in sleep.

  Two-thirty in the morning. Pero was instantly awake. He heard someone unzipping his tent flap and the first reaction Pero had was that they were too late, the Mau Mau were already here. It was just the Commissioner. “Time to get your people up and out. We will help.” Within twenty minutes. they were packed and loaded, almost without a sound. The manageress was sitting at her desk, his payment papers ready, a police officer sitting next to her. Pero signed the chit she would present to Flamingo and added a generous tip. She smiled. Singh explained the cop next to her: “He’s going to keep her company until lunch, that should provide plenty of time.” The woman looked scared. Pero was sorry for her, but only if she were innocent. But knowing Purim from Tanga was hardly a good omen for her future.

  Mary and Heep asked no questions, yet. Pero knew those would come, once they were away. Ruis, good as his word, hadn’t told Priit, but Priit had guessed when everything was packed for shipment—extra padding is a dead giveaway that they’re moving, not filming the next day. The Commissioner had little to say. He assured Pero that, so far, there was no sign of Purim and, that probably, Pangani Airport would be their plan of attack, if indeed there was one. “That was why I could not let you have the Toyota plan.” He was right, of course, Mbuno and Pero recognized that, even if it did seem churlish at the time.

  The Commissioner explained he was staging an ambush for later in the morning when the Mara plane arrived, just in case. “Mara were quite helpful, when it was explained to them.” Pero wondered who explained exactly what . . .

  The Commissioner promised to wire or fax Pero the results of the ambush to Pero at the InterConti, Nairobi the next day. Pero had given that as his next address at the desk. Mbuno, Ruis, and Priit were in the lead Land Rover, Mary, Heep, and Pero, driving, in the next. Just before Singh waved them off Pero handed him the plastic card. “It’s for the battery pack I left under your mattress.” The Commissioner raised his eyebrows. Pero didn’t give him time to ask questions. They turned fast left out of camp as planned, as they were told. Mbuno set a quickening pace.

  Within ten miles the road turned nasty and Pero felt, more than saw, Mbuno slow the pace. Thirty miles per hour over these rough roads was fast enough. The good news was that it had rained a few hours ago and the soft ground was better for the tires.

  Mary and Heep, understandably, started pestering Pero for answers. “Hang on guys, let’s get Ruis and Priit in on this, no need to explain everything twice.” Pero keyed one walkie-talkie and gave Mary the mike to hold between them, Mary in the back leaning over the seat back, Heep next to Pero.

  Heep picked up another walkie-talkie, checked which channel the first one was on and changed the second one, one channel up, to channel two. The one in his hand sprang to life “Priit here. Do you copy? Over?”

  “Yes, they copy, let’s skip the over and just speak freely, we have a two-way system going here.” Heep had taught Pero this years ago. One mike, always on, channel, say one. The other radio set to channel two. In the other Land Rover, they set the receiver to channel one and on the other walkie-talkie to channel two, they keyed the mike always on. Worked like a hands-free desk phone. You get some feedback, but it’s easy to handle by the one holding the mike—just turn it away for a few seconds.

  To offset some of their anger—Heep especially hates being woken up, but with Mary beside him, he was doubly angry from the adrenaline rush of protection. Pero explained matters as best he could whilst keeping them on the road at the constant pace of Mbuno up front. The balloon tires and no power steering were a bitch to steer at this speed over deep ruts in the road.

  Pero did not tell them everything. He avoided the meeting with Tom Baylor and his satellite phone, but he did tell them about Simon’s death and that the Arab Mau Mau were an al-Qaida offshoot, al-Shabaab, and on their trail.

  Ruis’s voice came across clearly, “Sodding al-Qaida killed Simon? You have got to be kidding.”

  Heep answered for Pero “No, I saw the bullet and Pero’s video of the feeding. When the jacket was ripped out, the wound was clearly visible. Probably a sniper rifle. Now go on, Pero.”

  So Pero told them about Mbuno’s encounter with al-Shabaab’s point man. The death of the Afghani shocked them.

  Mary was shocked. “You mean the man is dead? Just like that, dead? You killed
him?”

  “Yes, Mary, Mbuno was attacked, defended himself, and a hippo finished the job and took the spoils. Mbuno thinks the man was still alive when he slipped under the river water. We recovered his map case, but it was booby-trapped. Ruis, who had no idea what was inside, defused the damn thing and I took pictures. Heep, in the flap of my Northface, it’s the Olympus. Ruis, I downloaded a copy on the PDA in Priit’s case.”

  “Got it, tell me what these please are?” It was Priit, his Dutch singsong voice, and swap in verb placement.

  Heep pulled the pocket camera out and started scanning through the pictures. “I’ll tell you what they are, it’s a spy kit. Son of a bitch, he had their names, everything, from the permits. I don’t see Mary’s name, so they weren’t after her anyway, it was just us.” Pero was amazed how quick Heep was and shot him a sideways glance.

  Priit called out, “Mbuno wants you to know. We’re coming to a fork in the road. And not to take the right fork—that’s right, isn’t it? Yes. Take the left fork. It looks smaller. But he says it’s the safest way. To Mashangalikwa. But coming round from the west. Hey. Why Mashangalikwa? Aren’t we supposed to be pushing through? To Arusha?”

  “Later Priit, I’ll get to that. What is worrying me here is that Commissioner Singh knew al-Shabaab or al-Qaida, anyway they had all the dope on us and yet he wanted us to flee. He never offered to take us into protective custody. Also, thanks in large part to Mary here, he was miffed that the Nigerian was being taken into UN custody and out of Tanzania.”

  “Is that true? Oh, thank you Mbuno.”

  “Priit here for Mbuno. He says to thank Pero. He should explain.”

  “Not now, let’s get back to Singh. Singh wanted us to drive out, across the border at Arusha, tightest security in East Africa. Going this way, left out of camp, there is no way, no road, across the border except at Arusha.”