Flyaway / Windfall

by Desmond Bagley

  They talked for a while about the European trip and then Ellis looked at his watch. ‘Bernstein will be here any minute.’ He gestured to a side table on which lay several fat files. ‘Have you read the reports?’

  Stafford grimaced. ‘Not in detail.’ Having determined to expand he had gone the whole hog and commissioned an independent company to do a world-wide investigation into possibilities. It was costing a lot but he thought it would be worthwhile in the long run. However, he liked to deal with people rather than paper and he wanted to match the man against the words he had written. He said, ‘We’ll go over it once lightly with Bernstein.’

  Two hours later he was satisfied. Bernstein, an American, was acute and sensible; he had both feet firmly planted on the ground and was not a man to indulge in impossible blue sky speculation. Stafford thought he could trust his written reports.

  Bernstein tossed a file aside. ‘So much for Australasia. Now we come to Africa.’ He picked up another file. ‘The problem in general with Africa is political instability.’

  Stafford said, ‘Stick to the English-speaking countries. We’re not ready to go into francophone Africa.’ He paused. ‘Not yet.’

  Bernstein nodded. ‘That means the ex-British colonies. South Africa, of course, is the big one.’ They discussed South Africa for some time and Bernstein made some interesting suggestions. Then he said, ‘Next is Zimbabwe. It’s just attained independence with a black government. Nobody knows which way it’s going to go right now and I wouldn’t recommend it for you. Tanzania is out; the country is virtually bankrupt and there’s no free enterprise. The same goes for Uganda. Now, Kenya is different.’

  ‘How?’ asked Ellis.

  Bernstein turned several pages. ‘It has a mixed economy, very much like Britain. The government is moderate and there is less corruption than is usual in Africa. The Western banks think highly of Kenya and there’s a lot of money going into the country to build up the infrastructure—modernization of the road system, for instance.’ He looked up. ‘Of course, you’d have competition—Securicor is already established there.’

  Securicor was Stafford’s biggest competitor in Britain. He smiled and said, ‘I can get along with that.’ Then he frowned. ‘But is Kenya really stable? What about that Mau—Mau business some years ago?’

  ‘That was quite a while ago,’ said Bernstein. ‘When the British were still there. Anyway, there are a lot of misconceptions about the Mau-Mau insurrection. It was blown up in the Western press as a rebellion against the British and even the black Kenyans have done some rewriting of history because they like to think of that period as when they got rid of the British oppressor. The fact remains that in the seven years of the Mau-Mau rebellion only thirty-eight whites were killed. If it was a rebellion against the British it was goddamn inefficient.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ said Ellis. ‘Then what was it all about?’

  Bernstein tented his fingers. ‘Everyone knew the British would be giving up jurisdiction over Kenya—the tide of history was running against the British Empire. The Mau-Mau insurrection was a private fight among black Kenyans, mainly along tribal lines, to figure out who’d be on top when the British abdicated. A lot of people died and the few whites were killed mainly because they happened to be caught in the middle—in the wrong place at the wrong time. When it was all over, the British knew who was going to hold the reins of government. Jomo Kenyatta was intelligent, educated and had all the qualifications to be the leader of a country, including the prime qualification.’

  ‘What was that?’ asked Ellis.

  Bernstein smiled. ‘He’d served time in a British jail,’ he said dryly. ‘Kenyatta proved to be surprisingly moderate. He didn’t go hog-wild like some of the other African leaders. He encouraged the whites to stay because he knew he needed their skills, and he built up the trade of the country. A while ago there was considerable speculation as to what would happen when he died. People expected another civil war on the lines of the Mau-Mau but, surprisingly, the transition was orderly in the democratic manner and Moi became President. Tribalism is officially discouraged and, yes, I’d say Kenya is a stable country.’ He flicked the pages he held. ‘It’s all here in detail.’

  ‘All right,’ said Stafford. ‘What’s next?’

  ‘Now we turn to Nigeria.’

  The discussion continued for another hour and then Stafford checked the time. ‘We’ll have to call a halt now. I have a luncheon appointment.’ He looked with some distaste at the foot-thick stack of papers on the desk. ‘It’ll take some time to get through that lot. Thanks for your help, Mr Bernstein; you’ve been very efficient.’

  ‘Anything you can’t figure out, come right back at me,’ said Bernstein.

  ‘I think we’ll give Africa a miss,’ said Stafford thoughtfully. ‘My inclination is to set up in the States and then, perhaps, in Australia. But I’m lunching with a South African. Perhaps he’ll change my mind.’

  Stafford’s appointment was with Alix and Dirk Hendriks. He had met Alix a few years earlier when she had been Alix Aarvik, the daughter of an English mother and a Norwegian father who had been killed during the war. It was in the course of a professional investigation and, one thing leading to another, he had gone to North Africa to return to Britain with a bullet wound in the shoulder and a sizeable fortune for Alix Aarvik. His divorce was ratified about that time and he had contemplated marrying Alix, but there was not that spark between them and he had not pursued the idea although they remained good friends.

  Since then she had married Dirk Hendriks. Stafford did not think a great deal of Hendriks. He distrusted the super—ficial veneer of charm and suspected that Hendriks had married Alix for her money. Certainly Hendriks did not appear to be gainfully employed. Still, Stafford was honest enough to admit to himself that his dislike of Hendriks might be motivated by an all-too-human dog in the manger attitude. Alix was expecting a baby.

  Over lunch Alix complained that she did not see enough of him. ‘You suddenly dropped out of my life.’

  ‘For men must work,’ said Stafford lightly, not worrying too much that his remark was a direct dig at Dirk Hendriks. ‘I’ve been scurrying around Europe, making the fortunes of a couple of airlines.’

  ‘Still intent on expansion, I see.’

  ‘As long as people have secrets to protect there’ll be work for people like me. I’m thinking of moving into the States.’ He leaned back to let a waiter remove a plate. ‘A chap this morning recommended that we expand our activities into South Africa. What do you think about that, Dirk?’

  Hendriks laughed. ‘Plenty of secrets in South Africa. It’s not a bad idea.’

  Stafford shook his head. ‘I’ve decided to keep out of Africa altogether. There’s plenty of scope in other directions and the Dark Continent doesn’t appeal to me.’

  He was to remember that remark with bitterness in the not too distant future.

  TWO

  Three thousand miles away Ben Hardin knew nothing about Max Stafford and Kenya was the last thing on his mind. And he was in total ignorance of the fact that, in more senses than one, he was the man in the middle. True, he had been in Kenya back in 1974, but it was in another job and in quite a different connection. Yet he was the unwitting key which unlocked the door to reveal the whole damn mess.

  It was one of those hot, sticky days in late July when New York fries. Hardin had taken time off to visit his favourite bar to sink a couple of welcome cold beers and, when he got back to the office, Jack Richardson at the next desk said, ‘Gunnarsson has been asking for you.’

  ‘Oh; what does he want?’

  Richardson shrugged. ‘He didn’t say.’

  Hardin paused in the act of taking off his jacket and put it back on. ‘When does he want to see me?’

  ‘Yesterday,’ said Richardson dryly. ‘He sounded mad.’

  ‘Then I guess I’d better see the old bastard,’ said Hardin sourly.

  Gunnarsson greeted him with, ‘Where the hell ha
ve you been?’

  ‘Checking a contact on the Myerson case,’ said Hardin inventively, making a mental note to record the visit in the Myerson file. Gunnarsson sometimes checked back.

  Gunnarsson put his hands flat on the desk and glowered at him. He was a burly, square man who looked as though he had been hacked out of a block of granite and in spite of the heat he wore his coat. Rumour had it that Gunnarsson lacked sweat glands. He said, ‘You can forget that, Ben; I’m taking you off the case. I have something else for you.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Hardin.

  Gunnarsson tossed a thin file across the desk. ‘Let’s get this straight. You clear this one and you get a bonus. You crap on it and you get canned. We’ve been carrying you long enough.’

  Hardin looked at him levelly. ‘You make yourself clear. How important is this one?’

  Gunnarsson flapped his hand. ‘I wouldn’t know. A Limey lawyer wants an answer. You’re to find out what happened to a South African called Adriaan Hendriks who came to the States some time in the 1930s. Find out all about him, especially whether he married and had kids. Find them too.’

  ‘That’s going to take some legwork,’ said Hardin thoughtfully. ‘Who can I use?’

  ‘No one; you use your own damn legs.’ Gunnarsson was blunt, if you can’t clear us a pisswilly job like this then I’ll know you’re no use to Gunnarsson Associates. Now you’ll do it this way. You take your car and you go on the road and you find what happened to this guy. And you do it yourself. If you have to leave New York I don’t want you going near any of the regional offices.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because that’s the way I want it. And I’m the boss. Now get going.’

  So Hardin went away and, as he laid the file on his desk, he thought glumly that he had just received an ultimatum. He sat down, opened the file, and found the reason for its lack of bulk. It contained a single sheet of computer print-out which told him nothing that Gunnarsson had not already told him; that a man called Adriaan Hendriks was believed to have entered the United States in the late thirties. The port of entry was not even recorded.

  ‘Jesus wept!’ said Hardin.

  Ben Hardin wished, for perhaps the thousandth time, or it could have been the ten thousandth, that he was in another line of work. Every morning when he woke up in whatever crummy motel room it happened to be it was the thought that came into his mind: ‘I wish I was doing something else.’ And that was followed by the automatic: ‘Goddamn that bastard, Gunnarsson,’ and by the equally automatic first cigarette of the day which made him cough.

  And every morning when he was confronted by breakfast, invariably the junk food of the interstate highways, the same thought came into his mind. And when he knocked on a door, any door, to ask the questions, the thought was fleetingly at the back of his mind. As with the Frenchman who said that everything reminded him of sex so everything reminded Hardin of the cruel condition of his life, and it had made him an irritable and cynical man.

  On the occasion of the latest reiteration of his wish he was beset by water. The rain poured from the sky, not in drops but in a steady sheet. It swirled along the gutters a foot or more deep because the drains were unable to cope, and Hardin had the impression that his car was in imminent danger of being swept away. Trapped in the metal box of the car he could only wait until the downpour ceased. He was certainly not going to get out because he would be soaked to the skin and damn near drowned in ten seconds flat.

  And this was happening in California—in Los Angeles, the City of the Angels. No more angels, he thought; the birds will all have drowned. He visualized a crowd of angels sitting on a dark cloud, their wings bedraggled, and managed a tired grin. They said that what California did today New York would do tomorrow. If that was true someone in New York should be building a goddamn Ark. He wondered if there was a Mr Noah in the New York telephone book.

  While he waited he looked back on the last few weeks. The first and obvious step had been to check with the Immigration and Naturalization Service. He found that the 1930s had been a lean decade for immigrants—there were a mere 528,431 fortunate people admitted into the country. McDowell, the immigration officer he checked with, observed dryly that Hardin was lucky—in the 1920s the crop had been over four million. Hardin doubted his luck.

  ‘South Africa,’ said McDowell. ‘That won’t be too bad. Not many South Africans emigrate.’

  A check through the files proved him right—but there was no one called Adriaan Hendriks.

  ‘They change their names,’ said McDowell some time later. ‘Sometimes to Americanize the spelling. There’s a guy here called Adrian Hendrix…’ He spelled it out. ‘Would that be the guy you want? He entered the country in New Orleans.’

  ‘That’s my man,’ said Hardin with satisfaction.

  The search so far had taken two weeks.

  Further searches revealed that Hendrix had taken out naturalization papers eight years later in Clarksville, Tennessee. More to the point he had married there. Establishing these simple facts took another three weeks and a fair amount of mileage.

  Adrian Hendrix had married the daughter of a grain and feed merchant and seemed in a fair way to prosper had it not been for his one fault. On the death of his father-in-law in 1950 he proceeded to drink away the profits of the business he had inherited and died therefrom but not before he sired a son, Henry Hendrix.

  Hardin looked at his notebook bleakly. The substitution of the son for the father had not made his task any easier. He had reported to Gunnarsson only to be told abruptly to find young Hendrix and to stop belly-aching, and there followed further weeks of searching because Henry Hendrix had become a drop-out—an undocumented man—after leaving high school, but a combination of legwork, persistence and luck had brought Hardin to the San Fernando Valley in California where he was marooned in his car.

  It was nearly three-quarters of an hour before the rain eased off and he decided to take a chance and get out. He swore as he put his foot into six inches of water and then squelched across the street towards the neat white house. He sheltered on the porch, shaking the wetness from his coat, then pressed the bell and heard chimes.

  Presently the door opened cautiously, held by a chain, and an eye and a nose appeared at the narrow opening. ‘I’m looking for Henry Hendrix,’ Hardin said, and flipped open a notebook. ‘I’m told he lives here.’

  ‘No one by that name here.’ The door began to close.

  Hardin said quickly, ‘This is 82, Thorndale?’

  ‘Yeah, but my name’s Parker. No one called Hendrix here.’

  ‘How long have you lived here, Mr Parker?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Hardin extracted a card from his wallet and poked it at the three-inch crack in the doorway. ‘My name is Hardin.’

  The card was taken in two fingers and vanished. Parker said, ‘Gunnarsson Associates. You a private dick?’

  ‘I guess you could call me that,’ said Hardin tiredly.

  ‘This Hendrix in trouble?’

  ‘Not that I know of, Mr Parker. Could be the other way round, from what I hear. Could be good news for Hendrix.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said Parker. ‘We’ve lived here eight months.’

  ‘Who did you buy the house from?’

  ‘Didn’t buy,’ said Parker. ‘We rent. The owner’s an old biddy who lives in Pasadena.’

  ‘And you don’t know the name of the previous tenant? He left no forwarding address?’ There was not much hope in Hardin’s voice.

  ‘Nope.’ Parker paused. ‘Course, my wife might know. She did all the renting business.’

  ‘Would it be possible to ask her?’

  ‘I guess so. Wait a minute.’ The door closed leaving Hardin looking at a peeling wooden panel. He heard a murmur of voices from inside the house and presently the door opened again and a woman peered at him then disappeared. He heard her say, ‘Take the chain off the door, Pete.’

 
; ‘Hell, Milly; you know what they told us about LA.’

  ‘Take the chain off,’ said Milly firmly. ‘What kind of a life is it living behind bolts and bars?’

  The door closed, there was a rattle, and then it opened wide. ‘Come on in,’ said Mrs Parker. ‘It ain’t fit for a dog being out today.’

  Thankfully Hardin stepped over the threshold. Parker was a burly man of about forty-five with a closed, tight face, but Milly Parker smiled at Hardin. ‘You want to know about the Hendersons, Mr Hardin?’

  Hardin repressed the sinking feeling. ‘Hendrix, Mrs Parker.’

  ‘Could have sworn it was Henderson. But come into the living room and sit down.’

  Hardin shook his head. ‘I’m wet; don’t want to mess up your furniture. Besides, I won’t take up too much of your time. You think the previous tenant was called Henderson?’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I could have been wrong.’ She laughed merrily, ‘I often am.’

  ‘Was there a forwarding address?’

  ‘I guess so; there was a piece of paper,’ she said vaguely. ‘I’ll look in the bureau.’ She went away.

  Hardin looked at Parker and tried to make light conversation. ‘Get this kind of weather often?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Parker briefly. ‘Haven’t been here long.’

  Hardin heard drawers open in the next room and there was the rustle of papers. ‘The way I hear it this is supposed to be the Sunshine State. Or is that Florida?’

  Parker grunted. ‘Rains both places; but you wouldn’t know to hear the Chambers of Commerce tell it.’

  Mrs Parker came back. ‘Can’t find it,’ she announced, ‘It was just a little bitty piece of paper.’ She frowned. ‘Seems I recollect an address. I know it was off Ventura Boulevard; perhaps in Sherman Oaks or, maybe, Encino.’