Marked Chapter 11 John Mutabe, a pretender fanfic

CHAPTER ELEVEN

March 18, 2001

When John Mutabe got in at the Washington airport he was to escort a certain man to Narobi., but when his chief told him to look for a tall man with dark hair and wing it, he knew enough to realize that this was another assignment. He went to the baggage checker, signed the papers, got the tickets that would transfer him to the plane going to Tanganyika, was told the suspect was on that flight and as soon as John was on order, would be transferred into his custody. However, no sooner did John walk up the ramp way, two heavily armed FBI agents stop him.

"Mr. Obango, you're under arrest for smuggling," said the heavier one while the slimmer one took out the handcuffs.

"I'm not this Mr. Obango," but they would not listen.

"Sure sure," said the fatter agent, "and I'm the President of the United States."

"And I am Martin Luther King," said the other one whose fair skin and blonde hair belied that statement. They hustled him off, past a crowd that included a dark skinned man with yellow eyes. Once out of sight, they took him to a secure room.

Standing there besides a fold up table was a tall man standing there looked to be in his thirties or early forties with eyes the color of a Hershey bar and brown hair with an auburn tinge over his shoulders. He obviously had just completed an undercover assignment, had an imposing manner, something that frightened Mutabe, but there was something reassuring about him. The woman in the corner was quite attractive, with her dark auburn hair flipped back, and combed past her shoulders. She had on a burgundy suit and a light pink blouse with pumps to match.

"Thank you gentlemen," he said, "Agent Mutabe? I'm Agent Jarod Wilkes. Too bad we had to rough you up, had to make it look good." He motioned to the woman standing in the shadows.

Coming forward, the woman removed Mutabe's handcuffs and shook his hand. "Sorry for the deception, but we had to be convincing, Mr. Mutabe," she said. "I'm Rachel Burke of the VCTF. We're working on a case that requires your expertise." She explained about the murders of the girls and the message."

"I understand why you need my help, Ma'am," said John, "by the description of the murder it looks like a cult thing. Did they all occurred around holiday time and were the murder victims from East Africa?"

"They are all African Americans, but whether they were recent immigrants or part of the East African culture over here, I cannot say. You do know a bit about cults, don't you?"

"Yes. Some of my people are quite superstitious, believing in charms to ward off evil spirits and that stuff. We try to think we have come a long way since our ancestors, but there are still things cropping up in the outer villages."

Rachel showed him something she had found on the first dead girl's person.

"That is a sign of The Sect of the White Lion. An albino lion is quite rare and there have been reports of a couple slaughtered. The penalty for killing them is a long prison sentence."

He summarized a history of the Sect to Jarod and Rachel. The Sect used to hunt down a white lion, believing its skin would give them protection from their enemies. Several British explorers had said they had seen them, but society thought their tales were due to jungle fever. Anyway, the Sect seemed to have disappeared into oblivion until reports came up of girls from some of the neighboring villages found dead, supposedly ravaged by a wild beast. Rumors were that in order for the charm against bullets to keep working, the wearer of the skin had to sacrifice a young virgin. "They strangled her, cut off the flesh from her face and ate it. They believed that the smell of a woman would deter any evil spirits or white men.

"So what stopped them?"

The villagers who lost their daughters united one night, and hunted down the members of the Sect. They were sure they got them all."

"Maybe one is still alive."

"I doubt it unless one can rise from the dead. This was in the late eighteen hundreds." John then listened to Jarod's plan. "So, you're to grab my gun and shoot me?"

"Don t worry, it's a blank, but it will hurt enough to convince the airport security. You then take Miss Burke, hostage, shoot the other FBI agents."

It worked with true precision. By the time, the police discovered that the FBI agents were not dead and that Miss Burke had recovered from her throw from the moving car, John was on his way to infiltrate the Sect of the White Lion.

There were six of them, supposedly celebrating, talking about the plane, and getting home. As soon as John started across to the parking lot, they were after him.

"Hello," said one, "heard you had a bit of trouble with the fuzz."

"Nothing, I thought that was over when I came here."

"Where're you from?"

"Narobi."

"So am I! Do you know Sangia's Bar? I thought I saw you there. It's on the corner of Eighth and Salisbury."

John knew there was no such place. "You mean " He gave the name of a well reputed bar in Narobi that catered to the criminal elements.

Now that they trusted him, his six new companions invited him to their flat, started to talk about the tea plantations, the government, and the severity of the dry season, and those refugees.

"—all over the place. Why Ted and I were sitting down, just enjoying our drink when…"

John listened, keeping an eye on one of the six men. He did not fit this bunch of not too successful lowlifes. He had coldness in his eyes.

He bided his time, listening and taking part in trivial matters such as playing dice and looking at home movies. When they tired of seeing little brother's first bicycle or the new pump at the Mission school, they invited him to a local Kenyan restaurant and partook of the food of their homeland. The murals of the restaurant were paintings of antelope at the river, tall men dancing to the sound of drums, and white hunters led by natives to hunt the lion. The waitresses wore bright red beads and long khaki wrapped skirts. The men dipped their ugali into the sukuma wili, and drunk the native beer. The waitress put a platter of chapatis on the table, but John and his new 'friends' hardly touched them.

They downed their beer.

Now that they seemed relaxed, the FBI agent decided to make his first move. He opened his shirt and showed the secret sign of the Sect of the White Lion , an ivory tooth on a silver chain. "Very ancient." He paused. "It keeps me from harm."

"Does not it make the women approach you?"

John shook his head. "Am I an ignorant village boy to rely on charms?" He moved his hand and opened his palms, knowing the other man would think that no spy would undergo such torture.

The other man's mouth gaped open. It was the tattoo of a member of the Sect.

"You are a fool to show that to me!" he said.

"A simple tattoo."

"But do you not realize the significance?" he asked.

"Yes, it has been in my family for generations., but what of you. You paled when seeing the lion's tooth," said John. "Only one familiar with the rites would know."

The man shrugged. "My grandfather perhaps was a police man."

"You lie, Isaiah," said one of the others, "your grandfather herded cattle, and he died among the filth of his scrawny herd."

"You told us that many a times," said the other.

"So I exaggerate. My grandfather told many a tale."

"Well Isaiah," said John, "what is it?"

"My grandfather wanted to be policeman."

John made a mental calculation. Great great grandfather more like it, he thought. He had to see if Isaiah had the tattoo on his palm. He dropped some coins on the floor.

It worked. Isaiah and the others bent down and as Isaiah reached for the coins and turned his hands up, John saw the faint impression of the lion on his right palm.

Now he was certain.