Black Mischief (40 page)

BOOK: Black Mischief

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On the third passing he heard his father's voice speak two words: âLondiani' and âNaivasha'. He pulled up sharp and listened. Whoever was on the other end of the line was dominating the exchanges. His father's voice was agitated in a way he had never heard before. His part in the conversation was a series of staccato replies to what seemed to be instructions: âYes, one am. I know that but where exactly? In the car? My car, but how did you know â¦? Written directions and a map. Right. No, I remember. I won't move.'

There was no more conversation. Neither was there the sound of any movement inside the room. From where he stood, unsure of what he should do next, Reuben could not have suspected that Papa's mind was in a state of turmoil. For a few moments, Abel felt as though he was drowning in a wild confusion of random thoughts. The moment that he had been longing for was close by and his reaction was numbing fear. Irrelevant memories crowded in him, distracting him further. He made one audible reaction, a loud groan.

Reuben, ignoring the restraints that in normal circumstances would have kept him firmly rooted to the spot on the outside of that room, afraid of rousing his father's considerable bad temper, burst in.

âPapa, is everything all right? Are you feeling ill? Can I help you?'

Abel swung âround, stunned with surprise. The world was going crazy all âround him. For a few seconds, father and son stared at one another in disbelief. They had entered new territory in their relationship. Reuben had struck an unwitting blow against his father's domination. Abel felt not anger but relief at his son's intrusion. The sight of Reuben flashed up in Abel's mind, the memory of a smiling, confident, even arrogant Julius.

For a fleeting moment it was his dead son standing there in front of him.

The moment passed, but its afterglow acted like an electric charge on Abel. The doubt, the fear, the guilty hesitation vanished instantly. He had rediscovered his purpose, his drive, his determination to finish his task, gloriously. A minor regret came and went. He needed the help of a stranger to achieve the wonderful, shocking, cleansing revenge.

This stranger had ordered him to travel to Naivasha alone. But no, he would be his own man on this. Reuben would go with him.

âReuben, go up to your room and put on your darkest clothes. Be at the lodge in twenty minutes. We're going on a journey together, perhaps the most important journey of our lives.'

Chapter Thirty-five

o high enough into the night sky and look down. The Central Rift is a dark mass that, to the eyes of a stranger up here, is a plain broken in places by strings and pools of light. Nairobi to the south and Nakuru to the north glow with city brightness. Naivasha, directly below, has its straggling ribbons of white dots reaching out a short distance from its heart, itself pale except for two large rectangles on the shores of the lake where the flower farmers are at their work of fooling their plants by creating their best imitations of the power of the African sun.

Swoop down thousands of feet and your perception changes. Now you see the shadowy outlines of hills all around. On this moonlit night, the lake is an irregular stretch of grey plate, reflecting a cold light. From above, rings of security lamps define the home farms that snuggle along the shore. Londiani and Rusinga are silent from where we are.

At this late hour, hardly a vehicle passes up or down South Lake Road. A single black Mercedes carrying two men is moving steadily along the lower road from the Escarpment. The road is straight, cutting through a wide, barren plain with the craggy mass of Longonot looming to their left. It is a good time for letting the thoughts wander.

Darkness can be a friend, as it was on this night. Alfredo Rossi had set out as the brief Kenya dusk was turning into full night. He was well aware that this was a dangerous time to be travelling along even the A104, the busiest road in the country. But he was ready for any violent attempts to slow his progress. Two loaded pistols fitted with silencers lay on the seat beside him. They would see off any possible trouble.

He turned off South Lake Road at the entrance to the country club and parked close to the road but out of sight behind a pair of heavy-limbed pepper trees. It was just a short walk to Londiani and, after reluctantly phoning Rubai, as promised, he set off carrying the two black leather cases that held his equipment. He took his time, moving off the road every fifty metres or so to make certain that he had no company.

Once onto the McCall property, his first job was to check out the spot he had picked out for his paymaster. It would be very easy for Rubai to find although Alfredo had hopes that, at the last moment, the man himself would have a change of heart and not turn up.

After that it was a question of waiting and keeping a close lookout. For half an hour he lay on the ground motionless, enough time to make doubly sure that no one was close by. He had chosen a spot with direct, straight sightlines to the house. In the distance to his left he could see the open wood fire burning low at the heart of the village. Up ahead, less than thirty metres away he saw that there were lights on in three upstairs rooms in what the workers called Big House. At last he had his target in front of him and he was pleased to see that at least some of the family were about. He opened one of his cases, took out the rifle parts and assembled them. It was his backup, but he hoped he would have a chance to use it for the personal touch it brought to a job. He was ready.

He opened the second and smaller case. Through the heavily filtered light of a headlamp, he peered down. He checked the circuits. All connected and neatly fitted. It was the tenth time he had used the system, passed on to him for a big fee from a military man. The hard part had been completed in the dead of night forty-eight hours before. Now it was a matter of pressing a single red button. Those inside who did not cop it in the explosion would find all exits from the house blocked, except for the one down the steps from the veranda. He had been a first-class marksman since his schooldays. They would feel virtually nothing.

The series of explosions was satisfactory and fire a billowing mass of red and gold. As he raised his rifle to his shoulder, he glanced across to his right. Rubai was on his feet, throwing one arm up in triumph.

âThe bastard!'

Rossi had seen two where there should have been one. Never mind. He had a job to finish. He had his night sight trained on the veranda steps, unnecessarily. In the brightness of the blaze he could have picked out a black cat without straining his eyes. No one appeared. He unloaded and broke down the rifle into parts. In two hours he would be at the airport on his way back to civilisation. Nobody could have survived in that house. He was right.

His focus was fixed in the wrong direction. Rubai and son saw what he could not. A stream of people was racing towards Londiani from Rusinga. He recognised the rolling gait of Tom McCall and behind him his father. He had brought his own rifle hoping that, at last, he would be able to pull a trigger and finish some of his own dirty work.

âWatch out, Rossi! Over there!'

It was the American, not the rich African big man who panicked. All Rossi could think of was his own safety. He had been outwitted by a bunch of hick town deadbeats. He would find his way back to the car over the fields. Getting away from this jinxed place was the only thing that counted. He was off.

Abel ran forward. He could not resist one more scream of anger before he finished off at least one of his tormentors.

âBetter late than never, McCall! Your turn to feel some pain!'

Tom stopped to peer into the darkness. He knew the voice too well. He was close enough to see the barrel pointing straight at him. As the rifle shot cracked the night sky he was diving for the ground. The pain in his shoulder came from his impact with the ground.

He looked up to see Bertie Briggs slowly remove his rifle from his shoulder and, further away, Reuben Rubai bent over a prostrate body.

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