Butler Did It!
A
Matthew Butler Adventure
by Keith and Sally Pomeroy
Copyright 2011 Keith and Sally Pomeroy
Smashwords Edition
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.
<<>>
MOMBASA, KENYA
Tommy Cooper jumped into the passenger seat of the battered jeep pickup.
“Did you find any Tequila?” asked Matthew Butler, not looking up from the map he was examining.
“No,” Tommy replied, “I had to settle for Rum. I guess there’s not much call for Tequila in Kenya. I also got Captain Z his Johnny Walker. For beer, I got plenty of Tusker, the Budweiser of Africa. I grabbed the last of the Guinness, and to round out the order, I got 10 cases of a South African beer called ‘Old Four Legs’.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Butler grunted half-heartedly. “Is it any good?”
“No clue!”
“Well, it really doesn’t matter.” Butler reflected. “As long as the label says its beer, the Pelican’s crew will drink it.”
“The store said they’d deliver the order to the ship as soon as they can borrow a truck,” said Tommy.
“Good, we can check booze off the list.”
“The owner offered me a taste of something called kumi-kumi. Unfortunately, he said it had to be drunk on-site, and I didn’t think you’d want to wait while I did the local moonshine justice.” Tommy said.
“That’s just as well, seeing as how you can launch a fighter jet on kumi-kumi. It’s not a friendly drink.” Matthew said, as he slipped the jeep into gear.” As I understand it, it’s a local concoction made from coconuts. Well, mostly coconuts. Apparently it brews in a matter of hours, and has been known to make a man insane in the same amount of time.”
“Sounds like I missed an opportunity to drink with the Big Boys.”
“Nah, the boys that drink kumi-kumi don’t live to be Big Boys.” Matthew lifted his ball cap, revealing sweaty blonde curls plastered to his head. “So, what else do we need to get?”
Tommy consulted a hastily written note, wrinkled and sweat stained from riding in a shirt pocket in the midday heat.
“It looks like we’ve got to go down to the street market. EB wants some local handicrafts,” he said, referring to the chief engineer on the Pelican. “She specified either carved wooden sculptures of African animals, or some of those happy-face tribal masks.”
“What in God’s name does she want with African tourist schlock?”
“She sends the stuff home to her brothers, a little something from everywhere we visit. Anyway, since we left Mozambique in a hurry, she claims she didn’t get time to do her usual souvenir shopping, and today she had to stay aboard to repair that number two engine, so you and I have been delegated to do it for her.”
“Lucky us. Well, we had one hell of an excuse for leaving Mozambique in a hurry. We were too busy running for our lives to do any souvenir shopping.” Matthew declared. “It’s been over a week and I’m still dragging from the adrenaline hangover.”
“So am I.” Tommy sympathized.
Tommy and Butler were silent as they drove the rented rust and white colored jeep pickup through the dusty streets of Mombasa at a crawl. The slow, sweltering afternoon closed in around them. Even the perspiring pedestrians were moving faster than the traffic jam that filled the area around the street market. Thunderstorms loomed on the horizon, pressurizing the seventy percent humidity into a suffocating ninety-degree sauna.
As they suffered through the urban congestion, each man was thinking of the dangers they had faced in the remote gold mining region of northern Mozambique. They had gone in with a group of military experts testing land mine clearing devices, and a group of innovators bringing water purification technology to the villages along the Romuva River. The illegal and badly organized gold rush was happening on the border with Tanzania. Placer mining was filling the river with mud, defiling the only water source for hundreds of villagers living along its banks. Unfortunately, as it turned out, a militant mining boss had objected to their presence in the area. Getting out alive had been a major accomplishment.
“You know, I think a little rest and relaxation is in order,” said Matthew. “We have a couple of weeks before we have to start the next project off Sri Lanka. I think we should arrange for some playtime on the way. I was thinking of asking Captain Z if he would mind dropping anchor in the Seychelles for a few days.”
“Hey! That sounds great!” Tommy replied. “I could sure do with a little R&R before things start up again.” He rested his arm on the open window of the jeep and got happily lost in a daydream about the cool sea breezes and perfect white sand beaches of the Seychelles. In his mind, he watched as a beautiful woman in a skimpy bikini brought him beer and cheered him on while he created the finest sand sculpture ever attempted. In the middle of the best part of his daydream, an abrupt tug on his wrist dragged him back to reality. He locked eyes briefly with a grinning, filthy young boy who had just stolen his wristwatch. In a flash, the boy turned and jinked away through the crowd.
“Stop the jeep!” Tommy hollered, leaping from the moving vehicle and tearing after the kid. Butler slammed on the brakes, narrowly missing a fruit seller’s cart.
“What’s the matter?” Butler shouted at Tommy’s back.
“That kid stole my watch!” Tommy yelled, before disappearing around a corner in pursuit.
Matthew Butler sighed heavily and put the jeep back into gear, crawling along with the dawdling traffic. Butler knew that the thief would easily disappear into the labyrinth of alleys surrounding the street market, and that there was no chance that Tommy would catch him. Butler also knew that there was no way to stop Tommy from trying, either. It was just as likely that Tommy would realize that his chase was futile and give up long before Matthew got anywhere with the jeep, so with another sigh, he kept on driving.
Half a block later, Tommy caught back up with him, sweating and gasping curses.
“Have a nice run?” Butler politely inquired.
“That little creep would have met with a big surprise, if I’d gotten my hands on him, I’ll tell you!” Tommy exclaimed.
Butler laughed. “It’s only a watch,” he said. “I’ll bet you can find another one just like it right here at the market.”
“It’s not that,” Tommy steamed. “He just took it right off my wrist - right off my wrist! It’s like I’ve been violated!”
He caught Matthew’s look and then they both laughed.
“Do you really want it back? It was just an old watch.”
“Of course, I do, it’s my favorite. Besides, that watch is nearly an heirloom; I’ve had it for years.”
“Now, you and I both know that you won that watch off me playing poker last summer, and that in all the years I owned it, it lost a least five minutes every hour.”
“Yeah, it is a crummy watch. But it’s the principle.” Tommy grumbled.
With that, Matthew gunned the jeep out of the ooze of traffic into a recently vacated parking spot.
“Come on. Let’s you and I do a bit of wandering around. Maybe we will find something for EB.”
Half an hour later, they just happened to find Tommy’s watch; for sale at a sidewalk stall.
With an oath, Tommy yelled, “That’s my watch!”
“Yes, it is a fine watch and will look very good on you,” responded the vendor with an oily grin. “This handsome watch was once owned by the President of Kenya, but today I will give it to you for the very reasonable price of three dollars American.”
Butler tried to pay the three dollars to buy the watch back, just to keep Tommy from getting them into an argument, but he was too late.
Fueled by the righteousness of principle, Tommy bellowed, “Give me back my watch, you Son of a Bitch!” As Tommy leaned forward to grab the watch, the vendor quickly whisked it out of his display. With a mighty heave, Tommy overturned the seller’s table like a wrathful Son of God, sending dozens of questionable bargains into the air. Suddenly, amid a rain of merchandise, the street filled with scrambling people. Tommy’s gesture earned him a punch on the jaw that sent him flying backward into Butler. The pair, as one, careened into a cart so laden with pots, pans, ladles, coffee pots, and strainers that only the wheels of the cart were visible. The cart fell over with an unbelievable crash, followed by an extended crescendo of rolling, spinning, and clattering goods flowing down the street in a noisy metallic avalanche. Within moments, the street market erupted into an unrestrained brawl, with punches and kicks flying so recklessly that it was hard to tell exactly who was attacking whom at any given moment. Tables of goods went flying, throwing every describable kind of flotsam into the street full of traffic. An old woman came shrieking out of the din to give Butler a good whomp on the head with a carved elephant, knocking him into the dirt.
In the middle of the melee, Tommy spotted the watch thief standing across the street, looking highly entertained. Tommy lurched to his feet and tried to go after the youth but with one leg tangled in the pot and pan cart, he only succeeded in dragging the entire mess further out into traffic. Hopping on one foot, he tumbled across the street and rolled free of the mass of tangled metal. He took a few good licks to the face from various participants in the brawl before he was able to extricate himself.
While everyone not actively involved in the fight was watching Tommy’s acrobatics, Butler saw his chance and crawled away to the jeep. Quickly starting it up, he threw it into reverse and backed into the melee around Tommy, scattering the crowd.
Butler took all the money from his wallet and threw it high into the air, and then yelled, “Get in!”
The sudden rain of loot turned the brawl into a game of ‘Diving for Dollars’.
Tommy made a leap and landed head first in the passenger seat with his legs sticking out of the window, as Butler raced the engine and bulled through the crowd toward a less congealed thoroughfare. Honking and swerving wildly, the pair rounded a corner.
“Did you get your watch?” Butler asked.
“No,” moaned Tommy, “It’s not right of them to steal it and then try to sell it back to me.” His upper lip was beginning to swell and he was certain to have a black eye by the time they got back to the ship.
Butler didn’t look that much better, with a lump on his forehead from the elephant and bleeding elbows where he had hit the pavement.
“You’re a man of principle, my friend,” said Butler sarcastically. “I’m sure you taught them a lesson they won’t soon forget.”
“I think I broke a tooth” was Tommy’s miserable reply.
Of course, after only a half dozen left and right turns to avoid pursuit, the pair became thoroughly lost. In this area of Mombasa, there was no grid and the streets wandered narrowly between tightly packed rows of buildings hung with ornate but decrepit balconies. After what seemed like hours of wandering around in the sweltering heat, they passed under an arch made from two huge tin elephant tusks, a gift to Mombasa by Queen Elizabeth II in 1952. From this well-known landmark, they got their bearings and were able to make it back to the Pelican before dusk.
<<>>
When Matthew and Tommy finally returned from their shopping adventure, the fiery chief engineer of the Pelican, a tall, slender, dark-haired woman known as EB, greeted them. She leaned against the ship’s rail, beer can in hand and called down to them.
“And where have the two of you been for so long?” She asked sarcastically. “We loaded Professor Wilkinson and his cargo container a couple of hours ago.” As Butler and Tommy got closer, she got a better look at their torn khakis and bruised faces.
“God, don’t you two look a mess!” EB declared, not terribly surprised. “Oh, by the way, the booze you ordered was delivered half an hour ago. I hope you’re ready to drink whatever they brought, since I had no way of knowing what you ordered.” She casually took another swallow of the beer and made a face. “I think you might have made a mistake with this ‘Old Four Legs’.”
At about the same time as Matthew and Tommy were limping up the gangplank, another journey was beginning in a distant land.
<<>>
LONDON, ENGLAND
The big jet liner climbed slowly into the grey skies over Heathrow Airport. Kobi Tenatta felt a lifting of his spirits as he settled into his seat. It would be a long trip before he arrived at his home in the central highlands of Kenya. The lengthy flight would take him to Nairobi, but that was only the first leg of his journey. After that, it would be a two-hour drive to his home in Nakuru. He was grateful, at least, to have begun.
Kobi was a small, black-skinned man with the characteristic round face and mild features of the Tiburu tribe of Central Africa. At about 5’4”, he was shorter than most of his friends and family, but his body was hardened from a life of physical activity as a Park Warden at Lake Nakuru National Park. His warm brown eyes showed the intelligent confidence of a man who held a position of respect in his family group and who had proved himself in the dangerous battle against poachers in the African wilderness.
As his father described it, he was the eldest son of the eldest elder’s eldest son.
That’s a lot of elders, he thought. One day I too will be an elder in the tribe. That’s the reason I’m on this plane.
One week earlier, he had traveled all the way to London to represent the Tiburu People in a ceremony celebrating the return of two tribal artifacts that had been in the possession of the British Museum. The objects had been stolen from his tribe in the late 1800’s during a time when the various European countries had divided the continent of Africa into ‘spheres of influence’ in an effort to control the rich land. During this time of conquest, military actions against the loose tribal governments of the native people were common and often excessive. Because of these raids, many different tribes saw their most prized possessions carried off by arrogant and uncaring white men. The Tiburu treasure had been one of the many artifacts that now lay forgotten in museums around the world or had found their way into private collections to remain unrecoverable.
To pass time, Kobi had picked up a brochure about the objects. They had been on special exhibit in the Museum for three months before being returned to Africa. Strangely enough, he personally knew very little about what the objects actually were. The story, which his family had handed down over the generations, was more a story of the noble hearts of those who had protected it, rather than a story of the objects themselves. One day, as a part of Kobi’s coming of age ceremony, his grandfather had taken him aside and told him the tale.
“In the times long back, travelers from far to the north came to our lands to pay tribute to our King and to partake of the bounty of our land. These men brought with them a very great treasure, which they presented as a gift, to show the esteem of their ruler for our King. In the court of our King there was a man named Kuyu. He was the most noble of the King’s advisors and a very great general. Kuyu found favor in the eyes of the king every day for his truthful spirit and the steadfastness of his vows. He did not waver in anything to which he had dedicated himself. Because of this, the king held him in great esteem.”
“There came a day when the enemies of the king had grown strong. News came that the warriors of his enemies were coming to devour the kingdom and the wise king knew that he could not overcome them.”
“To Kuyu he said, ‘Here is my greatest treasure, the gifts of a far away land, nothing like this has ever been seen in our world. To you I entrust this tribute, given to me in honor of the richness of the land. Take this treasure and keep it safe from the uneducated men that would try to destroy my kingdom. Vow to me, with your life, that you will preserve my honor throughout your generations by keeping these objects safe from those who would disrespect them.’”
“Kuyu vowed that he and his family, through all generations, would preserve the king’s honor, and hold sacred their vow to keep the treasure safe. The family of Kuyu fled along with the rest of his people, who eventually migrated south to a fine land of rich soil in the shadow of the volcanoes. They carried the King’s tribute on their backs and did not let any strangers know of its existence. The tribute was safe in this new land and the Tiburu Tribe grew strong and honorable, knowing that a vow from a man’s heart is the most valuable thing he can possess. The Tiburu people took possession of the land, which they inhabited and made fruitful. The secret of the king’s treasure was shown to the eldest son of the family of Kuyu, now a symbol of an honorable man’s duty, to make vows sacred and keep them with his whole heart. Each son of Kuyu who became an elder renewed the vow of his ancestor to keep the Tribute safe as a symbol of the honorable heart of a Tiburu man.”
Kobi’s grandfather looked sad as he said, “My own father was killed keeping this vow. The ignorant white men came and ripped our homes apart; taking whatever they wanted for themselves. The white man is possessed by the devil of greed, thus he robs without discrimination. The man who shot my father held the King’s tribute in his profane hands and laughed as my father died.”
“Since then, the Tiburu have honored my father as a man who died keeping his vow. The Tribute was lost to us, but we kept our honor. This honor has preserved our people and made us strong during times of change. The last century changed every part of African life, but the Tiburu have adapted and prevailed. The time will come when you, too, Kobi, will be an educated man and will come before your people to dedicate yourself to honor, the keeping of your vows, and the welfare of your people. It is a great thing to be the descendant of so many honorable men.”
Kobi remembered the sun on his grandfather’s face that afternoon as he told the story. For Kobi it had been a moment out of time, when for an instant, he had joined with all the Tiburu men before him who had kept that vow.
Sighing and settling uncomfortably into the airline seat he took up the brochure produced by the British Museum, where he read the history according to British archaeologists.
In the eighth year of her reign as Pharaoh of Egypt (1465 BCE), Queen Hatshepsut sent a fleet of five ships under the leadership of her Chancellor, Senenmet, to the Land of Punt to establish trade relationships. Included in the tribute to the King of Punt was a small golden statue of the God Amon, whom the Egyptians believed to make his home in Punt. The statue of a golden serpent on a pedestal was small enough to fit in a man’s hand. Along with the serpent, she also sent a small stone stele inscribed with the story of her direct descent from the God Amon, whom she claimed had destined her to rule as Pharaoh over Egypt. It was recorded by Senenmet that the King of Punt greatly valued these objects for their beauty, as well as for their artisanship. They exemplified skills the people of Punt did not possess.
To this day, it remains unknown what happened to the fabled Land of Punt and its Kings. Curiously, the Tiburu people of Central Kenya tell a legend which claims that the last King of Punt entrusted Hatshepsut’s gift to a favorite general, and enjoined that man to vow that he and his family would guard this treasure with their lives.
Over the course of time, the Land of Punt disappeared, or rather became something else, and Punt was forgotten by all, except select scholars deciphering Egyptian hieroglyphics who found references to the mysterious land. The people of Punt, whom it is suspected, eventually became the Bantu tribes of Africa, migrated south into the rest of Africa. So, also, did the tribute, kept by one family, who guarded it with their lives to the end of all generations.
No one knows whether this legend is true, but two objects, a statuette of a Serpent, and a stone Stele were in the possession of this Tiburu family until they passed into British hands in the 1880’s. They were given to our Museum by the estate of Sir Henry Waite in 1939. With the hardships of World War II, the museum had little time to investigate the gift and consequently it was stored in the basement archives until the current time.
The true and startling value of these particular objects went unknown until August 2004 when international philanthropist Alexander Levasseur began efforts to get the tribute returned to the Tiburu people of Kenya. Because of Levasseur’s interest, the museum staff began to investigate the nature of the Tiburu objects. When the objects were unearthed from the museum vaults they were seen to be of great historical interest, since most existing references to queen Hatshepsut were all but obliterated by her successors. The well-preserved Stele told a story that gave further credibility to the tale of the Queen Who Declared Herself King, and was of great interests to Egyptologists around the world.
In addition, the location and fate of the land of Punt is one of history’s great mysteries. The serpent statue and the stele would appear to be the only existing relics of that great Empire. Will they be the key to unraveling the fate of these people? Will the Land of Punt turn out to be Somalia, Ethiopia, Sudan, or some other place heretofore unsuspected?
It is with great gratitude to the people of Kenya that the British Museum has exhibited these exquisite pieces of Egyptian history for the last three months. Thus, on 15 March 2010, in a ceremony presided over by a Royal Representative, these precious objects will be returned to the Kenyan people. Representatives of the Royal Historical Society, the British Egyptology Institute, and the Queen’s Treasury of Cultural Objects will accompany Kenyan officials and historians in escorting the treasures to Nairobi, Kenya. There they will assist in the placing of the Golden Serpent and the Stele of Hatshepsut in the Nairobi Museum of Culture, on proud display for the people of Kenya.
Kobi laughed to himself. The British Museum’s brochure certainly put a good face on the situation. It didn’t exactly agree with the African’s view of events.
The handing-over ceremonies in London had been long and tedious as ceremonies inevitably were. Now that they were over, Kobi was aching with fatigue. While in London he had enjoyed the opportunity to see some of the friends he had made while in school at Oxford, but he really was happy to be going home to his wife, their new son, and the blue skies of Kenya. Thinking of that joyful homecoming, he drifted in and out of sleep as the aircraft made its way across two continents.
The entire flight was thirteen hours long, including a one-hour layover in Dubai. At about the time they were leaving United Arab Emirates airspace, Kobi had been informed that they would not be landing in Nairobi as was planned, but instead, were going to Mombasa. His travel weary mind could barely comprehend the news of a rebel mortar raid on the airport at Nairobi. Now, the plane was being re-routed to Mombasa.
Why would rebels shell the runways of one of the most secure air terminals in all of Africa? What could they hope to gain? Except, of course to cause inconvenience for everyone flying out of Nairobi.
All he knew was that instead of a two-hour drive to get from Nairobi to his home, the journey was now going to take well over forty-eight hours. However, the inconvenience was not his alone. Besides the ancient Tiburu treasure, the plane also carried many dignitaries from the museums and governments of Britain and Kenya. As a result, the Kenyan officials decided to relocate the ceremony they had been planning in honor of the Frenchman, Mr. Alexander Levasseur, to the airport in Mombasa. Levasseur was the man who had been almost solely responsible for persuading the British to return the artifacts.
Levasseur was a mystery to Kobi, and to quite a few other people, it seemed. He hadn’t been able to discover much about the man from any of his contacts in either England or Kenya. As rumor had it, Levasseur was a rich exporter operating around the Indian Ocean. He also had a reputation as an international playboy, occasionally featuring in the gossip magazines. However, no one really had any idea what he had done to become so rich. Kobi suspiciously wondered why such a man would spend so much effort on the return of these particular objects and how he had been successful in getting them returned to Kenya. Especially since the ownership of these artifacts was even more contested than the many other African treasures yet to be returned.
Of course, factions from Ethiopia, Somalia, Yemen, Sudan, and Egypt all claimed the artifacts. The first four felt that they were the true location of the land of Punt, and were prepared to bring legal suit in the World Court to prove their case. The latter it seemed wanted the artifacts back because they had originated in Egypt. The fact that it was Kobi’s family from whom the artifacts had been taken had carried little weight against all of these other claims.
Kobi felt growing misgivings, gazing through the jet’s window as they flew south toward Kenya. Too many things felt out of place in this entire operation. England did not give up her prizes easily and yet, due to the efforts of a mysterious stranger, the artifacts were on their way home.
Mombasa was halfway across the country from his home in Central Kenya and Kobi didn’t know if arrangements had been made for his return to Nairobi along with the artifacts, or if both of them would end up stuck in Mombasa. Thankfully, there were Tiburu people in positions of power all over Kenya, so Kobi could pull some strings of his own, if he had to, in order to get the crate of artifacts and himself back to Nairobi. It was irritating. The bureaucrats would all have to make their speeches taking credit for this ‘great historical triumph’ and then there would be more waiting around. All Kobi desired at that moment was for the artifacts to be safely returned and for himself to be comfortably tucking into a big plate of his wife’s excellent beef and potato stew.
<<>>
He must have fallen asleep as the long flight wore on because he awoke to the change in engine noise that indicated that they were beginning the descent into Mombasa.
The oppressive humidity of the Mombasa afternoon began to penetrate his travel rumpled business suit the moment he stepped off the plane. Waiting on the tarmac, he saw the two essential elements necessary for a ceremony, a lineup of Kenyan dignitaries, and a covey of journalists. Apparently, to the dignitaries in charge, receiving the artifacts right off the plane was too good of a photo opportunity to miss. In the middle of the crowd, a head taller than everyone else stood the elegantly dressed Alexander Levasseur.
“I wonder what he wants from Kenya,” Kobi mused sardonically. Behind his musings, a thought briefly crossed Kobi’s mind. There are fewer guards than I would have expected, considering the high rank of the officials waiting on the ground.
The noise of the band and the herd of brightly dressed dignitaries surrounded by the pack of carnivorous journalists made a colorful cacophony in the hazy light of late afternoon. At the very front of the greeting committee was a rather rotund little man Kobi recognized a distant cousin, Simon Njuguna, an avaricious politician whose sole aspiration was to increase his political power. Throughout Kenya, Njuguna was known for his vanity as the “Peacock with Two Tails.”
Njuguna was always causing trouble by his efforts to advance his career as a politician. Kobi’s own grandfather had been the subject of a lengthy lawsuit over the denial of Njuguna’s eligibility for elder status in the tribe. He was an annoying and very ambitious man who always seemed to be trying to prove his superiority. If he was here, then Kobi was certain the officious little man would try to claim credit in some way for the retrieval of the treasure.
Once the photos were taken and hands shaken all around, Kobi found himself a place to stand that was out of the way. It was apparent that he was a very unimportant part of this event. He felt exhausted and grubby after the long flight. As the speeches droned on, he turned his back to the ceremony to watch the lightning strikes of a glowering thunderstorm moving across the distant landscape.
A thundershower will put a stop to all this nonsense, he mused. Right now in Nakuru, on the other side of that storm, my wife will be cooking the evening meal. If I’m lucky, maybe tomorrow I will be home in time to watch the setting sun with my boy on my lap.
Slowly he refocused on his immediate surroundings. Having nothing better to do, he casually watched the wooden crate, carrying his tribe’s precious artifacts, gently being maneuvered onto a cargo truck.
Suddenly he felt that something was wrong.
What is it? He wondered. He was unable to identify what had alarmed him. Glancing around at the makeshift dais, Kobi saw Njuguna leave the group of dignitaries and walk casually toward the airport terminal building.
Why is the Peacock leaving? He wondered.
Kobi knew his fatigue-dulled mind was preventing him from understanding the situation. As he frantically scanned the scene trying to make sense of his unease, he noticed Levasseur give a tiny nod in the direction of the plane. Then things began to happen very fast.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kobi saw a bright red Mattatu; the open three-wheeled bush taxi common throughout Africa, drive up next to the cargo truck. Somewhat behind, a security van was approaching the Mattatu at high speed, and the driver was yelling something Kobi couldn’t hear.
Whatever it was, it was the last thing that driver ever said, as a firestorm of bullets smashed through the windshield and silenced him forever. The gunfire was coming from the Mattatu, which disgorged six men armed with AK-47s. Through a red filter of shock, Kobi watched the security van driver slowly slump forward over his steering wheel. He saw the Kenyan Ceremonial Honor Guards, the only armed troops in the area, cut down with a second burst. The guards didn’t have time to do more than raise their rifles. Bewildered, Kobi watched as the gunmen now turned their attention on the dignitaries, some of whom were from the top echelon of leaders in his government. They too fell under the relentless gunfire.
The security van, with its dead driver at the wheel, raced out of control into the mass of wounded and struggling humanity. Scrambling in all directions, the crowd tried to escape the wayward vehicle, some running each other down in their panic. Within seconds, the runaway van burst from the crowd, its engine racing wildly, and plowed into the left engine of the airliner, causing an immediate gush of aviation fuel to spill onto the ground. Seconds later, with a bright ignition, the van burst into flames and the petrol fed fire quickly spread to the giant airliner, causing several large explosions and sending sheets of flaming aviation fuel shooting into the sky.
One of the gunmen climbed into the driver’s seat of the cargo truck, now loaded with the crate of artifacts, and accelerated away across the tarmac toward the nearest security gate. A guttural yell from the Mattatu driver spurred the remaining gunmen to pile back into the bush taxi. In seconds, the Mattatu was speeding toward the gate of the Airport. The cargo truck slowed down just long enough to let the Mattatu pass in front.
As quickly as they could, four of the gunmen hanging from the sides of the careening Mattatu opened fire on the two security guards at the Main Gate. A small firefight raged for several seconds until the gunmen acquired the proper range, where the guard’s rifles became no match for the AK-47s. With a sudden lurch and a squeal of tires, the Mattatu and the cargo truck were through the security gate and out onto the long narrow road toward Mombasa.
It was a well-coordinated attack. It had taken six men less than two minutes to kill as many people as possible, steal the crate of artifacts and make good their escape. Behind the fleeing gunmen, eighteen people lay dead, six of them important dignitaries, with twenty-two wounded, and a once proud airplane, burning fiercely.
<<>>
MOMBASA HARBOR
“We gotta find a really great beach when we get to the Seychelles,” Tommy raved, “I have a new design for a sand sculpture and I want to try it out before the big competition next year. I could win with this one.”
Most of the staff had gathered in the airy mess hall for the evening meal. It wasn’t as crowded as usual because the crew of the ship was busy readying the ship to get under way. Mrs. Yan had created an excellent meal of fresh seafood and exotic gatherings from the best of Mombasa’s vegetable markets. The Pelican’s chef had a rare gift. Instinctively, she knew where to get the best food in any port in the world.
“I believe our Captain has friends in the Seychelles, maybe they can help you find a good beach,” said Butler.
“I don’t understand why you’re so obsessed with sand castles,” Doc Sanders, a tanned, white-haired American in khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt teased him. “A man with your education...”
“Hey, you Quack, my engineering degrees are very valuable in the making of sand sculptures.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Matthew Butler noticed a sudden indistinct flicker in a far hatchway.
“Did you see that?” He interrupted. “Over there, something moved.”
“Probably just a rat, they always get on board when we’re in port. You ought to get a dog or something to catch them,” suggested Richard, who was a large, pale, young man with curly brown hair and glasses.
“No animals on board,” sighed Butler, repeating the long-standing rule like a well-rehearsed mantra, “too many complications.”
“Hah! The rats we get could probably take any dog in a fight,” offered John Trask, the chief security officer of the Pelican. “Three feet long with teeth like sabers…” Special Forces veteran Trask was a hard-looking man with a tall, lean body. One side of his deeply tanned face showed a spatter of tiny white scars, like dots, where he had been too close to a stone wall when a series of machine gun bullets had raked across it, spraying his face with shards of stone. The khaki shorts and short-sleeved shirt that were his usual apparel revealed his wiry, muscular build. He kept his brown hair shaved and his grey eyes usually held an expression of subtle good humor.
“Over there, I saw it!” exclaimed Tommy, standing up suddenly and knocking his chair over, “But I don’t think it’s a rat!”
Everyone at the dinner table looked in time to see a white blur with a jaunty upturned tail disappear around a corner.
A shriek and a stream of Chinese that sounded very much like cursing told them that whatever it was, it was now in the galley with the cook. Mrs. Yan’s screams were a call to arms. Every person in the mess hall leapt up and joined the chase.
When they got into the galley, Mrs. Yan pointed out the back door. Nobody needed an interpreter to understand what she was saying in machinegun Chinese.
“Split up,” said Butler, “you guys take port and Doc and I’ll take starboard.”
In a flash, Doc, a borderline literary punster of note, declared; “Quick Watson, the game’s afoot!”
“Whatever it is, it’s fast.” Tommy said as he and Trask searched around and beneath the many pieces of equipment stored on deck. A small, mostly white dog suddenly burst out from under a lifeboat cover just above Tommy’s head. With quick reflexes, Trask leapt and stretched out his arms as if he was catching the winning pass in a football game. The dog, which wasn’t much larger than a football, landed in his arms and with a mighty kick rocketed away and flew another fifteen feet before landing lightly on the deck.
“Looks like Butler’s got his rat catcher after all,” said Trask wryly.
Unexpectedly, the dog leapt to the top of a storage locker and turned to look at his pursuers.
The body of the dog was mostly white, with a patch of black on one side of its face and a patch of brown on the other; neatly divided by a small white line running up and over its forehead. It dropped its jaw in a doggy grin and leapt away just as two of the staff pounced.
Tommy slammed into the storage locker while Trask, with an athletic somersault, cleared it and landed on the opposite side, straddling the dog. Even before he could react, the dog again abruptly veered away, causing Trask, with uncharacteristic lack of grace, to try to change directions before he had completely regained his balance. He landed awkwardly and only avoided pitching over the side of the ship by catching his elbow on the steel railing. The sound of his very colorful cursing was quickly left behind as the pursued and the pursuers disappeared aft.
Dodging an ambush, the dog ran right through the hands of Salvador, Matthew Butler’s valet onboard.
“I’ll get you my pretty…” the olive-skinned teenager quoted in a heavy Spanish accent as his hands closed on thin air.
The cursing became multilingual as the ship’s crew, now aware of the intruder, joined in the pursuit.
Barking joyously, the little dog led the mob across the open deck and directly toward Doc and Butler, who had been searching the opposite side of the ship. Taken unawares by the rapid approach of the whole circus, Doc was not quick enough to grab the dog as it passed, so he stuck out his foot to stop it. The dog, of course, hopped easily over this sudden obstacle but, unfortunately, Richard, the first of its pursuers did not. He went crashing to the floor, taking down the galloping crowd behind him.
Tommy, who had been in the back of the crowd at this point, was able to avoid the pile of struggling combatants and raced on after the dog. Doc and Butler were not far behind him, with the survivors of the pileup limping after. The little dog skittered around a corner then stopped short, waiting for his followers. Tommy rounded the corner and stopped in surprise, as the creature gave him a big, silly grin, its long tongue hanging out of the side of its mouth. Doc and Butler, of course, cannoned into Tommy, followed by the remaining members of the chase.
“Hold on, hold on, I may be able to get him,” cautioned Tommy in a pseudo-whisper. He crouched low with his arms spread wide and slowly moved toward the dog.
Taking this as a play posture, the little dog bent his front legs, rear end high in a play bow, danced from side to side a bit, and took off running again.
“It thinks it’s a game,” laughed Butler, “it’s not going to do any good to chase it.” However, his advice fell on absent ears, since by the time he finished saying it, he was alone on the deck with the sounds of pursuit rapidly fading. Another sound, far off in the distance, attracted Matthew’s attention.
Damn, that sounds like an explosion! He thought.
Forward of the science lab, the great dog chase was still going strong.
“The little mutt is laughing at us,” hollered Tommy, now in the lead of a small but determined group of pursuers. They followed a torturous rout through portable labs and various tethered storage containers on deck. Tommy though he saw his chance as the chase neared two massive loading cranes at the ship’s midsection. The dog had paused in front of a hanging cargo net, seemingly considering its options.
“I’ve got you now,” Tommy bellowed. Stretching to full length, he dove onto the panting dog. Of course, it was no longer there. The dog, microseconds before, had slipped through a gap in the cargo net. Tommy realized, too late, where he was going to end up. Attempting to abort the leap in mid-air, he slammed awkwardly into the hanging net. The resulting crash left Tommy hanging upside-down in the net with his arms and legs twisted tightly in its nylon straps. Barking, the little dog took off again, ready for more fun.
At that very moment, two sharp blasts on the ship’s powerful whistle brought the chase to an abrupt halt.
Matthew Butler was the first to see a huge column of smoke rising in the distance.
Dashing up to the bridge, he found Captain Nikos Zamora, the 60-year-old craggy-faced and white bearded Master of the Pelican standing at the ship’s railing and looking at the smoke through binoculars. Trask, nursing a bruised lump on his elbow, immediately joined the pair.
“What do you think it is,” asked Matthew, taking the binoculars Captain Z handed him.
“Can’t really tell from here,” the Captain replied, “my best guess is that something happened at the airport, maybe a plane crash or something.”
“I don’t like it,” Trask interjected, “we think of Kenya as a fairly stable country, but there are rival political and military factions here that could blow up, so to speak, at any time.”
“Okay,” said Matthew peering through the binoculars, “I see emergency vehicles on the bridge. They’re all headed toward the airport. It must be a plane crash.”
“But if it’s not…” Captain Z returned, “If Trask is correct that it might be a coup, they could close the port and we’d be trapped here. We have all the paperwork in with the harbormaster. I originally planned to weigh anchor in two hours at high tide, but I say we get out now, while we still can.”
“I reckon you’re right, Cap’n, We’d better get out while the getting’s good,” replied Butler.
Immediately the command went out and the ship’s crew set to work leaving port. Butler gathered his staff, many of them limping and groaning from their injuries.
“We don’t know what has happened here, but we don’t want to be trapped by something political, so we’re leaving now.”
“What about the dog?” a voice from the crowd asked.
“There’s nothing we can do about it now. We’re stuck until we hit another port,” said Matthew. “I’m telling you all right now; no one is to get attached to the pooch. We’re not keeping it.”
“Yeah, let’s get back to our dinner,” said Tommy, “Mrs. Yan’s Szechuan Chicken doesn’t deserve to get cold.”
“You’re right about that, no rat with a bob-tail should come between us and dinner,” Doc affirmed.
The group made their way back down from the bridge and entered the Mess hall, all the while speculating about the large column of black smoke that continued to rise from Mombasa’s airport.
Tommy was the first to cry; “You Little Devil!”
As they entered the dining room, they found the little dog on the table cleaning up the last of the Szechuan Chicken. Crockery flew as incensed people dived and tumbled across the table and out the door after the happy little dog.
“There’s no point to this Chinese Fire Drill, the dog just thinks it’s a big game,” repeated Butler, but he was talking to himself again as the merry romp resumed. He shrugged and sat down to a cold cup of coffee, listening to the sounds of chaos, which slowly died away as the pursuers finally tired and gave up the chase.
As night fell, the Pelican made her way across the great Indian Ocean, on her way to the beautiful white beaches of the Seychelles Islands.
Sensing that the delightful game was over for now, the little dog wandered below decks until he came upon a room he thought smelled right, and there, in Matthew Butler’s cabin, under the bunk on a forgotten t-shirt, the little dog curled up, heaved a great sigh, burped Szechuan Chicken once, and fell into a satisfied sleep.
<<>>
MOMBASA AIRPORT
Within moments of the first gunfire, Kobi had begun to move. His mind and body were running on automatic. He knew that if he didn’t do something the artifacts would be lost forever. He raced on foot toward the Main Gate, hurdled over the bodies of the dead guards, and grabbed a mo-ped leaning against the airport fence. Pushing the mo-ped to its maximum, he trailed the Rebel’s truck and the following Mattatu out into heavy traffic. About halfway to the city center a convoy of Mombasa’s aging fleet of emergency vehicles sped by in the opposite direction, obviously heading for the Airport and further snarling traffic.
Without any idea of what he would do if he caught up, he managed to keep the Mattatu and cargo truck in sight through the long drive from the airport into Mombasa. His cause was aided somewhat by the mo-ped’s ability to move in and out of traffic while the truck could not. Unfortunately, the mo-ped’s gas gauge read nearly empty and by the time Mombasa’s outskirts were in sight, the brave little vehicle was running on fumes. As they passed through the busy city center, the truck carrying the cargo began to pull ahead. Kobi knew he was not going to be able to keep up with it on the mo-ped, especially if the traffic eased.
Surely, an alert about the theft had gone out, hadn’t it? Kobi asked himself. After all those speeches about what a 'momentous historic occasion' this was, they weren’t going to let someone kill everyone and just drive off with the artifacts, were they?
Pausing to reconsider, he suspected that the disaster at the airport had overshadowed the theft of mere tribal artifacts. He wondered how many of his nation’s leaders had been killed. He knew in his heart that this tragedy could grow into internal chaos and the deaths of possibly thousands of people if the government of Kenya was sufficiently undermined.
Night fell as pursuer and the pursued made their way into the warehouse district near the docks. After several minutes, the truck disappeared into a warren of alleys between dilapidated buildings. Kobi just couldn’t keep up with the truck carrying the artifacts. Rather than give up, he decided to try to tail the slower moving Mattatu, thinking that he had a better chance of keeping up with it. With a sinking heart, Kobi let the truck go and stayed with the overloaded bush taxi, trailing along behind on his straining mo-ped. At least he knew that the group of gunmen in the Mattatu was associated with the vehicle carrying the crate of artifacts, and perhaps in time they would lead him back to them.
They were within a block of the docks when the bush taxi abruptly turned a corner. Kobi leaned his mo-ped into the turn at a top speed of ten kilometers per hour, feeling more ridiculous than daring, like a comic version of James Bond. The Mattatu was no longer ahead of him on the deserted street, but he spotted a large warehouse door slowly closing. Kobi drove by without glancing at the door. When he was sure he had passed out of sight, he pulled the poor thing to a stop. He gave it a small pat; he felt a little affection for it after it had performed such an extraordinary pursuit. Cautiously, utilizing all his skill as a Park Warden stalking poachers, he crept back to the location of the warehouse and carefully scouted around it to see if there were any other entrances to the building.
Climbing up on a couple of precariously stacked trashcans, he peered cautiously through a window so covered in grime that he might as well have been trying to see through a wall.
If he lost this group of rebels, any hope of finding the crate was truly lost and he would have to be the one who bore the responsibility for losing it, at least as far as his family was concerned.
The thought of facing the loss and the humiliation it would bring was too great; he knew he had no choice. He would have to do everything he could and hope that something would happen to help him recover both the artifacts and his honor.
Gently, he pushed on the top of the window and was grateful to see that the bottom swung easily outward. Teetering on the wobbly trashcans, he gradually worked himself under the protruding window and in through the opening. He followed the sound of voices to an office in the front of the building. The people inside must have felt secure about any intrusion because they had left the inner door of the office open.
“We have done as you asked; we have the objects in our possession, now it is time for your people to produce the weapons. It would not be a wise thing to cross the Lord’s Resistance Army.” This voice was speaking in English with a heavy Ugandan accent.
Kobi felt his strength leave him.
The LRA in Kenya! He had not thought it was possible to be more frightened than he had been when breaking into the warehouse. Now his fear was not only for himself and for his honor, he was afraid for his country and the entire region of Eastern Africa. The brutal LRA had conducted a terrorist revolution against the government of Uganda for twenty years. Their methods of mass murder, mutilation, torture, and kidnapping had created one of the worst humanitarian crises in recent times. If they were acquiring arms, it meant that they intended to break the 2006 ceasefire, which the world believed was holding. He felt sickened as he thought of the villages destroyed, the refugees created, and the thousands of children abducted and forced to be soldiers or sex slaves for the LRA. He could not accept this happening in his own country, or that it would begin again in the ravaged and poverty-stricken Uganda. Reacquiring the artifacts would make little difference if a well-armed LRA were once again unleashed upon the people of the region.
“You have no need to threaten me, Commander. You will tell your people to meet our ship at 4̊ 06’ 04 S, 55 ̊ 47’ 16 E; roughly twenty nautical miles northwest of Silhouette Island in the Seychelles on the day agreed upon. There, we will load the weapons and ammunition onto your craft and you will hand over the artifacts. These are the terms we agreed upon and they will be met.” This voice had a vaguely Scandinavian accent. It was a hard voice; a voice that Kobi, for one, felt he would not want to cross. “I will be there to meet you,” said the voice.
It was apparent to Kobi that the meeting was breaking up and that he had to make a decision. He knew where the exchange would occur but not when. If he let these people out of his sight in order to go to the authorities, he would have no chance of finding them again. Even if he did, the authorities might not believe him or even have resources they could spare. In the end, he decided to follow the Europeans with whom the LRA had met. He knew that the Europeans were the source of the guns and, as much as the artifacts were important to him, it was far more important to prevent the LRA from getting the arms. If he was lucky, he might be able to retrieve the artifacts at the same time.
Kobi streaked to his window and, as silently as possible, squirmed through the opening. He jumped to the ground, avoiding the treacherous and possibly noisy trashcans. It was easy to identify the Europeans as they left the warehouse. Their white faces and light colored hair stood out in the gloom of the sparse city lighting. Their path led eastward. The intricately foul odor on the wind told Kobi that the Europeans were heading toward the docks.
Moving carefully, Kobi followed them to a sinister looking black yacht, being loaded with supplies even at this late hour. He had to get on that ship unnoticed. A dock gang loading the ship worked shirtless and in shorts through the hot Kenya night. He quickly stripped off his business suit and, giving mental thanks for his morning choice of sturdy British boxer shorts, he slipped barefooted into the line of men carrying boxes onto the dark yacht.
<<>>
On board the strange black yacht, Kobi looked for a place to hide, hoping he hadn’t made a bad decision. The deck of the ship was devoid of any kind of hiding place, having been designed with a sleek, Spartan elegance that left no cover. Kobi hoped to sneak below but the hatches were busy with ship’s crew stowing supplies below decks. Just when he could no longer loiter safely on the yacht, a large hatch in the foredeck began to open, exposing a shallow hold. As the automatic cover moved silently away, a crane emerged and the operator guided the boom out over the bow of the ship. Seeing his opportunity when all attention was focused on the activity on the end of the boom, Kobi made a quick leap into the hold.
He landed on his feet prepared for a fight. The hold was empty except for a few large containers for petrol. Squeezing himself quickly behind these, he waited to see what would happen. The crane boom returned loaded with a deluxe looking Tender craft, a version of the Zodiac, a partly rigid, inflatable boat that fit snugly into the bay below the main deck. No one came down into the bay once the craft was released from the crane and Kobi breathed again as the hatch doors swung silently closed.
Taking stock of his situation, he found himself in a small, hot, unventilated hold with the Tender boat and almost nothing else. At the back of the bay was a small hatch, which Kobi hoped would lead to the interior of the yacht, but he did not dare to try it until all was quiet outside.
With the realization that he was relatively safe, for now, Kobi relaxed a little. His mind began to play over the events that had brought him to this hiding place. Everything had happened so quickly that it was hard to believe that several hours ago all he had been expecting was a long ride home. Along with time to think came time to feel the demands his body was making. The standardized meals provided by Emirates Air on the flight from London had been a long time ago and Kobi knew that he would remain hungry until he was able to sneak out of the hold into the interior of the ship. Even then, he couldn’t be sure of being able to find food undetected. More than food, he would need water in this hot hideaway. On board the Tender craft, he found a half-finished soda and a couple of partial bottles of water. He would try to make them last as long as possible. As to the other demand his bladder was making, well, it was really best not to dwell on it.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-27 show above.)