Windfall

EIGHT

Stafford discussed the Gunnarsson affair with Jack Ellis who was the next biggest shareholder in Stafford Security after himself. He felt he could not run up costs on the firm without informing Ellis. He outlined the situation and Ellis said thoughtfully, ‘Gunnarsson. He’s the Peacemore mob, isn’t he?’

‘That’s right.’

‘We’ve been having trouble with that crowd. Remember Electronomics?’

‘All too clearly,’ said Stafford. ‘Jack, our next logical expansion is into the States. We’re going to come up slap hard against Gunnarsson sooner or later. I’d rather it was sooner, before we set up operations over there. I want to go after him now when he’s not on his home ground.’

Ellis nodded. ‘That should make it easier. Who knows about all this? I mean that Gunnarsson has run in a substitute for Hendrix.’

‘Just four; you, me, Hardin and the Sergeant.’

‘Not Alix Hendriks?’

Stafford shook his head. ‘Nor Dirk. I want to keep this tight.’

‘And why Kenya?’

Stafford said, ‘There was once an American bank robber called Willie Sutton. Someone asked him why he robbed banks. He looked a bit disgusted, and said, “That’s where the money is.” There’s a hell of a lot of money going into Kenya. Gunnarsson will go where the money is.’

‘What do we know about this Foundation in Kenya?’

‘Not a damned thing; but that can be cured.’

‘And you want to handle this personally?’

‘With help.’ Stafford shrugged. ‘I’ve been working damned hard in Europe, and I haven’t had a holiday for three years. Let’s call this paid leave of absence.’

Ellis smiled wryly, ‘I have an odd feeling of déjà vu as though we’ve had this conversation before.’

Stafford said, ‘Make no mistake, Jack; this isn’t a favour for Alix Hendriks. This is for the future benefit of Stafford Security.’

Ellis agreed.

Stafford sent Hardin to Kenya as a one man advance party. He did not want Hardin to meet either Gunnarsson or Hendrix by accident and, although there are eight million people in London, he was taking no chances. The West End covers a comparatively small area and it would be plain bad luck if they met face to face in, say, Jermyn Street. In Kenya Hardin was to arrange hotel accommodation and hire cars. He was also to do a preliminary check into the Ol Njorowa Foundation.

Gunnarsson and the fake Hendrix were kept under discreet observation. Stafford arranged to get a look at them so that he would know them again when he saw them. Gunnarsson did nothing much; he frequented the offices of Peacemore, Willis and Franks, which was natural since he owned the place, and he gambled in casinos, winning often. His luck was uncanny. Hendrix, after looking around London, hired a car and went on a tour of the West Country.

It was then that Stafford invited Alix and Dirk Hendriks to dinner; they were his spies behind the enemy lines. Over the aperitifs he said, ‘How did you get on in Jersey?’

Dirk laughed, ‘I signed a lot of papers and got writer’s cramp. The old man had a fantastic head for business. His investments are widespread.’

‘Did you know your grandfather?’

Dirk shook his head, and Alix said, ‘You’ve never mentioned him, Dirk.’

‘I thought he was killed in the Red Revolt of 1922,’ said Dirk. ‘There was a revolution on the Rand, a real civil war which Smuts put down with artillery and bombers. That’s when he disappeared, or so I was told. It’s a bit spooky to know that he really died only a few months ago.’

‘And your grandmother—did you know her?’ asked Stafford.

‘I have vague recollections,’ said Dirk, frowning. ‘She used to tell me stories. It must have been she who told me about my grandfather. She died when I was a kid. They all did.’

‘All?’ said Alix questioningly.

‘Both my parents, my sister and my grandmother were killed in a car crash. The only reason I wasn’t in the car was because I was in hospital. Scarlet fever, I believe. I was six years old.’ He put on a mock lugubrious expression. ‘I’m a lone orphan.’

Alix put her hand over his. ‘My poor darling. I didn’t know.’

Stafford thought it odd that Dirk had not told Alix this before but made no comment. Instead he said, ‘What’s this Foundation in Kenya?’

‘Ol Njorowa?’ Dirk shook his head, ‘I don’t know much about it other than what I’ve already told you. We’re going out next Wednesday to inspect it. Since I have to spend a month a year there I’d better learn about it. The Director is a man called Brice. Mandeville thinks a lot of him.’

‘How does Mandeville come into it? He’s a QC, isn’t he? I thought Farrar was the executor.’ Stafford held up a finger to a passing waiter.

‘He did a lot of legal work for my grandfather. Apparently they were on terms of friendship because he said he used to stay at my grandfather’s house whenever he went to Jersey.’

‘Is he going to Kenya with you?’

Dirk laughed. ‘Lord, no! He’s a bigwig; he doesn’t go to people—they go to him. But Farrar is coming along; he has business to discuss with Brice.’

Stafford turned to Alix. ‘Are you going, too?’

She smiled ruefully. ‘I’d like to, but I couldn’t take young Max. Perhaps we’ll go next time.’

‘And Henry Hendrix is going, of course. Where is he, by the way? I thought you’d be together.’

‘He’s sightseeing in the country,’ said Dirk, and added tartly, ‘We’re not going to live in each other’s pockets. It’s only now that I appreciate the saying, “You can choose your friends but not your relatives.”’

‘Don’t you like him?’

‘He’s not my type,’ said Dirk briefly. ‘I think we’ll choose different months to stay at Ol Njorowa. But, yes; he will be going with Farrar and me.’

‘I might bump into you in Nairobi,’ said Stafford casually. ‘I’m taking a holiday out there. My flight is on Tuesday.’

‘Oh?’ Dirk looked at him intently. ‘When did you decide that?’

‘I booked the trip a couple of weeks ago—at least, my secretary did.’

The waiter came up, and Alix said, ‘I won’t have another drink, Max.’

‘Then we’ll go in to dine,’ he said, and rose, satisfied with his probing.

Next day he learned that Gunnarsson had visited a travel agent and a discreet enquiry elicited his destination—Nairobi. Stafford had Curtis book two seats on the Tuesday flight and cabled Hardin, advising him to lie low. Curtis said, ‘Am I going, sir?’

‘Yes; I might want someone to hang my trousers. What kind of natty gent’s clothing would be suitable for Kenya?’

‘The Colonel doesn’t want to trouble his head about that. Any of the Indian stores will make him up a suit within twenty-four hours. Cheap too, and good for the climate.’

‘You’re a mine of information, Sergeant. Where did you pick up that bit?’

‘I’ve been there,’ Curtis said unexpectedly. ‘I was in Mombasa a few years ago during the Mau-Mau business. I got a bit of travel up-country to Nairobi and beyond.’ He paused. ‘What kind of trouble is the Colonel expecting—fisticuffs or guns?’ Stafford regarded him thoughtfully, and Curtis said, ‘It’s just that I’d like to know what preparations to make.’

Stafford said, ‘You know as much as I do. Make what preparations you think advisable.’ The first thing any green lieutenant learns is when to say ‘Carry on, Sergeant.’ The non-commissioned officers of any service run the nuts and bolts of the outfit and the wise officer knows it.

Curtis said, ‘Then have I the Colonel’s permission to take the afternoon off? I have things to do.’

‘Yes; but don’t tell me what they are. I don’t want to know.’

The only matter of consequence that happened before they went to Kenya was that Hendrix crashed his car when careering down a steep hill in Cornwall near Tintagel. He came out with a few scratches but the car was a total write-off.

They flew to Nairobi first class on the night flight. Curtis was a big man and Stafford no midget and he saw no reason to be cramped in economy class where the seats are tailored for the inhabitants of Munchkinland. If all went well Gunnarsson would be paying ultimately. Stafford resisted the attempts of the cabin staff to anaesthetize him with alcohol so he would be less trouble but, since he found it difficult to sleep on aircraft, at 3 a.m. he went to the upstairs lounge where he read a thriller over a long, cold beer while intermittently watching the chief steward jiggle the accounts. The thriller had a hero who always knew when he was being followed by a prickling at the nape of his neck; this handy accomplishment helped the plot along on no fewer than four occasions.

Curtis slept like a baby.

They landed just after eight in the morning and, even at that early hour, the sun was like a hammer. Stafford sniffed and caught the faintly spicy, dusty smell he had first encountered in Algeria—the smell of Africa. They went through Immigration and Customs and found Hardin waiting. ‘’Lo, Max; ‘lo, Sergeant. Have a good flight?’

‘Not bad.’ Stafford felt the bristles on his jaw. ‘A day flight would have been better.’

‘The pilots don’t like that,’ said Hardin. ‘This airport is nearly six thousand feet high and the midday air is hot and thin. They reckon it’s a bit risky landing at noon.’

Stafford’s eyes felt gritty. ‘You’re as bad as the Sergeant, here, for unexpected nuggets of information.’

‘I have wheels outside. Let me help you with your bags. Don’t let these porters get their hands on them; they want an arm and a leg for a tip.’

They followed Hardin and Stafford stared unbelievingly at the vehicle to which he was led. It was a Nissan van, an eight-seater with an opening roof, and it was dazzlingly painted in zebra stripes barely veiled in a thin film of dust. He said, ‘For Christ’s sake, Ben! We’re trying to be inconspicuous and you get us a circus van. That thing shouts at you from a bloody mile away.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Hardin said reassuringly. ‘These safari trucks are as common as fleas on a dog out here, and they’ll go anywhere. We’re disguised as tourists. You’ll see.’

Hardin drove, Stafford sat next to him, and Curtis got in the back. There was an unexpectedly good divided highway. Stafford said, ‘How far is the city?’

‘About seven miles.’ Hardin jerked his thumb. ‘See that fence? On the other side is the Nairobi National Game Park. Lots of animals back there.’ He laughed, it’s goddamn funny to see giraffes roaming free with skyscrapers in the background.’

‘I didn’t send you here to look at animals.’

‘Hell, it was Sunday morning. My way of going to church. Don’t be a grouch, Max.’

Hardin had a point. ‘Sorry, Ben. I suppose it’s the lack of sleep.’

‘That’s okay.’ Hardin was silent for a while, then he said, ‘I was talking to one of the local inhabitants in the bar of the Hilton. He lives at Langata, that’s a suburb of Nairobi. He said all hell had broken loose early that morning because a lion had taken a horse from the riding stables next door. Even in Manhattan we don’t live that dangerously.’

Stafford thought Hardin had turned into the perfect goggling tourist. He was not there to hear small talk about lions. He said, ‘What about the Foundation?’

Hardin caught the acerbity in Stafford’s voice and gave him a sideways glance. He said quietly, ‘Yeah, I got some information on that from the same guy who told me about the lion. He’s one of the Trustees; Indian guy called Patterjee.’

Stafford sighed. ‘Sorry again, Ben. This doesn’t seem to be my day.’

‘That’s okay. We all have off days.’

‘Did you get anything interesting out of Patterjee?’

‘A few names—members of the Board and so on. He gave me a printed handout which describes the work of the Foundation. It runs agricultural schools, experimental laboratories—things like that. And a Co-operative. The Director responsible to the Board is called Brice; he’s not in Nairobi—he’s at Ol Njorowa. That’s near Naivasha in the Rift Valley, about fifty miles from here.’

‘Who started the Foundation—and when?’

‘It was started just after the war, in the fifties. The handout doesn’t say who by. I did some poking around Naivasha but I didn’t see Brice; I thought I’d leave him for you. He’s English and I thought you’d handle him better, maybe.’

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