Softly Calls the Serengeti (5 page)

Riley parked the Land Rover in the security car park and cut across the concrete concourse towards the main entrance to the Australian High Commission. He realised before reaching the building that he had forgotten to lock the car. He was about to retrace his steps, then shook his head and continued towards the heavy sliding glass doors. He felt that if a car thief dared to climb the towering walls topped with razor-wire, then drive the Land Rover through a phalanx of heavily armed security officials and over the pop-up metal spikes in front of the steel gate, then he deserved to keep the car.

The receptionist asked him to wait while she called Mr Davey. ‘He's the officer designated to handle your situation,' she said.

‘
Situation?
' Riley said, but the receptionist had already disappeared through a door to the back offices.

Davey didn't look old enough to handle anyone's ‘situation'. He had freckles and a bristly short moustache, which waggled whenever Riley asked him a question, such as: what situation was Davey managing on his behalf?

‘Registration,' Davey said.

‘Registration?'

‘Yes. When Dr Dass mentioned your name, I immediately went to our list of Australian residents and visitors and found you weren't there.'

‘He told me you said it was urgent.'

‘It is. As I said, you're not on my list.'

‘So…?'

‘Every Australian is important to us, Mr Riley.'

‘I'm pleased to hear it. But why the big deal about registering me?'

‘The Kenyan government elections are due at the end of December. Experience suggests we need to take all necessary precautions to ensure the safety of our citizens in these potentially dangerous times.'

Davey's spiel came straight out of a Foreign Affairs circular.

‘Right,' Riley said.

‘You may not be aware, but during the elections in 2002 there was a great deal of violence and many deaths. We at the Australian High Commission are dedicated to protecting every Australian should that situation be repeated on 27 December.'

Riley sighed. He had already wasted an hour finding the High Commission. He might as well play along. ‘Okay, what do I have to do?'

The moustache twitched. ‘Well, firstly, you must fill in this form.' Davey thrust a sheet of paper at Riley. ‘And secondly, you should come along this evening for a briefing by our protocol officer on the necessary precautions during the election period.'

Riley took the form. ‘Since I'm here, I'll fill this in, but if you don't mind, I'll pass on the lecture.' He began to scribble down his details. ‘Thanks all the same.'

‘It really is in your best interests, Mr Riley.'

‘I'm sure it is.'

‘The talk will be held on the garden patio.'

‘Nice.'

‘And tonight's event will be a cocktail party.'

‘Cocktail party?'

‘Yes, for all our expats. Instead of our usual monthly sausage sizzle, the High Commissioner has approved a big budget to make sure everyone comes along. Drinks are on the house.'

‘Hmm…What time did you say it started?'

 

After leaving the High Commission, Riley was at a loose end and decided to visit a few of Nairobi's places of interest. The
museum was nearby, and he completed a cursory inspection of the exhibits within an hour. He ignored the adjacent snake park and headed towards Langata Road and the Nairobi National Park, but became lost among the roundabouts and found himself instead on Ngong Road.

Riley had his Nairobi map and found he was quite near Kibera. He decided to find the Circularian orphanage while he was in the neighbourhood. The address he'd seen in Domingues's file was Kibera Gardens Road. The name evoked a tree-lined boulevard and flowered verges, but the reality was a rutted, rubbish-strewn length of road with potholes the size of small lakes, which the Land Rover drove into rather than bumped over. The dumped car parts that had been thrown into the ruts to fill them reared up like ramparts against invaders.

The very modest dwellings that lined the road might have originally been white, but the reddish mud had migrated halfway up the walls, suggesting an inundation of Biblical proportions.

The road eventually petered out in a dead-end or, more correctly, met a wall of corrugated iron, cardboard and packing-case timber that emerged from the surrounding slums. It was, in fact, a collection of dwellings and small
dukas
, or shops, that appeared to have been there for a very long time.

A number of curious faces watched as Riley climbed out of the Land Rover and looked around. He noticed a sign partially obscured by a tattered-leaf banana tree and went to check it out.
Circularian Orphanage
it proclaimed. He looked at the building behind it: it had a high, flat façade into which were set tall window frames, giving it the appearance of a small church.

Riley pushed open the rusted iron gate and went to the door. It was fastened with a heavy lock and chain. He peered through the grimy windows and saw a large open space with not a stick of furniture or sign of life.

He sat on the doorstep, overwhelmed by disappointment. He hadn't quite realised it before, but he'd been pinning a lot on his
hope of finding the boy who Melissa had sponsored. Somehow, in his grief, he'd imagined that meeting the boy would reestablish some kind of connection with his wife. He couldn't bear the fact that she was gone and he'd never see her again. His head dropped to his hands as the memory of that terrible night in 2002 washed over him yet again.

 

The Kuta night had been hot and heavy. Bali was wrapped as if in a foetid cocoon. On Jalan Legian, the earthy dank odour of open drains merged with the aromas of roasting chicken, groundnuts and aromatic spices dripping into the hawkers' smoky braziers. Fumes from bemos, minibuses and motor scooters cast a blue haze over the strip and its many bars, restaurants and food stalls. Tourists, harassed by touts and pimps, wandered among the neon lights, engaged in the never-ending search for the next diversion.

Riley and Melissa had walked hand in hand along the street. The bars were fun, but they were past all that. They had been heading home to bed and the resumption of their afternoon's love-making, when Melissa remembered she had left her cowboy hat in the restaurant.

‘I'll get it,' Riley said.

‘No, don't bother. I'll buy another. They're so cheap,' she said.

‘Are you kidding? I love you in that hat. Wait here.' And he left his wife window-shopping at the goldsmith's display next to the Sari Club.

His wife. They had lived together for years, but Riley had felt it was important they make a stronger commitment to each other. They'd been married for a week now, and he knew that Melissa felt as he did—that their vows had formed the catalyst for an even greater love, one that they knew was forever.

He passed Paddy's Bar, which throbbed with light and sound. From the end of the crowded veranda, a dozen drunken footballers bawled boorish remarks to every passing female.

Mark entered the restaurant where they'd eaten and found Melissa's hat still hanging on a chair at their table. He picked it up and, in a sickening instant, the night erupted into an explosion of unimaginable violence. He was thrown to the floor, momentarily stunned by the blast. When he dared to open his eyes, the flash remained incandescent on his retina.

There was a fleeting and eerie silence, soon shattered by a tumult of screams, shouts and alarm sirens.

Melissa!

Shouts of ‘Fire!' filled the air and everything became chaos.

People were everywhere, blocking his frantic dash to the street. Crowds jammed Jalan Legian in a mass of humanity, fleeing the devastation or rushing to help the fallen. It took Riley precious minutes to reach what was left of the goldsmith's shop.

When they pulled him from the debris and his frenzied search, his hands were a mess of shredded flesh and gore.

 

Riley stared at his hands. That memory was from another life. He knew Melissa would not want him to carry his grief around with him forever; this trip to Kenya was a final goodbye, in a way. They had talked about doing it together one day, but now he was carrying out her dream alone—and meeting this orphan boy, Jafari, was part of it. Now it seemed Melissa's money had been going into some kind of scam. He was surprised—the Circularians may have odd beliefs but they were a genuine organisation. He needed to find out more.

 

Following his visit to the abandoned orphanage, Riley couldn't shake his feelings of loss. Eventually he became sick of his self-pity and decided he needed to rejoin the human race.

The Australian High Commission garden patio was decorated with reindeer, tinsel and assorted frippery. Guests milled around the several uniformed waiters. Riley took a whisky and a skewered piece of meat wrapped in something green and dipped it into a yellow sauce. His fellow attendees—seemingly every one of the Australian expatriate residents in Nairobi—had followed the suggested ‘cocktail wear' dress code. A few of the men were in black tie, and all the women were immaculately dressed, either in slinky long dresses or short, clinging creations ranging from basic black to the full spectrum of tropical colours.

Riley was the only person in the room without a tie. He was lucky he even had a jacket—he'd only packed one on an impulse. He felt conspicuous and uncomfortable, and patted his jacket to find his cigarettes before remembering he'd quit back in Tsavo. He sighed in frustration.

‘Forgotten your cigarettes, huh?'

The voice was soft and Riley took a moment to realise the comment was directed at him. Turning, he found a dark-haired woman in a long red dress smiling at him. In her high heels she was only a couple of inches below meeting him eye to eye.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Actually, no. I've given them up.'

‘Big mistake. You should never give up something you enjoy.'

‘You could be right,' Riley said, as he intercepted a passing waiter and handed him his empty glass. ‘Whisky soda, please.' He looked at the woman, who was still appraising him with her smiling eyes. ‘You?' he asked, indicating her drink.

She shook her head. Her long brown hair rippled under the light. ‘I'm fine,' she said.

‘Don't you just hate Christmas decorations in November?' Riley said.

‘With a passion.'

He extended his hand. ‘Mark Riley.'

She took it and held it for a moment before replying, ‘Kazlana Ramanova.' Her hand was cool, her grip firm.

Riley couldn't place her accent, and her features gave
nothing away. There was a hint of colour to her skin, although it could have been just a deep tan. The light touches in her hair might have been fake or bleached by the sun.

‘Why are you here?' she asked.

‘I'm a writer, doing some research.' Riley didn't want to go into the more personal reasons for his trip to Kenya.

‘A writer! How exciting. But I meant, why are you at this information night? Are you expecting our restless natives to attack because of all this political nonsense going on around us?' Her smile was teasing.

‘No. I'm here for the free booze.'

A finger tapping on a microphone interrupted them.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' said the man at the podium. ‘If I may have your attention, please.'

‘What are you doing here?' Riley whispered to her as the clamour of conversation receded.

‘I'm a local businesswoman,' she whispered.

‘So how come the Australian taxpayer is buying you drinks?' he asked with mock seriousness.

Her smile vied with the sparkle in her eyes. ‘If you don't tell, I'm sure they'll never notice me.'

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' the man at the lectern repeated. ‘Your attention, please.'

‘What kind of business are—'

‘Shhh,' she said, touching a fingertip to his lips. It was mildly exciting and for a moment he felt ridiculously pubescent.

She turned to listen to the protocol officer who had begun to cover the purpose of the meeting.

She didn't look at Riley again during the speech, but he knew she was fully aware of his sideways glances. Her plain pearl earrings matched a necklace that sat just above the chiselled line of her collarbone. Her nose had a swept-up curve that contradicted the line of her high cheekbones. Riley had a weakness for high cheekbones, and he got the feeling that Kazlana somehow knew it.

He tuned in to the speaker, who was recalling the 2002 elections. ‘…sadly, these incidents are symptomatic of much of Africa. I assure you that the Australian government stands prepared to evacuate our citizens in the event of any major civil or military upheaval.'

Riley turned to glance at Kazlana again, but she had gone. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes before remembering again that he had none.
Shit!
Nevertheless, there was something in his pocket. He pulled out a business card:
Kazlana Ramanova. Chief Executive Officer.

He smiled. The very desirable Ms Ramanova had slipped her card into his pocket during one of the few moments he'd not had his eyes on her during the speech. Then he noticed the rest of the details on her card:
Ramanova and Company Ltd—Logistical Support to Kenya's NGOs.

The security guard took little notice of the tall, black man striding confidently towards the elevator and that was just how the man wanted it. He tucked his slim Department of Civil Aviation briefcase under his arm, pressed the elevator button and waited a little impatiently for its doors to slide open. Finally, the guard disappeared behind its closing doors and the panel light climbed towards level ten. He breathed more easily, straightened his tie in the mirrored wall, and flicked a fleck of lint from the lapel of his suit coat.

He felt a stirring in his groin as he recalled the silky voice on the telephone giving him instructions on how to find her, and to arrive at the end of the day when her secretary would be gone and the building near empty. Her final words,
I want to see you tonight
, had made him feel weak in the knees.

This would not be the first time he'd cheated on his wife, but it was definitely the first time he had been nervous about it. This woman was something special. He'd known it from the moment he set eyes on her when she came into his office to make enquiries about the details of a civil aviation accident. He had assisted her in an appropriate, businesslike manner, but when she took his hand to thank him for his help, she held it, and his eyes, for just a moment too long. She had been on his mind ever since. Even her name was tantalising.
Kazlana Ramanova
. It had the allure of the exotic, and complemented the odd juxtaposition of her grey-blue eyes and dark hair.

At their last meeting in his office she had told him that she needed more information than was offered in the official file, but he wasn't about to risk his job for a mere bribe. In response, she had made a pretence of brushing something from his suit
coat and commented on how strong and firm his shoulders were. She had let her hands run down his chest to pause at the taut muscles of his abdomen. Her fingers had sent electric shocks down to his groin. He'd reached for her then, but she'd smiled and kept her hands pressed on his belly to keep him at bay. ‘I like what I see. I like what I feel,' she'd whispered. ‘But I can't let myself give in while there is business to be done.' She had quietly stated that business. She wanted to see the initial accident report rather than the one prepared for public release.

When he made his own investigation of the papers, he'd realised why she suspected there was more to the aircraft incident than had previously been made available. By then, he had already made his decision to do whatever he needed to do to have her—to test the promise in those seductive, grey-blue eyes.

The elevator came to a halt and he stepped out into the carpeted corridor. He paused for a moment, then walked to the door marked
Ramanova and Company Ltd
.

She was waiting for him on the sofa, a cigarette in her hand, a magazine on her lap. She stood as he approached and pressed her hands to his chest as she had that last time. His abdomen muscles clenched.

‘You have it?' she asked.

‘Yes.' His voice was thick with the constriction in his throat. He hesitated before handing her the leather folder.

She took it and, without looking at the contents, threw it on her desk.

‘You don't want to check it?' he asked.

She pushed the suit coat from his shoulders. ‘No,' she said as she began to loosen his tie.

He tried to assist her, becoming impatient with the way she slowly teased at the knot.

She pushed his hands away. ‘No,' she said. ‘We will do this my way.' Then her tone softened. ‘Besides…you don't want to rush this, do you? I promise you, it will be more enjoyable if you allow me to do as I please. Agreed?'

He couldn't trust his voice and merely nodded.

‘Good. Then you are to remain perfectly still.'

She killed the lights, leaving only the night sky and the glow of the city to illuminate the room.

She returned to him and slipped his tie from around his neck. She quickly undid the buttons of his shirt, pulling back the fabric to expose his chest. She slid her hands over his bare skin, caressing him before pinching a nipple. He groaned with pleasure and pain.

He could resist her no longer and his hand went to her breast. He grasped its fullness and heard her take a sharp breath.

She pushed his hand away. ‘I said, no!' Even in the dim light he could see a flash of anger in her eyes, and then she softened. Again, the grey-blue eyes held a promise. ‘Be patient. Let me have my pleasure and then I promise you can do whatever you want.'

He dropped his hands to his sides and, with a great deal of self-control, kept them there as she slipped off his shirt and loosened his trousers. They fell around his ankles and he felt a little ridiculous.

She licked his nipple and sucked it as she slipped her hand into his underpants. He gasped as her fingers closed around his erect penis. She knelt and took the fullness of him into her mouth, rolling her tongue around him, and then closing her mouth to hold him firmly there.

He could resist it no more and grasped a handful of her thick brown hair and held her to him. He knew he would continue to provide any information she asked because there was nothing as maddeningly sensuous as what he was feeling at that very moment.

The rising surge of his lust swept him up, up, up, before he groaned and fell over the edge. Down, down, down…

 

Kazlana flipped a cigarette from the packet and tossed it onto the coffee table. She walked around her desk, trailing a finger along its edge until reaching the soft leather chair, where she paused to light the Marlboro. The flame illuminated her face, now cool and composed. As she took a long pull, the glow warmed the semi-darkness of her office. Before her was the file.

She slowly swung the leather swivel chair to the left and right as she contemplated the long and winding path she had taken to find the key man—they were always men—who could give her a copy of the incident report following her father's last flight. Now that she had it, she wondered if she really wanted to know the truth. If it were as she suspected, she knew that to pursue the culprits would mean a difficult and possibly dangerous journey that, once commenced, could not be abandoned until her father's death was avenged. The Ramanovas had always lived by that tradition and even today were sworn to observe it.

Her family had done business in Africa for generations, but had not always been agents. A century and a half ago, they were pirates, plucking rich fruit from sailing vessels plying the waters off the Horn of Africa. They had a reputation for quite imaginative methods of slaughtering those who resisted them. It served to make their boarding and looting more efficient. Merchant captains very quickly lowered their flags and sails when the most bloodthirsty pirates from Ceylon to the Swahili coast hove into view.

When the British became churlish about the piracy, sending gun boats to protect their link with India, the family changed their operations to become trading and shipping agents, working with whoever was prepared to pay a fair commission for their services. At about that time, they adopted the name Ramanova, which seemed to straddle the continents of Asia and Africa, their sphere of operation. It was deliberately chosen to disguise their ancestry—a move so successful that nobody
could now remember where they had originated. Kazlana's father had once told her: ‘By the time anyone realised our family was important, our history had been lost in the past.'

From its early beginnings in East Africa, the Ramanova empire had expanded into the Middle East, extending into the Far East at the end of the nineteenth century. Wars, and the whims of politicians and power-brokers, had caused the family to win and lose several fortunes. But the Ramanovas had endured. In recent years Kazlana and her father, Dieter, had worked to develop separate parts of their business. She was aware that Dieter had cultivated contacts within the Department of Regional Development, but wasn't aware of the details.

Kazlana knew a little of her mixed-race heritage on her father's side, which included elements of Swahili, Indian and Arab. Her grandfather was a Swahili trader, plying the route from India to East Africa, who met a young German woman on a world cruise with her parents, and convinced her to run away with him.

On her mother's side, it was more easily defined. After her father's first wife died, he married Kazlana's mother—an Austrian—who suffered postnatal depression after giving birth to Kazlana. Two years later, unrecovered, she went back to Europe. She never returned. The only clue she had ever been in Kenya was the blue of her daughter's eyes. With no memory of her mother, Kazlana's affection was centred firmly on her father.

She looked again at the file on her desk. The newspaper report had said her father had run short of fuel and crashed the Cessna while attempting an emergency landing. Kazlana had never accepted that finding. Firstly, her father would never have been so careless as to fly without sufficient fuel. He'd been an excellent pilot with thirty years' experience. Secondly, if he had to make an emergency landing, the country around Wajir was flat. Even if the Cessna had run out of fuel, Dieter Ramanova could have glided to any number of suitable landing sites.

Sighing, Kazlana picked up the report and flipped through its pages. She found that it included the flight path, the details of the search and rescue operation conducted after the plane had been declared missing, and the coroner's report. It soon became apparent that the media reports had been fabricated.

The flight path was reported to be from Mombasa to Wajir, yet the plane was found over a hundred kilometres beyond Wajir, near the Somali border. The Cessna was completely burnt—that much of the newspaper reports had been correct—but it had not been damaged during the landing and it was considered likely that the fire had occurred after the plane had put down.

Most damning was the coroner's report. Her father's body was burnt almost beyond recognition, but he hadn't died in the fire. He'd been shot.

She could imagine why the aviation department had wanted to keep this hidden. The Northern Frontier District was an embarrassment to the government because it was obvious they couldn't police it. There was no law and order there, and heavily armed Somali raiders made frequent incursions into Kenyan territory. There was also the al-Awaab Resistance Army, always a threat to security in the area. The authorities didn't want further proof of their incompetence made public so close to an election.

Kazlana wouldn't let that stop her carrying out her own investigation. Her father's plane and his personal belongings had been left unplundered, which suggested this wasn't the work of raiders. Besides, why had her father been near the Somali border in the first place? She wasn't aware of any business dealings he'd been involved in there; not directly, anyway. She was going to find out who had killed her father, and why. And then she was going to kill them in turn.

 

‘Mark Riley to see Ms Ramanova,' he said to the secretary, a slim black girl with beads in her braided hair.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Riley,' she responded. ‘I believe Ms Ramanova is expecting you. Please take a seat. I'll inform her you're here.'

She stepped to an adjoining door, tapped on it and waited a moment before opening it and slipping through. Riley picked up a copy of
The Nation
, and was about to take a seat on the plush white leather sofa when the secretary returned, advising him that Ms Ramanova would see him.

She came around her desk to meet him as he walked into her office. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Riley,' she said, extending her hand.

‘Afternoon, Ms Ramanova,' he said. He liked her grip—firm, as it had been the night they'd met. And again it lingered. ‘When I made my appointment I wasn't sure you'd remember me from—'

‘From the Australian High Commission? Of course I do. Please, won't you take a seat?'

She indicated a white leather armchair and sat herself on another, across a low table from him. She crossed her legs and he noticed she wore no stockings.

‘Well, I would have understood if you didn't. We only had a brief chat and then you were gone.'

She laughed. ‘Can you ever forgive me? I'm so sorry. I had to dash and I didn't want to be rude during the speech.' She placed a polished red fingernail to the corner of her mouth. ‘Would you like a coffee? Tea?'

‘No, thank you. I'm fine.'

‘How can I help you?'

‘I found your business card; it had somehow got into my jacket pocket,' he said, pausing to gauge her reaction.

She simply smiled and said, ‘You're a writer, if I remember correctly.'

‘That's correct.'

‘And who do you write for?'

‘For anyone who'll pay,' he said. It was true. He'd decided to do some articles while in Kenya to supplement his funds. He'd already got a couple of commissions from previous colleagues willing to do him a favour. ‘
Fortune
magazine, for example.'

‘I'm flattered. Why would
Fortune
take an interest in my little company?'

‘Little fish can be sweet, Ms Ramanova,' Riley said, smiling.

‘Can they indeed?' Her smile widened. ‘Call me Kazlana.'

‘Mark.'

‘Ah, Mark. Yes, I remember. Now…what would you like from me, Mark?'

Riley unzipped his leather folder and took a pen and notepad from it, resisting the temptation to continue the little play on words. ‘Just a brief description of your business. Perhaps you could start by giving me some background and the names of the directors?'

‘I'm the sole director of Ramanova and Company. It's a very old family business going back five or six generations. Trading in Africa is an informal, rambling affair, but I can tell you that the family were originally traders between the Indian subcontinent and East Africa before the time of the Omani regime. They went on to supply goods and materials to the British during the building of the Uganda railway. Later, my grandfather and his father made money running supplies to the Germans through the British blockade in World War I. Grandpa Omar was just fourteen; he manned the Gatling gun while my great-grandfather steered the dhow.'