Butler Did It! (3 page)

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.