by Peter Riva
Pero saw his assailant tumble over. Pero was clear. The train accelerated with usual Swiss efficiency, plenty of hydroelectric power. Pour it on, please, Mr. Engineer.
This train ticket collector was, déjà vu, not amused, they never are with rowdy behavior on their trains. He was taller and thinner than the little mother from the night before, but the anger was real. Unlike her, he could not be bribed. Try and you’ll be arrested. In Switzerland, you’re guilty until proven innocent. With what he was carrying, he’d spend quite a long time in jail.
Pero had to explain himself, so he lied. He said he had pulled a wodge of money out of his pocket, just like this and as he was about to buy a ticket and they had seen his cash. The conductor scolded him, took the requisite second-class fare to Basel, and told Pero to sit down and not cause any more of a disturbance for the ninety-minute ride to Basel.
“Oui, monsieur, merci. Je m’excuse …” What Pero didn’t explain was that he’d be getting off before Basel at Bulle.
Bulle was the gateway to Saanenland. Pero needed transportation to Berlin. He was sure all the airports would be watched now. But Gstaad is in Saanenland. Her residents, the truly rich, had loads of private planes at Saanen, where the single runway airport was laid out, running along the valley floor beneath towering skiing mountains. In Bulle, he could get a taxi to Saanen. And in Saanen, hopefully, a private plane for hire.
Pero had an hour left on the train. Time to change and try to call Nairobi. It was late, but he felt sure Amogh and Mbuno could still be at the Aga Kahn Hospital.
Chapter 11
Mbuno
Swiss trains have an aura of privacy, like Swiss banks. Cell phones are considered rude interruptions to the stately, silent, powerful means of transportation. Like steamships passing over land, the trains in Switzerland may come in different sizes and shapes, exhibit different speeds and levels of comfort, but they all share one thing in common: they are the finest in the world. There are narrow-gage mountain trains, winding their way up picture-perfect passes, in and out of snow, taking you to alpine retreats. There are rapides running along valleys between mountain ranges, with supervised kindergarten carriages to allow parents a moment of peace—in a different part of the train. There are dining cars that compete for Michelin Guide ratings. If a Swiss train is ever late, you know it originated in Italy or France. The last time a Swiss origin train was late an avalanche was the cause. An act of God. Anything short of that is controlled—Swiss efficiency.
Pero needed to call Mbuno. Amogh, really, and hope then to get Mbuno, but he didn’t know if he would have to shout to be heard. Moving cell phones and very long distance calls are not always compatible. So as not to disturb les autres passengers, he walked off to the restroom with his bag, intending to change and call at the same time.
The toilet was small, just a metal toilet and a tiny sink. He stripped off, stuffed the clothing he was wearing into the bag, donned the tracksuit, and reversed the coat—green day-glow side out. Next chance he got, he’d throw the contents of the bag away. The Russian radioactive bag he kept in the coat pocket. The older train carriage had an end-of-carriage jump seat for passenger overspill or for people with muddy shoes. Swiss allow for people’s desire for cleanliness.
He sat down and realized he was feeling tired. And he was hungry. The food cart woman, pushing her assortment of “sandwiches, bonbons, cola, chocolat” should be along soon. Sam had given Pero two hundred Swiss francs, so he took out a ten franc bill and kept it handy.
He scrolled the phone address list to Amogh and pushed send. After two tries, the phone rang and Amogh answered, “Hello?”
“Hello Amogh. Pero here. Sorry to have been out of touch.”
“Ah, Pero, good of you to call. There’s good news and not so good news. First the not so good news: you are about thirty-five thousand dollars down. Is that all right? I really am terribly sorry.”
“Hey, that’s fine. The results you got at the Aga mean the money was well spent. Anything more you need, don’t hesitate.”
“Ah, then can I have a new car? The Porsche is getting a bit long in the tooth.”
For him to make jokes meant things were going very well. “Sure, Amogh, I’ll authorize that, in trade for the portrait over your father’s desk.” Mr. Ranjeet had a pencil portrait done by Hemingway of the Maasai—he had found it in a Nairobi auction of a deceased white hunter’s effects. It was wonderful and had twelve lines by Hemingway on a Maasai’s trustworthiness and friendship.
Amogh was chuckling, “Not for sale, but I could ask him to leave it to you in his will. Now, really, for the good news: Mama Mbuno—that’s how the hospital is referring to her by the way, never by her name—is doing fine. She’s got no fever, the infection seems on the mend, and what’s really wonderful is she’s feeling strong enough to suggest that Mbuno go home for the night. No way, he’s still here charming the nurses.” It was two hours later in Nairobi, past eight, past Mbuno’s normal bedtime of darkness, Pero was sure of that.
“You’re kidding? She’s feeling that well? That’s marvelous.”
“Yes, but she’ll needs tons of rehabilitation. The doctors now call it rehab. Seems she’ll need a good deal of special rehab at that. The two doctors you flew in—yeah, sorry that’s part of the bill—anyway those two fellows say that the best place is in Italy, south of Rome, on the coast. Problem is, I can’t see them being separated. They are talking about five weeks at least. Her hips are mending, but walking will be painful for a while.”
“They don’t know the Waliangulu. She’ll be walking fine in three weeks. Look, make sure Mbuno goes with her … book them in together. That part of the world will be warm enough, I expect.”
“Yes, well … I have to say the two dottori, as they’re called here, are very fond of Signore et Signora Mbuno. I am sure they’d look after them if you’re sure. There is the question of convincing Mbuno.”
If something happened to him, Pero wanted to make sure this was arranged. Convalescence, with proper care, was essential for her—and for his friend. Mbuno may make a poor nursemaid, and Pero knew her pride would suffer if she made him one. Recovery was essential for their happiness. Pero knew it was an African thing, if anything can be so generalized to be called after a continent. Pride and responsibility. A closeness to nature that expects, no demands, self-reliance in all people. Waliangulus have this self-respect in abundance. They had earned it over hundreds of thousands of years. “Is Mbuno around?”
“I’ll get him, hold on.” He heard Amogh calling down an echoing hall to Mbuno. There was the shuffling of sandals on hospital linoleum—Pero remembered that Mbuno always drags his feet indoors, never in the bush. Pero had never figured out why, wondering if it was maybe the unnatural evenness of the floor.
“Mr. Pero, bwana?”
“Ndiyo Mbuno. How are you? And your good woman wife?”
“She is most better.” He pronounced it betta. “You have saved me bwana, again, but this time it is not a life I can repay. But I am most happy.”
“Mbuno, there is a time to stop keeping count. There is nothing, not one thing, I could or would not do for you and your family. It is my own life I am saving.”
“These things are not said between morani or mzee like us.” morani are warriors, mzee elders.
“Well, although I am not in Kenya right now, friend, part of me always is. So please accept my apologies.”
“No, I do not. Do not apologize, tafadhali,” please. “You are right in what you say, we must stop to keep count. It has been a game. The game must stop. Brothers do not keep count.”
“Mbuno, I am honored. Asanti sana.” Thank you very much. It was not an idle thing for him to include Pero in his family. This wasn’t a Western use of the word brother, it was deep, primordial, and blood strong.
Mbuno imitated Pero’s voice: “You are most welcome.” And he laughed. Pero did not think he had ever heard Mbuno laugh that way aloud. He joined in.
“Mbuno, t
here is another matter. Would you and your wife, whenever the dottori … you know who I mean?”
“Ndiyo, I do.”
“When they say it is all right for your wife to travel, would you consider going to Italy—to a place to make Niamba much better? I could join you there.”
“The dottori say she will be permitted to leave in one week if there is no infection. My brother asks me to go this place?”
Pero had no idea of the protocol here. Family structure is a rigid matter in Waliangulu tribal life. “Your little brother advises you to go and adds that he thinks it is wise. And he hopes you will agree.”
“It will help you?” Mbuno visibly wanted an excuse now. An excuse to agree to Pero’s request. Mbuno must have known he couldn’t handle her recovery for himself.
“Ndiyo.”
“It will help Niamba?”
“I am certain it will make her strong again.”
“Is it not too many shillings?”
“No, my older brother, that is the easiest part. The difficult part will be the plane ride, which will be painful for Niamba, and the strangeness of the land by the ocean, in Italy.”
“Will they have fish? Niamba likes fish.”
“Ndiyo, they have wonderful fish, hundreds of types, she can have any she likes.”
A man of decision, Mbuno’s voice grew decisive, “Good, I think this place near the ocean will be good for her. I agree. I will tell the dottori and Mr. Amogh that we will be going. Will you come here to this place to safari with us?”
The train rattled over the points in Morges and brought Pero back to reality. “Maybe Mbuno, but I have work to finish here …”
“Is it as before Pero?” He did not call him Mr. Pero or Bwana Pero. After more than two decades, their relationship had changed, permanently.
The train passed through a short tunnel and Pero lost signal for a second, it came back “… said, is it like before with the Arabs?”
Pero couldn’t lie to him. “Ndiyo, but not Arabs this time, more like Nazis, you know the Germans during the last Great War?”
“I do. Do you need me there Pero?”
Pero thought for a moment. He felt he could use some of Mbuno’s famous logic and bushcraft, but he couldn’t endanger Mbuno in this strange element. Mbuno had proved himself in the bush hundreds of times. Civilization, so-called, might overwhelm his survival talents.
But where Pero saw confusion, Mbuno saw clarity. When Pero saw simplicity, Mbuno gave him perspective. Mbuno knew the law of the jungle—all the animals including man—better than any. Pero needed advice.
“Mbuno, the people, or rather the man who threatens us, the one we’re up against is a very, very powerful man, more powerful than Moi was.” Moi was the ex-president of Kenya, thoroughly corrupt and, often, brutal. “He was head or part of the Stasi, a communist secret police force. He now controls a bank and employees, almost a small private army, like a tribe. These men are all dangerous, killers, violent people.”
“Shufti?”
“Yes, but much more focused, much more, what’s the word … capable. And they have police who are corrupt on their side.”
“This is not good Pero. You should run away, right now.”
“Yes, except they’ve kidnapped Heep and another innocent man. I need to find them and rescue them. And I need to stop this man—he has material to make a large bomb.”
“This man, is he like an animal? Is he, in your dreams, an animal?” Waliangulu felt that dreams were prescient—they told you what you needed to know. What Pero was up against had given Heep and Pero the impression of a hyena. A ravenous, determined, fierce and, above all, cunning hyena. He told Mbuno. It was his subconscious thought in Berlin perhaps, not a dream, but that’s close enough. He hoped.
“Ah, that is most bad. The hyena always has special place he keeps food, a meat locker the British call it. It is like the crocodile who never eat fresh meat. They put it in the special place, always the same special place, and eat it later. Hyenas never change the special place for their food, the kill they have carried away, even if they know you have found them there. They will die protecting it. It is how we track and kill hyena.”
“Do they have more than one place?”
“Oh yes, but the hyena is not like the crocodile who fills one place and then fills the next on the river bottom. The hyena will, many times, put one type of kill meat in one cave or hole in the ground, and another animal meat in another place. He is always very careful, he never mixes them up. If you are looking for our friend Heep and this other man, look in the hyena’s meat locker where he keeps the same type of meat.” Pero was suddenly sure that this hyena’s “meat” was everything to do with the gold and uranium.
It was the clarity he needed.
Now, he needed to find out Tische’s contacts, his “lairs,” that could lead him to where Tische had stashed Heep and Danny. Because he now firmly believed that Tische would have stashed them with the gold/uranium project. He also will have stashed them safely because he might need them to bargain with Pero or whomever. “Asanti sana Mbuno, I think you have helped, asanti, asanti.”
“Good. Is Miss Mary also in danger?” Mbuno knew Heep and Mary Lever were married.
“No, she is at least safe in Florida with Pastor Threte …” he let his voice hang.
“Ah, is there another, perhaps another woman in danger? It is always most difficult when a woman suffers, is it not?”
“It is. This time there is another woman—who reminds me of that Bonobo female. You remember? We filmed her for two weeks, and you had tracked her for a month or so.”
“Ndiyo, I do, she was special.”
“Well, Susanna, that’s her name, is not in immediate danger, but she is involved. If I don’t get this right … I only have thirty hours.”
“You will, we will.” Mbuno paused. “Brother, you will now take an order from me. Arrange for a flight for me to you. Immediately.”
“Mbuno I can’t ask …”
“You do not ask, I tell. Niamba is safe here with dottori and Amogh. Amogh and dottori will keep guard and transport to safari place by the sea where I will join them. You give order, they will follow. Now you follow my order. I leave tonight, will go to airport immediately.”
Pero heard the determination, understood the new relationship was already being tested. Pero’s big brother was to be obeyed. He had no option but to agree. He did so, explaining that Amogh would have to get him to the airport and buy the ticket.
“Ndiyo, he has that fast car. He will take me to Langata,” to his home in Giraffe Manor, “I will get passport and clothing Amogh’s father already sent over last time you were here, and then we go to Nairobi Airport. Where do I fly to?”
“Take the next flight to Zurich, Switzerland. It leaves late, around nine-thirty I think. I can meet you there, in Zurich. It lands around three-thirty a.m. If I do not show up, call Mr. Lewis—remember him?” Mbuno said he did. “Here’s the number …” and Pero read it to him twice until he was sure Mbuno had it accurately. “You must travel first class. It will help with Swiss immigration. Ask Amogh to give you one thousand dollars, he can get it from his father.”
“Ndiyo. All will be done as you say. Now, brother, hear me: you are a brave morani. But remember, that if I had lost Niamba, I would be like you, my little brother, lone.” He meant lone, not alone or lonely, but acting as one, not part of a pair. Lone described Pero’s status perfectly. “It is not good to be a lone morani. It is time for you to bring a woman fruit.” There it was, the second time in the day, advice, logical, clear, and impossible to fathom. Maybe when this is all over … Until then, Pero decided to try to put it out of his mind.
Chapter 12
Saanen
The train pulled into Bulle Station. Pero alighted on the platform, watched other passengers get off and some get on, ducked away from the overhead lights behind a pillar, and waited until the train pulled out, proceeding on to Basel. When the platform was empty,
he made his way to the nearest telephone box and called a local taxi, selected at random from the public phone book. When the taxi pulled up five minutes later, Pero still didn’t see anyone around. Bulle isn’t exactly a buzzing metropolis at 6:30 p.m. in the dark.
The ride to Saanen was cold and snowy. The driver had studded tires—Pero had asked when he booked him—and the journey, past Gruyère (where they make the cheese) was made in under ninety minutes. Pero had the taxi drop him at the Saanen Bahnhof, the station for the picturesque narrow-gage MOB mountain train.
A block over, he went into the Saanerhof, the largest local hotel, into the stube (a café bar restaurant). Pero needed to waste time until Saanen’s residents went off to bed around ten p.m. Besides, he was still hungry. So he ordered a full hot meal; soup followed by geschnetzeltes mit rosti and then crème caramel. The soup was potato leek. The sliced, sautéed veal was smothered in cream, and the fried potatoes called rosti, like hash browns, were crisp and wonderful. The Swiss may not change menus often, but Pero thought who cares when the quality is this good? The crème caramel was, he admitted to himself, perhaps overdoing it, but he justified the extravagance by saying to himself that he needed the sugar.
The meal finished, he added up the little paper receipts that had been accumulating in a shot glass as the courses arrived. He paid his bill—the tip is always included in Switzerland—by leaving the correct change on the table. It was only then he realized he was seriously tired.