Flyaway / Windfall (41 page)

Stafford said, ‘Where the hell have they all gone?’ It was an offence to get out of a car in the Reserve; you could lose tourists that way, and that would be bad for business.

Chip stooped and picked up something which glittered in the sun—a pair of dark glasses with one lens broken. ‘They didn’t go voluntarily.’

‘Kidnapped!’ Stafford said incredulously. ‘Who’d want to do that?’

‘The
Jeshi la Mgambo?
said Nair. ‘Right, Chip?’

‘I’d say so.’ Chip opened the door of the Nissan and looked inside. ‘It’s stripped,’ he said. ‘No cameras, binoculars or anything else. Everything gone.’

Nair looked back along the road. ‘They’ll have had a man up there watching us.’ He turned and pointed. ‘Up there, too. They could still be around.’

‘Too damned right,’ said Chip. He moved quickly to their own Nissan and opened the door at the back. Stafford had inspected the vehicle so he did not know where he got them but when he turned around Chip was holding two
rifles. He tossed one to Nair and said to Stafford, ‘Can you use one of these?’

‘I have been known to,’ Stafford said dryly. ‘Now will you kindly tell me what’s happening?’

‘Later,’ Chip said, and gave him the rifle.

‘I can use one of those, too,’ said Curtis.

‘You’re going to Keekorok as fast as you can drive,’ said Chip. He took a notebook and pen from his pocket and scribbled rapidly. ‘Give this to the manager of the Lodge; he’ll radio the Police Post at Mara New Bridge.’ Going to the driver’s seat he fished out the map of Masai Mara and marked it. ‘That’s where we are now. Okay, Sergeant; move!’

Curtis looked at Stafford, who nodded. ‘Which truck?’ he asked.

‘Ours,’ said Chip. ‘But wait.’ He went to the back again and when he straightened he was holding a sub-machine-gun, one of the little Israeli Uzis which are supposed to be one of the best designs in the world. He also had two packs of rifle ammunition and a spare magazine for the Uzi. ‘On your way,’ he said. ‘Don’t stop for anyone. If anyone tries, keep your head down and run them over.’

The crackle of authority in Chip’s voice brought an automatic, ‘Yes, sir,’ from Curtis. He climbed into the driver’s seat, the wheels spun, and he was away in a cloud of dust.

Stafford checked the rifle. A sporting and not a military weapon, it was bolt action with a five-round magazine. The magazine was full so he put a round up the spout, set the safety catch, took out the magazine to put another round in, then put the rest of the ammunition into his pockets. Chip watched and nodded approvingly. ‘You’ve been there before,’ he said.

Nair was kneeling by the Nissan looking at the dusty road. ‘Six of them,’ he said. ‘Six, I think.’

‘Six of who?’ Stafford demanded irascibly.

‘Jeshi la Mgambo,’
said Chip. ‘Tanzanians. The so-called Tanzanian Police Reserve. A paramilitary force with bad discipline. This has happened three or four times before. They come across the border, pick up a busload of tourists, and hustle them across the border. Then they’re picked clean of everything they’ve got and left to walk back to Keekorok. The government has sent several protest notes to the Tanzanians.’ He shrugged, it stops for a while but then they start again.’

‘And they’re armed?’

His reply was brief and chilling. ‘Kalashnikovs.’

Stafford winced and looked down at the rifle he held. The Russian Kalashnikov is a fully automatic weapon which can spew out bullets as water from a hosepipe. The sporting rifle, while not exactly a toy, was not in the same league. ‘And we’re going after them?’

Chip gave him a quick glance. ‘What else would you suggest? Curtis is the oldest; nearly sixty. That’s why I sent him back. It could be a rough trip.’

Stafford said mildly, ‘On those grounds Curtis could have given you an argument.’

‘Besides, we have only three guns.’

Nair said, ‘The border is over there—two miles. They can’t have got much of a start and the prisoners will slow them down. Also they’ll have to cross the Losemai.’

‘Easy at this time of year,’ said Chip. ‘Let’s go.’

They went on foot because to track from a Nissan is impossible, and it was Chip who did the tracking. He went confidently, going by signs which eluded Stafford and as he marched behind he wondered about these men who could produce an armoury at the drop of a hat. An Uzi isn’t something you pick up casually at the corner shop.

In the African bush there is a species of acacia known as the wait-a-bit thorn. It is well named. Chip and Nair knew enough to avoid them while Stafford, trailing in the rear, did not. He found it was like being trapped in barbed wire and his temper suffered, as did his suit and his skin.

After a while he got the hang of it and learned to travel in the master’s footsteps and then it became better. Chip kept up a cracking pace, stopping occasionally to cast around. Twice he pointed out the signs of passage of those they were pursuing—footprints on the dusty earth. Nair nodded, and said in a low voice, ‘Military boots.’

Once Chip threw his arms wide and the party came to a sudden halt. He waved and they made a wide circuit of a patch of ground on which Stafford saw a snake, not very long but with a body as thick as a man’s brawny arm. Afterwards Chip told him it was a puff adder, and added, ‘Most snakes get out of the way when they sense you’re coming, but not the puff adder—he’s lazy. So, if you’re not careful you tread on him and he strikes. Very poisonous. Don’t walk about at night.’

It was hot and Stafford sweated copiously. Heavy physical exercise on the Equator at an altitude of 5,000 feet is not to be recommended if you are not acclimatized. The
Kenyan Olympics Team has a training camp at 9,000 feet where the oxygen is thin and the body becomes accustomed to its lack. When they go to sea level that gives a competitive edge, an advantage over the others. But Stafford was a reverse case and he suffered, while Chip and Nair were in better shape.

The terrain consisted of rolling plains with an occasional outcrop of rock. The trees, mostly flat-topped acacias, were scattered except where they tended to grow more thickly in the now dry watercourses, and the grass was waist high. The ground was so open that anyone looking back would surely see a long way.

Consequently they made good time in the valleys between the ridges but slowed as they came to a crest, creeping on their bellies to peer into the next shallow valley. As they came up to the top of one such ridge Chip said quietly, ‘We’re in Tanzania. There’s the Losemai.’

Ahead, stretching widely, was a green belt of thicker vegetation which marked the Losemai River. It looked no different from any similar place in the Kenyan Masai Mara. Chip took his binoculars, and said, ‘Hold up your hand to shade these from the sun.’

Stafford put up his hand to cast a shadow on the lenses, and reflected that Chip was up to all the tricks of the trade. He didn’t want a warning flash of light to be reflected; it would have been like a semaphore signal. He wondered where Chip had learned his trade. More and more there were certain things about Chip and Nair which didn’t add up into anything that made sense.

Chip surveyed the land ahead, the binoculars moving in a slow arc. Suddenly he stopped, pointing like a hunting dog. ‘There—entering the trees at two o’clock.’ Another military expression.

Away in the distance Stafford saw the minute dots and strained his eyes to count. Chip said, ‘I make it thirteen. You
were right, Nair;
Jeshi la Mgambo,
six of them. And six in the tour group plus Adam. They’re all there.’

Nair said, ‘Do you think they’ll stop at the Losemai? What happened before?’

‘They might,’ said Chip. ‘They’ve got good cover down there and it’s a convenient place to strip the tourists.’

Stafford said, ‘It seems a lot of trouble for little profit.’

Chip snorted. ‘Oh, there’s profit. Take your tourist; he comes here to photograph animals so he usually has a good camera, still or cine. Plus telephoto lenses and other goodies such as a wristwatch. He also has money, traveller’s cheques and credit cards, and there’s a good trade in cheques and cards. A tourist, particularly a German or American, can be worth up to £1,000 on the hoof, and that’s a damn sight more than the average Tanzanian makes in a year.’

‘Don’t bother about convincing Max of what he can see with his eyes,’ said Nair acidly. ‘How do we get there?’

‘The last of them has gone into the trees,’ said Chip. He took the glasses from his eyes, withdrew from the top of the ridge and rolled over on to his back, then looked about him. He jerked his thumb. ‘We can’t follow them that way; they might have someone keeping watch. I know they’re undisciplined, but we can’t take that chance.’

Nair looked along the ridge. ‘That thin line of trees there might be a stream going down to join the Losemai. It could give cover.’

‘We’ll take a look,’ said Chip.

They went along the ridge, keeping below the crest, and found that it was a stream or, rather, it would be when the rains came. Now it was dusty and dry although if one dug deep enough one would find dampness, enough to keep the acacias green in the dry season. The force of rushing water during the rains had carved into the soft soil making a channel which averaged a couple of feet deep. It would provide cover of a minimal kind.

So they went down on their bellies, following the winding of the watercourse. It was something Stafford had not done since his early days in the Army and he was out of practice. Once he jerked his hand up as he was about to put it on something which moved. It scuttled away and he saw it was a scorpion. He sweated and it was not all because of the African heat.

It took a long time but finally they got down to the shelter of the trees which fringed the Losemai and were able to stand up. Chip put his fingers to his lips and cautiously they made their way to the river and lay close to the bank, hidden by tall grass. Stafford parted the stems and looked to the other side.

It was not a big river by any standards; the depth at that time of year was minimal and Stafford supposed one could cross dry shod by jumping from sandbank to sandbank. The flow of water was turgidly slow and muddy brown. In a clearing on the other side a giraffe was at the water’s edge, legs astraddle and drinking. Something on a sandbank moved and he saw a crocodile slip into the water with barely a ripple, and changed his mind about jumping from sandbank to sandbank.

Chip said softly, ‘I don’t think they’ve crossed; that giraffe wouldn’t be there. We’ll go up river on this side very slowly.’

They went up river in military formation. Chip, with the sub-machine-gun, was point; behind him Stafford was back-up, and Nair was flanker, moving parallel but about fifty yards away and only visible momentarily as he flitted among the trees, his rifle at high port.

It was very slow and very sweaty work. The river bank was full of noises; the croaking of frogs and the chirping of grasshoppers and cicadas. Occasionally Stafford jerked as he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye but always it was the quick flash of a brightly coloured bird crossing the
river. Once there was a splash from the water and he saw a small brown animal swimming away because Chip had disturbed it in its waterside home.

Suddenly Chip went down on one knee and held the Uzi over his head with both hands. Stafford stopped and snapped off the safety catch on the rifle. Chip motioned him forward so he went up to him and knelt beside him. There was a distant murmur of voices and a louder burst of laughter. ‘Cover me,’ said Chip, and went forward on his belly.

For a moment Stafford lost sight of him in the long grass, then he came into view again. Chip beckoned and Stafford dropped flat and went to join him. Chip had parted the grass and was staring at something. ‘Take a look,’ he said quietly. The voices were louder.

Stafford parted the stems of grass and found that he was looking into a clearing by the river. They were all there, the Tanzanians and the tour group. The Tanzanians wore camou—flaged battle fatigues and were all armed with automatic rifles. Two of them wore grenades attached to their belts and one, with sergeant’s stripes, had a pistol in a holster.

The tour group was in a bad way. They had been stripped of most of their clothing and Mam’selle and Madame Roche were down to their bras and panties. Madame Roche’s face was blotchy as though she had been crying and her husband, a ridiculous figure with his big belly swelling over his underpants, was trying to comfort her. Michele Roche had paled under her tan so that her face was a jaundiced yellow. She looked scared, and young Kosters was talking quietly to her, his hand on her arm.

If Gunnarsson was frightened he did not show it. His face was dark with anger as he stooped to pick up a shoe and as a rifle was nudged into his back he straightened with a quick truculence and shouted, ‘Goddamn it, you’ve gotta leave us shoes.’ The answer was a shake of the head and another dig with the rifle. He dropped the shoe and glowered.

Hendrix, also stripped, was standing separately from the group flanked by two Tanzanians. The young black sitting on the ground with a set, expressionless face would be Adam Muliro, the courier. Before him, striking dazzling reflections from the sun, was the loot—cameras, lenses, binoculars and other equipment, together with a pile of clothing.

Slowly Stafford let the grass escape from his fingers to form a screen. Chip put his mouth to Stafford’s ear. ‘We can do nothing. We could cause a massacre.’

That was certainly true. Those Kalashnikov rifles scared Stafford and the sight of the grenades frightened him even more. He had been a soldier and he knew what those weapons could do. If, as had happened before, the prisoners were turned loose to walk back to Keekorok, the only discomfort they would suffer would be sunburn and cut and sore feet. Under the circumstances a shooting match was out of the question. They were outnumbered and out-gunned and the safety of the prisoners could not be risked.

Chip indicated that Stafford should withdraw so he wriggled backwards and then turned, still lying flat. Then he looked back to see Chip running towards him at a crouch. Chip waved his arm wildly as he passed and then flung himself headlong into a thick patch of long grass and vanished from sight. Stafford got the message and picked himself up and ran for the nearest tree.

Just as he got there he heard voices. The tree trunk was not as thick as his body and he set himself edge on to it, moving slowly around so as to keep it between him and the approaching men. They came closer and he could distinguish a baritone and a lighter voice; and could even catch words but did not understand the language. As they went by he risked a glance. Hendrix was hobbling by the river bank, walking painfully because of his bare feet. He was clad only in his underpants and behind him came two
Tanzanians, one of them prodding him in the back with a rifle. They disappeared from view.

Chip’s head came out of the grass. He waved his arm in a wide circle and then ran to the river bank and began to follow. Stafford turned to find Nair and saw him emerge from hiding. He waved him to follow Chip and then took off, making a wide circle. Chip was still at the point, Stafford was now flanker and Nair was rearguard. Stafford stayed about fifty or sixty yards from the river and kept parallel with it, occasionally going in as closely as he dared to keep track of Hendrix and his captors.

Once he got close enough to hear Hendrix wail, ‘Where are you taking me? What have I done?’ There was a thump and a muffled grunt and a short silence before he said desolately, ‘Christ! Oh, my Christ!’ Stafford guessed he had been hit in the kidneys by a rifle butt but did not risk going close enough to see.

They went on in this manner for quite a distance, perhaps half a mile, and then Stafford lost them. He backtracked a hundred yards and found that they had stopped. Hendrix was standing quite close to the edge of the river facing the Tanzanians, one quite young, the other an older man. The young one had Hendrix at rifle point keeping him covered; the other had his rifle slung and was smoking. He took the cigarette stub from his mouth, examined it critically, then casually dropped it and put his foot on it before he unslung his rifle. He lifted it to his shoulder and aimed at Hendrix, his finger on the trigger.

Hastily Stafford brought up his own rifle but it was then that Chip cut loose with the Uzi. The burst of fire caught the man in the back and he was flung forward. The young Tanzanian whirled around and Stafford shot him in the head. He grew a third eye in the middle of his forehead and staggered back and fell into the river with a splash. After that sudden outburst of noise there was a silence broken
only by insect noises and the whimpering of Hendrix who was on his knees staring unbelievingly at the sprawling body before him.

Chip came into sight, gun first and cautiously, and then Nair. Stafford went to join them. He said, ‘The bastard was going to shoot Hendrix,’ and heard the incredulity in his own voice. He snapped his fingers. ‘Just like that.’

Chip stirred the body with his foot, then bent down to check the pulse at the side of the neck. He straightened up. ‘They’ve gone crazy,’ he said blankly. ‘They’ve never tried anything like this before.’ He turned to Nair. ‘Get back there—about a hundred yards—and keep watch.’

Stafford went over to Hendrix. Tears streaked his face and he was making gagging noises at the back of his throat. Stafford tried to help him to his feet but he went limp and lay down in a foetal position. ‘For God’s sake, man,’ said Stafford. ‘Get up. Do you
want
to be killed?’

‘He’s been nearly frightened to death,’ said Chip.

‘He’ll be the death of us if he doesn’t move,’ Stafford said grimly. ‘They’ll have heard those shots.’

‘They were expecting to hear shots,’ said Chip. ‘Let’s hope they can’t tell the difference between an Uzi and a Kalashnikov. But they’re pretty far away.’ He bent down and began going through the pockets of the dead man.

Stafford walked to the river bank which here was about six feet high. The river moved sluggishly and the body of the man he had shot had not drifted far. He was the first man Stafford had ever killed as far as he knew and he felt a little sick. His soldiering had been mostly in peacetime and even in those faraway days in Korea it was surprising how rarely you saw the enemy you were shooting at. And later they did not go too much for bodies in Military Intelligence.

Chip said, ‘No identification; just this.’ He held up a wad of currency. ‘Kenya twenty-shilling notes.’ He put them into his pocket. ‘Help me get his clothes off.’