CHAPTER 18

Pemba, Mozambique

March

AT FIRST LIGHT, REECE found himself walking westward on a dirt road that ran toward the city of Pemba. The shacks and homes that lined the roadside became more frequent as he traveled, confirming that he was moving in the right direction. Within minutes of sunrise, Reece began seeing other pedestrians along his route, no doubt headed to work. Many stared wide-eyed at the strange-looking white man who’d trespassed on their morning commute, while others paid him no mind, having seen many of his adventure-seeking backpacker brethren wander through over the years.

Even this early, the salty air was warm and damp and Reece slowed his pace so as not to soak through his clothing. He’d lost so much weight during his months at sea that he had to safety-pin the excess waistband of his board shorts so they didn’t slide off his hips. Still, he had to pull them up every few minutes as he walked. His uphill path took him by an abandoned-looking sports complex complete with faded tennis courts and an empty soccer stadium, artifacts from the nation’s colonial past. Reaching a paved two-lane road, he followed it for close to a mile until it intersected with a four-lane highway. Across the intersection was the Pemba airport, a relatively small facility with commercial service to larger sub-Saharan locations such as Dar es Salaam and Johannesburg. Where was Liz Riley and her plane when he needed her?

He had no idea of the day’s flight schedule but expected that the early morning departures from the major destinations would be arriving shortly, with taxis likely to be queuing up to meet the passengers. Even a remote third-world airport such as this might have surveillance cameras and would definitely have a police presence. Reece had to assume that his face was plastered on every television in the world, so contact with law enforcement had to be avoided. He crossed the four lanes of traffic and began walking on a shaded path that paralleled the road toward any cabs that would be approaching the airport from the city center. Unlike in some African nations, drivers in Mozambique used the right-hand side of the road.

The morning traffic mostly consisted of flatbed and stake-bodied delivery trucks, but within ten minutes of walking, Reece saw what he was looking for. He stepped into the edge of the oncoming lane and waved his hand at the white compact sedan. The Toyota slowed, put on its turn signal, and drove slightly past him before pulling onto the road’s shoulder. The driver of the King Cab Radio Taxi Toyota, a thin black man dressed in penny loafers, dark dress pants, and a threadbare button-down, stepped out to help Reece with his bags. He was obviously uncomfortable with his car’s position and moved quickly to open the hatchback. Reece loaded his duffel but kept his pack as he climbed into the small backseat.

Feigning an Australian accent rather poorly, Reece asked the driver to take him to an Internet café. Reece hadn’t spoken to another human since he’d left Katie and Liz on the runway at Fishers Island. He couldn’t help but wonder where they were now and if they were all right.

The cab’s path took it back toward the airport, where the driver made a U-turn to head toward Pemba proper.

Pemba had a reputation as a refuge for mercenaries, spies, and criminals due to its remote location and minimal connection with the inept national government. The city, known as Porto Amelia during Portuguese colonial rule, was both decrepit and beautiful at the same time. In some ways it reminded Reece of the many Caribbean islands he’d visited where locals scratched out a destitute existence adjacent to the walls of luxury resorts catering to families who never ventured beyond their secure boundaries. The beaches here were as beautiful as anywhere on earth and were virtually undeveloped; no skyscraper condos, just a scattering of thatched roofs along the white sand. The city sat on a peninsula and would be an ideal deepwater port if Mozambique had an economy to support it. The architecture was a mix of utilitarian concrete residences, shacks, and aging Portuguese structures that highlighted the dominant influences of the world’s first colonial empire; churches represented an expeditious religious footprint to win the hearts of the indigenous population, along with the accompanying military fortifications required to win their minds.

Following the high ground on the bay side of the peninsula, the driver’s path into the city led them through streets crowded with more pedestrian than automotive traffic. People and vehicles moved at a laid-back pace; no one seemed to be in much of a hurry. After spending so much time alone on the open seas, he felt a bit claustrophobic in the crowded street, but a few deep breaths got things under control. The taxi stopped in front of a building in what appeared to be a shopping district and the driver pointed to the meter, which read 462. 25 MZN.

“How much U. S., mate? ”

The driver smiled and held up seven fingers. Everybody likes dollars. Reece peeled a ten-dollar bill from a wad of cash in the top pocket of his pack and handed it to the driver, who nodded enthusiastically. He stepped out of the cab as the driver moved to unload his duffel from the back, pointing at a storefront. Reece nodded, looked around at his new surroundings, and headed through the propped-open double doors of the café.

Inside, a tired-looking employee manned the desk, and a handful of young men occupied seats in front of a row of ancient computer terminals. The room was dimly lit, with much of the illumination coming from the computer screens. There were no overt signs of surveillance cameras. A price list in what must have been the local language and what looked like Portuguese specified the rates. Hora was surely hour and, based on the cab fare, that much time was around five dollars. Reece handed the man behind the counter a five-dollar bill. He studied it carefully before putting it into his shirt pocket, then waved his arm toward the computers and said something that Reece couldn’t understand.

The other patrons were glued to their screens and paid Reece no attention as he moved to the computer closest to the wall. The machine was ancient, one of those Dell desktop tower PCs from the late 1990s that cost $3, 000 and, a few months later, were worth about $100. The browser was an old, unsupported version of Google Chrome and it took a full minute of clicking and whirring for the program to open after Reece double-clicked on it.

He had a strong urge to look up a few news stories related to his last days in the United States and an even stronger inclination to do a Google search for Liz and Katie, but, knowing that the long arm of the NSA was likely on the lookout for just such an event, he resisted. He typed “Richard Hastings safari operator” into the browser and waited an eternity for the response. The first hit was a Web page for RH Safaris and he clicked on the link. It was obvious from the “About Us” section of the site that he had found the correct Richard Hastings, so he clicked on the “Our Areas” page. A map of the safari area eventually loaded and he took a small notebook and pencil from his pack to take note of the location.

The area was in one of the hunting blocks that bordered the Niassa National Reserve, a vast wilderness area in northern Mozambique along the border with Tanzania. The map wasn’t interactive, so Reece made a sketch of its proximity to terrain features, including the river that bordered the safari area and the closest town of Montepuez, which is where the paved roads ended. After waiting painfully for Google Maps to load, he found the approximate location of the safari area, and instead of dropping a pin, he used the scale in the bottom right-hand corner to estimate distance. The camp was at least five hours from Pemba by car, and that was being generous considering the likely condition of the roads. It was probably more like an eight-hour trip during this, the rainy season. Besides, he didn’t have a car, so the point was moot. He did a search for RH Safaris and, among various links and junk results, found a trip report from a previous safari client on a hunting message board. The report described the hunter’s trip down to the most minute of details, including his clothing and ammunition choices. Fortunately, this attention to detail also described the air charter service he’d used.

Pemba Air Charters listed an address on Avenue de Marginal near the airport, meaning that he had walked directly past it this morning. Given the remote location of the safari area, Reece figured the charter service likely served as a regular shuttle to and from the camp and that the individuals involved would have a strong working relationship. Rather than trying to buy a truck or motorcycle to navigate his way to the camp while avoiding police and military, chartering a plane was course of action one. He wrote down the address and phone number before deleting the browser history and heading for the door. He nodded at the attendant and went back out into the slow-motion hustle and bustle of the coastal African city.

The same Toyota taxi that had dropped Reece off was still waiting, and the driver treated him like a long-lost brother. Currency breeds loyalty in certain parts of the world, well, most of them anyway. Reece handed the address to the driver, who nodded and steered the car back into traffic. A few minutes later, they were at their destination. Reece gave the driver another ten and this time the man handed him a business card and pointed at the phone number. Call me if you need me again. Reece nodded in understanding.

The world headquarters of Pemba Air Charters was a faded baby blue single-family home, surrounded by an iron gate with brick columns. The windows of the building were covered with burglar bars and an older Suzuki minivan parked just inside the gate had a magnetic “Pemba Air Charters” logo on the door. Reece pressed the doorbell button on the brick column and put on his best smile.

The front door of the house opened and a short, broad-chested white man wearing sandals, blue athletic shorts, and a faded olive T-shirt stepped out, squinting his eyes in the bright sunlight. He walked half the distance between the house and the gate.

“Can I help you? ” he asked in the heavily accented English of East Africa.

“I’m looking for Pemba Air Charters; am I in the right place? ”

“You are. We just don’t get many walk-ins. ” He walked to the gate, fishing a key ring out of his pocket, and extended his hand. “I’m Geoff. ”

“Richard Connell, nice to meet you, ” Reece improvised.

“Come on in, Mr. Connell. It’s bloody hot out here, eh? ”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. ” Reece followed Geoff inside. What would have been the family room of the house was set up as an office with a desk, an office chair, and a sofa in the center of the room. He assumed that Geoff both worked out of and lived here.

“Set your bags down anywhere. Can I get you anything? A beer? ”

“No, I’m fine, thanks. ”

“Have a seat. ” Geoff pointed at the couch as he made his way around the desk and took a seat behind it.

“American, eh? ”

“More of a world traveler. ”

“I guess so, if you’re walking around Pemba. What can we do for you? ”

“I’m looking to charter a flight to the RH Safaris camp near Niassa. ”

“Ah, yes, we do a good bit of work with them. You realize that it’s not the hunting season, though, right? ”

“I do. I’m not headed there to hunt. I am a friend of the Hastings family and thought I would visit Mr. Hastings since I was in this part of the world. ”

“Right. ” Geoff nodded skeptically. “We can help with that for sure, eh. I need to call them and make sure that someone is in camp before we put in a flight plan. ”

“I completely understand. You can tell him that Utilivu’s friend from college wants to visit. ”

“Right. Let’s give him a call then, eh? ” Geoff picked up a desk phone and dialed a number from memory. Ten seconds later, the call was answered on the other end. “Hey, bro, it’s Geoff. I’ve got an oak here who wants to visit you. Says he’s a college friend of Utilivu, whoever the fuck that is. ” Geoff winked at Reece to let him know that he was joking. “Right, okay then, let me take a look at the weather. See you soon. Need me to bring you anything? Right. ”

Geoff hung up the phone and looked up at Reece. “He said to bring you in as soon as possible. I’ll check the weather and we’ll see about getting you there today. ”

“That’s great, thanks, Geoff. How much do I owe you? ”

“You must be a good friend of Rich. He said to add it to his tab. ”

Within an hour they were loading Reece’s bags into a small truck and backing through the driveway gate. Geoff had changed into his pilot uniform and carried a black chart case, identical to the ones used by commercial pilots the world over. It took them three minutes to drive onto the airport grounds and, much to Reece’s relief, Geoff drove around the terminal and directly onto the tarmac and stopped next to a high-wing single-engine turboprop aircraft. The Cessna 208 Caravan could hold up to nine passengers, but Geoff and Reece would be the only occupants on this trip.

Reece loaded his bags while Geoff went to handle some business with the aviation authorities. It was too hot to sit in the plane, so Reece took a seat on the door’s step and rested in the shade of the wing. Geoff returned after a few minutes and began preflighting the plane, instructing Reece to sit in the right seat of the cockpit. There was no sign of police or military activity at the field, but nonetheless, Reece breathed a silent sigh of relief when they were finally airborne.

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