Black Mischief

by Carl Hancock

  ‘Robbery, corruption, wife cheating …’

  ‘Do the courts allow these to be used in a case?’

  ‘Sometimes. But, let’s see the ones you’ve brought, Jimmy. What we do is look at my set and see what turns up.’

  As Jimmy took out his folders of prints, Paul went on. ‘No flash, no click and the lens swivels towards body heat. If we catch someone we’re after on camera, we know we’re on track. It gives us confidence.’

  ‘Paul, here’s the batch we took at the Rubai farm just outside the city, the one he thinks nobody knows about. You’ll see that a lot of them are of Mister Big’s heavies. But take a look at these.’

  ‘Barnie, notice the quality of the prints. Superb clarity.

  Wow! That’s Alex McCall. Must be the night when he was taken from the hospital. Did you hear about that?’

  Before his brother could answer, Paul was yelping his surprise.

  ‘Recognise her? It’s our dear sister and Lydia on their rescue mission. Fantastic stuff, James.’

  ‘Ah, this one is foxing me. Never seen this guy before. Doesn’t look too happy.’

  Barnie leaned forward and picked the print up for a closer look. ‘I know this face. I saw it somewhere and recently as well.’

  ‘You sure? You’ve only been back in the country a couple …’

  ‘Yep. Got it and wasn’t in Nairobi, not even in Kenya. Rebecca’s concert. Name of Fred Ross. That’s it. Fred Ross, from New York, or so he said. Unusual voice.’

  ‘But what could he be doing over here?’

  ‘At the Rubai place at two am. I must have missed something.’

  ‘I think I could help out on this, if he’s telling the truth about coming from New York.’

  * * *

  ‘Paul, this is what I’ve got. I think you’ll be interested. Bob Hawkins said that, once he sorted out the name, it was a piece of cake.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Fred Ross, better known as Alfredo Rossi, has form. A particularly nasty hit man, he does a lot of work outside the US. The description fits. Apparently the voice is a giveaway. Interpol know about him but can’t nail him for anything.’

  Paul put his hand to his forehead, deep in thought. He was rapidly confirming in his mind a terrifying implication. He shared his thinking.

  ‘This Fred Ross dropped in on the McCalls, claiming to be some kind of scientist. They welcome him. He stays the night and before he leaves he wangles a tour ‘round the farm. Stephen Kamau tells Alex that the young man who showed Ross around reported that the American bwana had been very interested in everything, even took notes. A couple of days later, well, you know about the fire. There were several fires, in fact, all connected to the farm’s power points.’

  Barnie took up the story with what he saw as a problem with the timing.

  ‘But we saw him in Rebecca’s concert, even before the fire. How come?’

  ‘Easy. Delayed action. Fire bursts out and he’s thousands of miles away, making sure that he is seen. Great alibi. Three days later his face is captured on Jimmy’s camera, visiting Abel Rubai’s farm.’

  ‘And this one, taken half an hour before …’

  Paul was horrified but not surprised by what he saw. ‘Barnie, there’s worse to come, and soon.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Rubai and Ross, Rossi, whatever. Do you remember a few months back Rubai’s eldest son, Julius, killed on Muthaiga golf course?’

  ‘Shot by his own gun. Read about in The Globe, tragic accident stuff.’

  ‘That’s not how Papa saw it. There was bad blood between Julius and Tom McCall. Trust me, the McCalls are in big danger. Rubai has tried twice already, using his local boys. They botched up so in comes a Yankee pro.’

  ‘He’s not going to hang about, Paul.’

  ‘Fancy a trip up-country?’

  ‘Like this minute? Bring it on. I hope the kids will understand about missing the trip into the park.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Miriam will take them. I’ll phone ahead. Miriam!’

  * * *

  ‘That’s the story, all of it.’

  Paul and Barnie, sitting on the veranda wall at Londiani, looked around at the assembled gathering of family and friends. The silence was deep and solemn. There were as many takes on what they had just heard as there were people in the room. The only face that Barnie saw that seemed relaxed about the story was his own sister. He and she had barely had time for a hug and an exchange of greetings before the meeting got under way. Now she was sitting between Hosea and Inspector Caroline, studying the expressions of those close to her. She was a comforting sight.

  First spoken reactions to the news focused on past events, specifically the fire and its aftermath. That was bad news that they could get their minds around.

  ‘You mean that bastard Rubai was behind all this? Paying for some foreigner to come over here to murder our people?’ Laurie Buckle was not finished. ‘Paul, I know he’s a slippery customer, but surely you can nail him for this!’

  Tom was standing behind the long sofa, reaching down to Rebecca who was holding the arm of her mother. Angela, in turn, pressed her face, wet with tears, to her husband’s cheek that was tense with the memory of his ordeal by fire. Tom asked Paul for confirmation of a technical point.

  ‘And this could have been set up days before it went off?’

  ‘Yes, it could, Tom.’

  ‘And nobody noticed?’

  ‘Tom, this man is very good at his work and he will rot in hell when the time comes. Our job is to make that time sooner rather than later.’

  Maria raised her hand, wanting to speak. ‘My heart is not made of stone, but I must say a hard thing. This town will grieve for many months to come. For some it will be a lifetime. Nothing can change the past, but the burden is big enough. We have the chance to change the future.’

  ‘Can Abel Rubai hate us so much?’

  ‘Maura, a crazy man can lose contact with reality.’

  ‘But he is not crazy, Alex. He is so drunk with power, he knows that he can do what he likes and nobody in this country, nobody, will do a thing about it.’

  Paul stood up from his place on the veranda wall and leaned forward aggressively. His eyes revealed the anger that was rising in him. ‘Now it is my turn to say a hard thing. Maura, we can do something about it. Abel Rubai is many things. He is ruthless; he is angry; and, yes, he is heartbroken. But he’s made a mistake and given us the chance to stop him in his tracks. A chance but not much of one. There is so much that we don’t know. Caroline, you and Hosea are the experts. What’s the best way of using what we’ve got?’

  ‘Two quick points. All right, Inspector?’

  ‘Go ahead, Hosea.’

  ‘This house is the target and Rossi is in a hurry. This is the best evidence we have.’ He paused. ‘We could be sitting on a bomb, at this very moment. I’m scared and I would be a lot less scared if we moved over to ‘Rusinga’, like now!’

  Two hours later there was a plan.

  * * *

  At ten o’clock on the following evening, Abel Rubai’s mobile rang. He was in his screen room and the door was ajar. A mild shock made him shudder. At last!

  ‘Rubai here.’

  Mister Big was in a state of high excitement. For the hour he had been alone in his sacred room, he had been unable to focus on any of the information flashing up on his screens. Nor had he noticed that the door behind him was ajar.

  Reuben had noticed on the three times he passed the forbidden room on his way to another part of the house. Through the open door he saw the green light coming from the screens, that and the electronic hum of machinery at work. This happened on the first two occasions that he passed. He assumed that his father had slipped out for some reason and left the equipment on.

  On the third passing he heard his father’s voice speak two words: ‘Londiani’ and ‘Naivasha’. He pulled up sharp and listened. Whoever was on the other end of the line was dominating
the exchanges. His father’s voice was agitated in a way he had never heard before. His part in the conversation was a series of staccato replies to what seemed to be instructions: ‘Yes, one am. I know that but where exactly? In the car? My car, but how did you know …? Written directions and a map. Right. No, I remember. I won’t move.’

  There was no more conversation. Neither was there the sound of any movement inside the room. From where he stood, unsure of what he should do next, Reuben could not have suspected that Papa’s mind was in a state of turmoil. For a few moments, Abel felt as though he was drowning in a wild confusion of random thoughts. The moment that he had been longing for was close by and his reaction was numbing fear. Irrelevant memories crowded in him, distracting him further. He made one audible reaction, a loud groan.

  Reuben, ignoring the restraints that in normal circumstances would have kept him firmly rooted to the spot on the outside of that room, afraid of rousing his father’s considerable bad temper, burst in.

  ‘Papa, is everything all right? Are you feeling ill? Can I help you?’

  Abel swung ‘round, stunned with surprise. The world was going crazy all ‘round him. For a few seconds, father and son stared at one another in disbelief. They had entered new territory in their relationship. Reuben had struck an unwitting blow against his father’s domination. Abel felt not anger but relief at his son’s intrusion. The sight of Reuben flashed up in Abel’s mind, the memory of a smiling, confident, even arrogant Julius.

  For a fleeting moment it was his dead son standing there in front of him.

  The moment passed, but its afterglow acted like an electric charge on Abel. The doubt, the fear, the guilty hesitation vanished instantly. He had rediscovered his purpose, his drive, his determination to finish his task, gloriously. A minor regret came and went. He needed the help of a stranger to achieve the wonderful, shocking, cleansing revenge.

  This stranger had ordered him to travel to Naivasha alone. But no, he would be his own man on this. Reuben would go with him.

  ‘Reuben, go up to your room and put on your darkest clothes. Be at the lodge in twenty minutes. We’re going on a journey together, perhaps the most important journey of our lives.’

  Chapter Thirty-five

  o high enough into the night sky and look down. The Central Rift is a dark mass that, to the eyes of a stranger up here, is a plain broken in places by strings and pools of light. Nairobi to the south and Nakuru to the north glow with city brightness. Naivasha, directly below, has its straggling ribbons of white dots reaching out a short distance from its heart, itself pale except for two large rectangles on the shores of the lake where the flower farmers are at their work of fooling their plants by creating their best imitations of the power of the African sun.

  Swoop down thousands of feet and your perception changes. Now you see the shadowy outlines of hills all around. On this moonlit night, the lake is an irregular stretch of grey plate, reflecting a cold light. From above, rings of security lamps define the home farms that snuggle along the shore. Londiani and Rusinga are silent from where we are.

  At this late hour, hardly a vehicle passes up or down South Lake Road. A single black Mercedes carrying two men is moving steadily along the lower road from the Escarpment. The road is straight, cutting through a wide, barren plain with the craggy mass of Longonot looming to their left. It is a good time for letting the thoughts wander.

  Darkness can be a friend, as it was on this night. Alfredo Rossi had set out as the brief Kenya dusk was turning into full night. He was well aware that this was a dangerous time to be travelling along even the A104, the busiest road in the country. But he was ready for any violent attempts to slow his progress. Two loaded pistols fitted with silencers lay on the seat beside him. They would see off any possible trouble.

  He turned off South Lake Road at the entrance to the country club and parked close to the road but out of sight behind a pair of heavy-limbed pepper trees. It was just a short walk to Londiani and, after reluctantly phoning Rubai, as promised, he set off carrying the two black leather cases that held his equipment. He took his time, moving off the road every fifty metres or so to make certain that he had no company.

  Once onto the McCall property, his first job was to check out the spot he had picked out for his paymaster. It would be very easy for Rubai to find although Alfredo had hopes that, at the last moment, the man himself would have a change of heart and not turn up.

  After that it was a question of waiting and keeping a close lookout. For half an hour he lay on the ground motionless, enough time to make doubly sure that no one was close by. He had chosen a spot with direct, straight sightlines to the house. In the distance to his left he could see the open wood fire burning low at the heart of the village. Up ahead, less than thirty metres away he saw that there were lights on in three upstairs rooms in what the workers called Big House. At last he had his target in front of him and he was pleased to see that at least some of the family were about. He opened one of his cases, took out the rifle parts and assembled them. It was his backup, but he hoped he would have a chance to use it for the personal touch it brought to a job. He was ready.

  He opened the second and smaller case. Through the heavily filtered light of a headlamp, he peered down. He checked the circuits. All connected and neatly fitted. It was the tenth time he had used the system, passed on to him for a big fee from a military man. The hard part had been completed in the dead of night forty-eight hours before. Now it was a matter of pressing a single red button. Those inside who did not cop it in the explosion would find all exits from the house blocked, except for the one down the steps from the veranda. He had been a first-class marksman since his schooldays. They would feel virtually nothing.

  The series of explosions was satisfactory and fire a billowing mass of red and gold. As he raised his rifle to his shoulder, he glanced across to his right. Rubai was on his feet, throwing one arm up in triumph.

  ‘The bastard!’

  Rossi had seen two where there should have been one. Never mind. He had a job to finish. He had his night sight trained on the veranda steps, unnecessarily. In the brightness of the blaze he could have picked out a black cat without straining his eyes. No one appeared. He unloaded and broke down the rifle into parts. In two hours he would be at the airport on his way back to civilisation. Nobody could have survived in that house. He was right.

  His focus was fixed in the wrong direction. Rubai and son saw what he could not. A stream of people was racing towards Londiani from Rusinga. He recognised the rolling gait of Tom McCall and behind him his father. He had brought his own rifle hoping that, at last, he would be able to pull a trigger and finish some of his own dirty work.

  ‘Watch out, Rossi! Over there!’

  It was the American, not the rich African big man who panicked. All Rossi could think of was his own safety. He had been outwitted by a bunch of hick town deadbeats. He would find his way back to the car over the fields. Getting away from this jinxed place was the only thing that counted. He was off.

  Abel ran forward. He could not resist one more scream of anger before he finished off at least one of his tormentors.

  ‘Better late than never, McCall! Your turn to feel some pain!’

  Tom stopped to peer into the darkness. He knew the voice too well. He was close enough to see the barrel pointing straight at him. As the rifle shot cracked the night sky he was diving for the ground. The pain in his shoulder came from his impact with the ground.

  He looked up to see Bertie Briggs slowly remove his rifle from his shoulder and, further away, Reuben Rubai bent over a prostrate body.

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