Assegai

He came up short with his back against the corner of the hangar wall. The angle prevented him breaking out and he knew that Gustav had him trapped. With both hands Gustav lifted the hammer high, and paused with it aimed at Leon’s head. Leon knew that when the blow came he could not avoid it. There was simply not enough space for him to dodge. He stared into Gustav’s eyes, trying to read his intention, trying to control him with the force of his gaze, but schnapps and pain had turned the man into an animal. In his eyes there was no trace of recognition or mercy.

Then Gustav’s expression changed subtly. The mad rage faded from his eyes, replaced by bewilderment. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak a thick gout of bright blood spewed over his lips. The hammer dropped and clattered to the hangar floor. He looked down at his body.

The blade of a Masai assegai stood out three hands’ breadth from the centre of his chest. He shook his head as though in disbelief at what he was seeing. Then his legs buckled. Manyoro was standing close behind him, and as Gustav fell, he plucked out the blade from where he had driven it home. The German’s heart must still have been beating, for a small fountain of blood spurted from the gaping wound and shrivelled as Gustav died.

Leon stared at Manyoro. His mind seethed with wild conjecture. The last time he had seen Manyoro was almost a week ago on Lonsonyo Mountain. How had he arrived so fortuitously? Then he saw that Loikot was with him and, before he could stop him, had plunged his own assegai into the inert body.

Leon was assailed by horror and dread. No matter the circumstances in which it had happened, they had killed a white man. There would be retribution in the form of the hangman’s noose. The administration of the colony could not afford to condone such a heinous offence in a land where whites were outnumbered fifty to one by tribesmen. It would set too dangerous a precedent. His mind racing, Leon demanded of the two Masai, ‘How did you get here?’

‘When the soldier took you from Lonsonyo we followed you.’

‘I owe my life to you. The Bula Matari would have killed me, but you know what will happen if the police catch you.’

‘No matter,’ Manyoro said, with dignity. ‘They can do with me as they wish. You are my brother. I could not stand by and watch him kill you.’

‘Does anybody else know you are in Nairobi?’ Leon asked, and they shook their heads. ‘Good. We must work quickly.’

Between them they wrapped Gustav’s corpse in a tarpaulin from the storeroom with a fifty-pound crank shaft lashed to his feet. They trussed it securely with lengths of hemp rope, then carried it to the Butterfly and loaded it into the main bomb bay in the fuselage. Still working fast, they tidied the hangar, getting rid of any trace of the fight and the fire. They carried out the remains of the packing cases and stacked them on the woodpile behind the Polo Club. Then they spread fresh earth over the bloodstains, trampled it down and sprinkled engine oil over the spot to disguise the nature of the stains. If any questions were asked about Gustav’s disappearance it would be assumed that he had gone on the run to escape arrest and incarceration in a concentration camp.

When Leon was satisfied that they had covered up as much of the incriminating evidence as they could, they wheeled the Butterfly out of the hangar and he climbed into the cockpit to begin his start-up procedures. The two Masai stood ready to swing the propellers. Then they stiffened and stared into the darkness from which came the sound of a horse at full gallop.

‘Police?’ Leon muttered. ‘I have the corpse of a murdered man on board. This could mean trouble.’

He held his breath, then released it as Max Rosenthal rode out of the night and dismounted. He carried a large rucksack slung on his back as he hurried to the side of the Butterfly. ‘You told me you’d help me,’ he said, looking hunted and terrified. ‘Up at the parade-ground they’ve just shot three Germans they accused of being spies. Mr Courtney, you know I’m no spy.’

‘Don’t worry, Max, I’ll take you out,’ Leon reassured him. ‘Climb aboard!’

As soon as the engines started, the two Masai scrambled up to join Max in the cockpit and, with the waxing moon lighting the way, Leon took off and turned south, heading for the border with German East Africa. Three hours later the silver expanse of Lake Natron came up ahead, shining like a mirror in the moonlight. Leon let the Butterfly sink down until they were skimming its surface. He flew into the centre before he pulled the lever that opened the bomb bay, then leaned over the side of the cockpit and watched the tarpaulin-shrouded corpse plummet into the soda-rich water. It raised a splash of white foam. He circled back low over the surface to make certain that it had not floated, but the metal ballast had pulled it under and there was barely a ripple to be seen.

He turned back for the eastern shore. Lake Natron overlapped the boundary between the German and British territories. At this dry season of the year the beaches were exposed and as the water was rich in soda they were brilliant white, the soda hard-packed. Leon could land the Butterfly safely on one of them. The difficulty lay in deciding which to trust. He made a pass down a stretch of beach, which seemed firm and hard, came around again and touched down gently. The Butterfly settled and began to slow. Then, heart sinking, he felt her wheels break through the soda crust into the soft mud beneath. The plane stopped so abruptly that they were all thrown heavily against their safety straps.

Leon cut the engines and they climbed down on to the beach. A hasty inspection revealed no apparent damage to the landing gear or fuselage, but the wheels were bogged axle deep in the mire. Leon walked in a circle around the Butterfly to test the surface. They had been unfortunate to run into a small mudhole. Fifty feet ahead the ground was firm, but there was no hope of the four men being able to manhandle the heavy machine that far.

‘Where are we, Manyoro?’

The two Masai discussed the question before they replied.

‘We are in the land of the Bula Matari. It is half a day’s walk back to the border.’

‘Are there any Germans close by?’

Manyoro shook his head. ‘The nearest post is at Longido.’ He pointed south-east. ‘It will take more than a day for the soldiers to get here.’

‘Are there any villages close by where we can find men to help us?’

‘Ndio, M’bogo. Less than an hour’s walk along the shore from here there is a large village of fisherfolk.’

‘Do they have trek oxen?’

Manyoro consulted Loikot and at last they both nodded. ‘Yes. It is a large village and the chief is a rich man. He has many oxen.’

‘Go to him, my brethren, as fast as you can run. Tell him if he brings a span of his oxen to pull us out of the mud I will make him even richer. He must bring ropes too.’

Leon and Max settled down in the cockpit to wait, but dense clouds of mosquitoes whined around their heads and kept them awake until dawn. At last they heard voices and the lowing of oxen from the direction in which Manyoro and Loikot had disappeared. Then a crowd of people and animals came towards them along the shore. Manyoro was in the vanguard, trotting far ahead.

Leon jumped down from the cockpit and hurried to meet him.

‘I have brought two full spans of oxen.’ Manyoro was gri

‘I praise you, Manyoro. You have done work of great value. Have they brought ropes?’ Leon asked.

Manyoro’s smile faded. ‘Only short leather traces, which will not stretch across the mudhole to our indege,’ he admitted. He tried to look downcast, but Leon had seen the twinkle in his eyes.