by Peter Riva
Alistair and his wife were home, sitting on the verandah, and as welcoming as ever.
CHAPTER 14
Kilimanjaro
British ex-pats, Alistair and Sue, were getting on in years. After WWII, they had settled in the German colony of Tanganyika to run a small farm holding, raising cattle. Since then, cattle had long been replaced by a tourist service of off-road, special permit, excursions. Day trips only, they would pick up tourists and truck them up the side of Africa’s tallest mountain, not all the way to the top, but just into the snowfield. Standing very near the equator, with your feet in the snow, was a tourist shot not to be missed.
Kilimanjaro, or Kilima Njaro in Swahili, meaning the Great White Mountain, is to sub-Saharan Africa what the Statue of Liberty is to the USA.
Kilimanjaro is an extinct volcano, or three to be exact, that lies east of the Great Rift Valley. Her volcanoes were the result of that last cataclysmic upheaval that split Africa down the middle from Northern Kenya to South Africa. Two of her volcanoes have eroded to mounds of debris over the eons, but the one that remains, called Kibo, is almost a perfect cone. All three hold the snow the mountain is famed for all year long. From below, it looks like one peak. Mountains are always deceptive.
When the first Western explorers came upon the massive mountain, straddling the Equator, they could not possibly believe they were seeing snow. They sent porters to the top to retrieve the “silver and precious metals” glistening there. The guides returned with water. The first British reports of snow were dismissed as “lunacy” by the Royal Geographical Society, and the explorers were mocked in the press.
The years went by and, eventually, a German expedition climbed the mountain—the highest ever mountain ascent in 1889—climbed into the snow and documented her majesty. Now that majesty of Kilimanjaro is conquered weekly, in fairly easy six-day ascents, on foot, up the eastern slope to 19,330 feet above sea level. She’s trampled on by tourists, adventurers, and hang gliders keen to launch off the top (and wear the T-shirt to prove it).
“Animals,” Alistair was often heard to say, “Who gives a damn about animals? It’s the humans that humans want to see, quite often watching their ownselves, that’s why they take so many bloody photos. It’s the human experience they want to have, not always kissing the bloody cuddlies. Animal safaris, hah!”
The trucks he operated were open-backed, ex-army vehicles “always bloody German, only people who make good vehicles, those Krauts.” In truth, he chose them because the carburetors could be adjusted and ignition advanced from the cab as he climbed at altitude. Ordinary trucks stalled out every 8,000 feet. Now in semi-retirement, he had sold his business and his fleet of specialized trucks just before computerized fuel injection made them obsolete. He ran a smaller tourist business as an amusement now. He bought a Mercedes Unimog and claimed to be able to climb into the snow “higher than the has-beens” who had bought his business.
The two Land Rovers’ passengers found them at home, Alistair nursing a broken leg, “fell off the bloody packhorse.” He meant the Unimog. He was known to always call his trucks packhorses because they could “go anywhere a horse can.” Pero made the introductions to his film crew. And then he explained what was wanted: “I need to steal your Unimog . . . please.”
Alistair frowned but did not hesitate, “Conditions. Mbuno here does the driving. Best damn safari driver in East Africa. And you pay twice the rental rate even if I’m not driving,” he tapped the cast, “and you leave those Land Rovers somewhere else, say Arusha. I know who owns those, over by Pangani, and I want no trouble.”
Pero had no time to drive around finding a place to leave them. He offered money. No deal, he tried pleading. No deal. He tried to win Alistair over with promises of endless supplies of whiskey, no deal. Heep and Mary took Alistair aside and somehow struck a deal. Alistair, mumbling “always a sucker for a pretty lass,” pointed at an old decrepit looking barn with his crutch “Put ‘em in there. Never go in there. If they’re found, I’ll say you really did steal the Unimog! Fair ‘nuff?” Pero agreed it was.
Sue, his wife, was smiling and shaking her head. “Daft old git, he always was going to help you Pero, he just wanted the company—and the woman—to stay longer.” Alistair nodded and beamed.
Sue walked them over as Mbuno drove one and then the other into the barn. They transferred the equipment, SeaSled and all, to the house. “It’ll be safer in the house, dear, in case someone liberates those two,” pointing at the barn “while we’re not watching. Besides, we have more protection in the house.” Pero knew what she was referring to—he had stayed here once before. Their living quarters and windows had cage doors with shooting slots in them, and their closet was one-quarter inch steel box as a last refuge. On the border with Kenya, they had it built during the Mau Mau period “only way we could stay here dear, needed to sleep well. Untouchable, we were. They left us alone.”
As everything was unloaded, Pero made sure everyone kept essentials, passports, and medical papers, the top priority. Ruis kept his tool kit, Priit kept three little cameras (“Hey, you never know”), the cell phones and his PDA. Heep took all the videotapes. He and Mary threw some clothes in a duffel with toothbrushes. Mary wasn’t worried. “All my clothes for tomorrow are at the Norfolk,” she said, referring to the oldest hotel in Nairobi. JT had apparently rented the whole building.
Pero took nothing except the satellite phone and a pair of walkie-talkies. And extra batteries as Ruis insisted. Mbuno simply took his whole meager bag. No one said anything, it was the African way, you carry away what you own because you might not ever have a chance to get it back. Pero put Heep’s extra DVDs of their filming to date in Mbuno’s pack—for safekeeping.
Out back of their one-story ranch home, next to a chicken wire fenced in vegetable patch, Alistair was waiting by his packhorse. His Unimog was a German off-road monster truck, sitting on twenty-two and one-half inch wheels, over ten feet high, and weighing ten tons. With a 280 HP high performance diesel injection engine, her muffler stuck out the top with a forty-five degree angle to give her a rakish look. In place of the flatbed, Alistair had ordered a “carbon-fiber full cap, so that it seats ten, with an open skylight the tourists can shut, just like the bloody Land Rovers.” He turned to Mbuno who had taken the driver’s seat, “She has eight forward speeds selected with those paddles mounted for finger control on the back of the steering wheel just like them bloody Formula One racers.”
Mbuno felt the paddles, one either side of the steering wheel. “It is like a motorcycle, is it not?” He fingered the right one, “This one up a gear, yes?” Alistair nodded. “And this one . . .” fingering the left one, “down a gear?”
“Right you are. Now, the suspension springs give you fifteen inches of travel so that virtually any terrain is crossable unless you hit a bloody bog, then the bitch will sink, so if that happens, quick as a flash, you must use the winch on a strong tree, right? It’s strong enough.”
“Ndiyo, namaizi,” (Yes, I understand). Mbuno knew there were no bogs on the side of the mountain escarpment, but Amboseli Park was known for them.
Alistair was clearly proud of his packhorse, happy enough to share it with an expert driver like Mbuno, “At over twenty feet long and seven feet wide, she’s a bloody stable, powerful, and capable little beast. She’s my pride and joy, treat her well Mbuno, all right?”
“Ndiyo, mimi ahadi,” (I promise). Although Mbuno was sufficiently familiar with the controls, he knew there were unexpected challenges coming up, and all his skill with the unfamiliar handling of the Unimog might require a second pair of eyes and hands. “I feel it would be better if one other man helped me to drive . . .” and here he perfectly mimicked Alistair’s voice, “this bloody beast, Mr. Alistair.”
They all laughed and Alistair assured him that Ruis—who had already been peering under the engine hood and checking out the controls—seemed “just like the man to help you matey.” It was agreed. Ruis would sit right seat.
Alistair addressed the crew, standing around, ready to board, “Where are you going to leave her? Or are you bringing her back?”
Pero looked at Mbuno and said, “Amboseli Lodge?”
“Can we not take it to Nairobi?”
Pero looked doubtful, “It’s not fast enough, what forty tops?” Alistair wiggled his right hand indicating maybe more, maybe less. “And I will charge extra road transportation if you take ‘er there.”
Mbuno seemed to have decided, “So, Amboseli Lodge bwana?”
“Yes, okay, as you think best Mbuno,” who nodded and thankfully left it at that. Pero had plans they could discuss later. No need to involve Alistair and Sue. Alistair merely said to Sue “Pack a bag dear, you can drive us to Amboseli as soon as they leave, I will take the main road in your Datsun.” He still called those Japanese cars with that outdated name even though for twenty years they had been made by Nissan. “We can have a little naughty night at the Lodge. We’ll pick up the packhorse and drive her back home before anyone knows she was gone.” Alistair always had all the relevant official papers for the border—he crossed it several times a week. Pero looked down at the cast on Alistair’s left leg. The auto shifting Unimog had no need of a clutch pedal. Alistair could have driven them but wisely chose not to.
They piled aboard, happy that the full cap was open forward to the driving cab. Alistair responded to a question no one had asked, “How else do you think I can talk to the paying buggers while I drive? Besides, they love the view of the dashboard.” The dashboard has gauges, lights, and at least a dozen switches, each clearly marked. It looked complicated, like the inside of a plane, demanding an expert at the wheel. Pero was sure the look of the beast was all part of Alistair’s show.
Alistair was busy telling Mbuno which trail to use to cut across the Kilimanjaro escarpment, “Start down this hill, see over there, that’s the trail. Stay on that, but turn right at the triple fork, about ten miles further on over Kili’s hump—for god’s sake don’t miss the fork or you’ll be on a route to the top of Kili. Anyway, stay to the right at the fork and you’ll drive through, skirting Chala. Avoid that, right?” Pero nodded, Mbuno frowned and concentrated, “Already you’ll be in Kenya, but they know my packhorse. And then right into Amboseli’s back yard. Follow the elephant tracks in Amboseli, only the elephant tracks mind, but watch the marshes in case they lead you to water.”
They said good-bye and drove off, Mbuno revving the engine a little higher before each shift. “No clutch bwana,” he shouted back to Pero. But within ten minutes, he became perfectly smooth with gear changes, as if he had always driven the beast.
Bushes and rocks of a size that could incapacitate a Land Rover were no match for the Unimog. They plunged on, keeping a steady fifteen miles per hour in a straight line. Soon they were climbing the escarpment, the foot of Kilimanjaro, and the scenery changed—every increase in altitude, each giving a new ecology for wildlife. They took the right fork and after about two hours, they crested a hill and looked down on Kenya and the green of Amboseli National Park. There was still the unfenced border to cross, but by staying northeast from now on, they shouldn’t encounter anyone or any patrol, just wild terrain. Pero knew there would be a border plane spotter, but how often and whose it was, Pero had no idea. Anyway, the Unimog should be a regular sight to authorities. The goal was to press on, await news from State, reach the safe house outside Nairobi at the Karen Duka (Karen district grocery store)—and take whatever action they could to prevent a catastrophe that State might have already solved anyway. Hopefully, was all Pero thought, hopefully.
The noise, jostling, and sea-sick-making movement of the tiptoeing Unimog didn’t promote much conversation. Everyone was waiting, hoping to receive good news, happy to be doing something, even if it was fleeing. Ruis called back “Hey, in case a plane flies over, why don’t you people stand and ooh and ahh like tourists, it might be good cover.” And so they all did all the way downhill. The view down to Amboseli was, as always, the best of East Africa.
Amboseli is in Maasai land. The park itself is not under their control, but the park pays a fee to the Maasai elders as tribute for allowing this tourist site—not to mention the three concession lodges in the park—to exist. There was better animal viewing at Kimana Lodge, twenty miles outside of the park, but that lodge was not for sunburned tourists who want twenty-four-hour service. Amboseli had the big five—leopard, lion, cape buffalo, elephant, rhino—as well as giraffe, Thompson’s Gazelles, Waterbuck, bushbuck, dik-dik, zebra, wildebeest, eland and a whole host of photogenic animals. The lined-up zebra vans on every path around the park proved the point. But Amboseli is especially a haven for elephant.
Elephants are smart. Outside of the park, they were killed for trampling crops, poached for ivory, and generally not wanted. Inside the park, they can do no wrong. Smart animals, avoiding slaughter, in Amboseli they cluster in herds—never found in the real wild Africa—herds of five hundred or more in some seasons, making a wonderful sight. All those cameras click away hardly disturbing them at all.
In the Unimog, they were following one such herd making for the Park haven, there’s a trampled path as wide as a boulevard, earth stamped hard, the Unimog in her element. The crossing from Tanzania into Kenya had been no problem. The Unimog was a familiar site in the park, so no ranger waved them down.
The satellite phone in his pocket beeped. “Mbuno, find a place to stop right away.” He simply wrenched the wheel and they left the path into the bush off to the right. When he was away from view, behind some tall Acacia trees, giraffe feeding on the other side of them, he turned off the engine.
Pero pushed the on button, heard static, and then pushed 211.
The voice at State was clear and strong, “Lewis here. How are you doing?”
“We’re in Kenya, just in Amboseli Park. We can be at the Karen Duka in three hours.”
“Roger, that will be six p.m. your time, ten a.m. our time, fourteen hundred Zulu. Right?”
“More or less, depends on traffic.”
“Okay, here’s what we have got. We and the Brits have been busy. Jimmy Threte was a no go. He has agreed to Special Forces protection for the Meeting, they’ve just arrived Nairobi and are en route to the Norfolk Hotel. He has agreed not to move from there without calling me here. I gave him this number.”
“Yes, Mary told us pretty much the same. Go ahead.”
“There was an ambush set for you just before the border crossing on the road between Arusha and Namanga. Commissioner Singh has arrested six, but still doesn’t know where you got to. He swears he was protecting you, but the tracking device he put on your Land Rovers stopped moving. He has sent people to investigate. Just where are those Land Rovers?”
“In a barn, unharmed. We changed vehicles.”
“Well done. I do think he would have protected you, but I do not think he would have let you speed on, on your mission. And speed is of the essence.”
Pero thought that if the Land Rovers were found at Alistair’s, he could get into trouble with Singh, “Look, it would help if you would put in the good word for the couple who loaned us their packhorse for the trip here . . .”
Lewis interrupted, somewhat surprised, “You are on a packhorse, all of you?”
“Sorry, that’s his nickname, it’s a Unimog, four wheeler, he calls it his packhorse.” And Pero gave him Alistair and Sue’s details in Moshi.
“Okay, will do so. The brother, Virgi, is powerful—our ambassador in Dar vouches for him, and the Commissioner and a Minister as well. Virgi is very much your personal ally. If Commissioner Singh gets difficult, I was told that Virgi would “sit on little brother.” That make sense to you?”
Pero smiled, and chuckled as he responded, “Yes, Virgi weighs two hundred and twenty pounds and stands five feet six inches tall.”
“Strange people you know. Now for the important stuff—There are no anthrax traces in any of the beer inspected. They’re taking one bottle at
random from every case, breaking it (in case it’s in a separate capsule inside), and sampling the air. Marines lent them a mobile unit that arrived two hours ago, via helicopter crane from their ship off Mombasa. So far, nothing. And no traces of that label either. All the factory bottles are printed directly on glass now, not labeled. Tusker people are sure there’s no security breach at their plant either. Kenyans have air samplers of their own, rudimentary, but they work, and they’ve gone over the bottling plant, using heavy manpower . . . so far nothing there either.
“We have no confirmation on the identity of the body by Phillip Arnold, too badly mutilated without forensics. How the Chief thought it as Baylor was backpack with Tom Baylor’s name in it found next to the corpse. That, and the fact it’s a tourist. It may turn out not to be Baylor. We’re getting strange signals from his phone, we’re analyzing. I’ll keep you informed.” Lewis was speeding on, making sure everything he knew was shared.
“The man in the Holiday Inn turns out to be the brother of the man your Mbuno killed, sorry, was attacked by. We still don’t know who was in the other rooms he booked and paid for. The other occupants have left the hotel. We’re investigating, it’s slow going, the Kenyan police are not very fast.
“Ranjeets know of your arrival, Mossad negotiated a sharing of intel on this mission with us. Ranjeet will meet you at the Duka if you want. One word of caution, Prabir Ranjeet does not, repeat not, want his son Amogh to know. Can you comply?”