Elephant Dropping (9781301895199) (19 page)

It was cool in
Nairobi and he was glad of the jacket. He caught a taxi into town
and took a room at the New Stanley Hotel. He made calls to a
contact in Dar-es-Salaam in Tanzania, and spent the next few hours
in his room working, jotting down notes on a legal pad. At four
thirty, Patel changed into a new set of clothes, and caught a cab.
He arrived at the bar and grill a few minutes after five - he
expected Kamau to be late anyway and chose a quiet table away from
the roasting meat and settled down to wait.

Kamau arrived
just before six. After ordering a beer, they settled down to
business. First, Patel asked for the passport and Kamau handed it
over. He took a moment to flick through the details, his picture
and new identity as Noordin J. Shah. It was an original Kenyan
passport.

‘Good well
done,’ Patel smiled. He then leaned forward looking serious. ‘Kamau
my friend, I have a problem. A certain person has become a nuisance
to me. He is interfering in my business, and I need to make him
stop.’

‘I see,’ said
Kamau. ‘Are you looking for a temporary solution to this problem,
or a permanent one?’

‘Permanent,’
Patel said confidently.

Kamau leaned
closer, his voice quiet. ‘These matters can be arranged, but
permanent solutions are very costly and it depends on the
circumstances. I think I have heard of someone who can offer
solutions such as these.’

Patel slid a
piece of paper across the table with a list of Brian’s details on
it. ‘This is my problem.’

Kamau glanced
at the list. ‘No photo?’ He asked.

‘No, but I know
where he will be. He is driving to Malindi on Sunday and must not
get there.’

‘Sunday, but
that’s only the day after tomorrow!’ hissed Kamau. ‘Are you sure
you want to do this, can’t you give him a warning?’

Patel shook his
head. ‘I already have, it hasn’t worked. You know how these
mzungu
s are.’

Kamau smiled.
‘Yes if they think they are right, they assume we want to be right
also.’

‘Exactly and
then they start messing things up trying to fix stuff that doesn’t
need fixing and I want this one stopped now.’ Patel slapped his
index finger down on the edge of the table.

Kamau scratched
his head. ‘Give me a few moments, I will call a man I know, Wait
here.’ He got up from the table and disappeared into the throng of
patrons.

Patel sat
waiting, if he was nervous there was no outward display.

Kamau returned
after ten minutes, looking ill at ease. ‘I have called someone; he
will meet us here in half an hour.’ The tension round the table was
palpable.

Patel said.
‘No, I only want to deal with you. It will be worth your while.
What sort of money are we talking about?’

‘My contact
said half a million, because it’s a rush job. If you can afford to
wait, you can negotiate.’

‘No that’s
fine, and I will add another two hundred to you. Would that be
ok?’

He nodded
uncertainly. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

Patel slid a
package across the table. ‘Half now and half on completion, it must
appear to be some sort of accident, and I want it reported as such
in the Monday newspapers.’

Kamau digested
this information. ‘Yes that can be done, but listen carefully to
me,’ pointing his index finger in Patel’s face and putting his
other hand on the package, ‘don’t delay the rest of the payment -
you don’t fool around with these people.’ Kamau was sweating
lightly, his voice tense. ‘You can’t call me up in two minutes and
say you have changed your mind, you understand?’

‘No problem, I
have made my decision, you just make sure the job is done. You
should know that under no account is this contact of yours to know
I am the client,’ Patel said a little coldly.

Kamau was upset
at the tone. ‘You won’t stay for another beer?’

‘Not this time
my friend, besides you have some work to do.’ He pointed at the
package and giggled. ‘Better put that away.’ Patel got up and
quickly left the bar, as the immigration officer watched.

‘God help me,’
Kamau breathed. I think I just sat with a devil.

Half an hour
later a large man sat down at Kamau’s table. ‘I’m Joe Rubia, we
spoke on the phone.’ He announced.

‘Oh, how did
you know it was me?’ Kamau asked.

‘It’s my job to
know these things,’ he replied, snapping his fingers in the air,
beckoning another man to join them. ‘Order me one of those,’ Joe
instructed pointing at a beer, ‘and some roast meat,’ he added, and
turned to Kamau. ‘So tell me, what’s the job?’

Kamau slid the
list over, Joe looked through it. ‘No photo?’

‘No. How long
have you been in the bar?’ Kamau asked.

‘I got here
after you called me,’ Joe replied. ‘Don’t worry, about the
muhindi
, any idea why he wants the job done?’

‘He said the
man was interfering in his business.’

‘This man is a
mzungu
? Do you have any ideas? Joe asked.

Kamau was
surprised. ‘You’re asking me?’

‘Yes I am. I
like to hear ideas.’

‘The man is
driving down to Mombasa on Sunday. That road is very dangerous,’
ventured Kamau.

Joe spoke fast,
the words articulated clear and sharp. ‘Yes, it’s also very crowded
on and off the road, not so easy to stage an accident, but, he is
planning to go through the park,’ scanning the list. ‘Tsavo East,
that’s what it says here. Is that true?’

‘This is all
the information I have.’ Kamau replied.

The bodyguard
returned and put down a beer for Joe and a soda for himself. Joe
ignored him and took a pull on the beer, studying Kamau’s face
openly. Kamau was starting to sweat in earnest, this man really
unnerved him. ‘There’s a place called Lugard’s falls in Tsavo east,
have you ever been there?’ he asked Kamau.

‘No, I haven’t,
but what does this have to do with me? I would rather not
know.’

‘It’s very
interesting,’ Joe went on regardless. ‘Three rivers join up to
become one big river which is then compressed into a series of
waterfalls. Falling in stages over two hundred feet, the rocks have
been carved into caverns over the centuries. It is like a giant
washing machine. At the bottom are some of the largest crocodiles
in Africa. This would be a bad place to fall into when taking a
photograph. Even if your body made it to the bottom in one piece -
those crocks…,’Joe shrugged.

Kamau remained
silent, just nodding, getting the gist of it. ‘Look, I don’t really
need to know any more.’

‘Oh but you
do,’ Joe corrected. ‘You will have to get a report to the paper and
it needs to be accurate, or I won’t get the rest of my money. Can
you get that into Monday’s paper? Tourist tragically found missing
at pleasure site etc., car found abandoned. Search party sent out.
Crocks spotted that sort of thing? Eyewitness reports man
travelling alone, maybe suicide?’

‘Look I’m not a
fool,’ Kamau protested.

‘Yes but you’re
sweating. Can’t see that on a mobile; just want to know if you have
the balls.’

‘Don’t worry, I
have the contacts, besides it’s hot in here.’ A waitress
interrupted them with a plate of roast meat and sliced tomatoes.
The bodyguard tested the food and chewed on it for a while and then
served his boss. Joe immediately tucked in, inviting Kamau to join
him.

Joe went over
the list chewing. ‘Home address, good, Range Rover - NNB markings,
mobile number, guy works for a bank? Must be a
muhindi
with
fingers deep in the pie, ehh? Always sex or money, human’s greatest
motivators. Eat,’ he pushed the plate at Kamau, ‘settles the
nerves.’

He
half-heartedly joined in, his beer had gone flat, unattended with
the tension.

Joe, at last
repleat, licked his lips noisily. ‘That was good,’ he announced and
took a swig of his beer, burping loudly.

‘Have you got
the money? Of course you have, take your cut and hand the rest
over,’ he instructed. Kamau fumbled with the package under the
table, his fingers shaking. He took out his half, and handed over
the remains. Joe picked up the package, got to his feet and
pocketed the list. ‘Thanks,’ he leaned over Kamau, holding him with
his eye. ‘Now next time we talk, it will be to arrange the final
payment. I will call you to confirm when to put that thing in the
paper, and try to relax will you, don’t leave town.’

Joe left with
his bodyguard leading the way. Two other hard looking men joined
them - Joe it seemed did not travel alone.

Kamau sat there
in a daze, realising that Rubia - or at least one of his watchers -
had observed his meeting with Patel. He was no coward, but his
encounter with the hit man had really scared him. He felt drained
and vowed never to go through this experience again.

*

Joe got into
the rear of a large black Mercedes parked near the bar entrance,
his bodyguard beside him; the two other men got into a silver
coloured Landcruiser and followed the Mercedes out onto the
highway.

He got onto his
mobile phone immediately. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘we have a rush job
on, plenty of money can we meet? I’m driving down Waiyaki way now.
Ok, good, see you then.’ He instructed his driver to look for the
NNB Apartments and told him to park a little distance from the
entrance as his bodyguard went to look for a cream coloured Range
Rover. The bodyguard returned shortly, confirming the car was
there. Rubia gave the driver another address in a more affluent
residential area of Nairobi. The driver stopped outside an imposing
set of gates. An armed sentry stood beside them. Rubia identified
himself.

‘You’re
welcome, Sir. The boss is expecting you, but you will have to
proceed on foot. Don’t worry about the dogs; they are all on leads
at this time.’ Rubia entered the compound. An hour later he
emerged, and instructed the driver to take him home.

EIGHT

After a
restless night, Brian let himself out of the flat at ten and made
his way on foot to the nearest
matatu
stop. As each mini bus
pulled up, the tout tried to bundle him into the overcrowded
vehicle; with no name boards on the minibuses, and the touts
yelling out incomprehensible names, Brian almost gave up.

Luckily, an
ageing Peugeot taxi stopped to let out a fare, the back seat was a
modified sofa, the arms amputated to fit. He sank into the seat,
grateful to get away from the chaos. He gave the taxi driver Doug’s
address. The driver muttered. ‘Other way,’ and suddenly pulled out
in a wobbling U turn against both streams of traffic, bumping over
the central divide and crunching his exhaust. Several cars braked
violently, tires screeching as the taxi made it to the right hand
lane. ‘Roundabout too far,’ he said chuckling. Brian just shook his
head, would he ever get used to the driving methods of Kenyans.

At the garage,
he was pleased to see Juma wiping down his Range Rover. Doug
emerged from his workshop. ‘Morning captain,’ he announced
cheerily, pointing at the car. ‘She’s all yours, ready to rock and
roll.’

Brian reached
out to shake Doug’s hand and shook his wrist instead, the bandage
round the injured digit now oil stained. ‘How’s the thumb?’

‘Oh, I will
survive.’ Doug smiled, moving towards the car and lifted the
bonnet. ‘There is your new battery. Had to change one terminal
-done all the filters, oil and grease.’ He went to the driver’s
side, turned the key and the engine leapt to life, settling down to
a sweet sounding rumble. Doug pointed at the front of the car.
‘Changed the shock absorber, bushes, and modified the mounting, and
of course, the wheel stud and spare. Where are you headed?’

‘Huh?’

‘Safari - where
are you going?’

‘Oh, to
Malindi.’

‘Really?’ Doug
looked reflective.

‘Yes, I wanted
to ask you about the road.’

‘I have a map
in the office, let me show you.’ Doug handed Brian his bill. ‘You
should be able to claim that back from your company.’

‘Thanks, this
will be a big help.’

Doug rummaged
around in his desk under a pile of papers. ‘That map should be here
somewhere. When are you leaving?’

‘Tomorrow
morning,’ Brian replied.

‘And how long
are you going for?’

‘Oh, a week or
so - depends on how much work I get done.’

Doug found the
map and spread it out on the table. He pointed at a thin red line.
‘This main road goes direct to Mombasa, 300 miles of single lane
tarmac most of the way, though you may come across detours round
bad sections. The lorries are overloaded and break up the shoulders
of the road passing each other. The road is also narrow and bloody
dangerous - never drive it at night. From Mombasa,’ Doug moved his
finger, ‘you take a similar tarmac road that follows the coast
here; 70 miles to Malindi.’

‘How about the
route through the game park?’

Doug shifted
his finger. ‘Yes, you can cut across Tsavo East Park turning in at
Manyani gate. This is dirt all the way, and you won’t have any
trouble. The only bad bit is out of the park on the last stretch
into Malindi, there are sections of black cotton, and if it rains
it’s hell. Ever driven in mud?’

‘No, this is
the first 4x4 I have driven. Black cotton?’

‘It’s a type of
clay and when wet, it’s a right bugger, so slippery, it’s hard to
stand upright let alone drive on.’

‘Like black
ice?’ Ventured Brian.

‘I wouldn’t
know, it’s not a hard surface, easy to bury the car up to its
axles.’

‘Hmm, sounds
like fun,’ Brian said.

‘When it’s dry
no problem, but just a sprinkling of water and it’s no fun at all.’
Doug stubbed a cigarette out on the floor. ‘I once spent three days
camped beside a Bedford 4 x 4, waiting for the road to dry out. All
we had to eat was stale biscuits. We had to dig that heavy bastard
out of its own ruts and moved it all of two hundred yards in
twenty-four hours, heartbreaking work.’