‘So what’s this got to do with anything?’
‘Odinga had to get his money from somewhere; he had to have a war chest. I know he got some from the Chinese and some from the Russians. Kenyatta wasn’t having anything to do with the Commies—he closed down their embassies—so they’d do anything to embarrass him. But there was a strong feeling that Odinga was getting funds from the expatriate Indian community in Britain. They’d been thrown out and they didn’t bear Kenyatta any love, either.’
‘So what’s your conclusion?’
‘My guess is that Chip and Nair are Odinga’s supporters, KPU men. The KPU is banned but it’s still going strong underground. If a source of UK funds should request a favour it wouldn’t be refused.’
‘Damn!’ said Stafford. ‘Bloody politics is the last thing I want to get mixed up in.’
‘You’re not mixing in politics,’ said Hardin. ‘You’re not attacking the government. Just accept the favour and keep your mouth shut. Those guys could be useful. They are being useful.’
Curtis looked woebegone. Stafford smiled, and said, ‘Cheer up, Sergeant; the Good Samaritan nearly always gets the chop in this weary world. It’s really my fault. I told you back in England that I didn’t want to know what you were up to.’
Curtis drank some beer and Stafford could see him take heart. Hardin said, ‘You can bet there’ll be more than Chip and Nair. They may not show but they’ll be there.’
‘What tells you that?’
‘Past experience,’ he said, and drained his glass.
So that was that. Stafford had allies thrust upon him that he could very well do without. But Hardin was right—they could be useful. He determined to accept their help up to a point and to keep his mouth shut as Hardin advised. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. But trust them he would not.
Chip showed up early in the afternoon. It seemed that Gunnarsson was doing what Stafford had done—sleeping away his travel weariness. But he had not appeared for lunch and had a meal sent up to his room. ‘Who is keeping an eye on him now?’
Chip showed a mouthful of teeth. ‘Don’t worry. He’s being watched.’
So Hardin was right; Chip and Nair were not alone. Chip said, ‘Mr Farrar’s party is coming in from London on the morning flight.’
‘How do you know?’
Again the teeth. ‘My brother-in-law is an official at the airport.’
Nair turned up a few minutes later. He brought with him a thick envelope which he handed to Stafford. It proved to be a rundown on the Ol Njorowa Foundation. It was quite detailed and he wondered how Nair had got hold of all this information at such short notice. Very efficient.
There were five Trustees; K. J. Patterjee, B. J. Peters, D. W. Ngotho, Col S. T. Lovejoy and the Rev A. T. Peacock. He said, ‘Who are these people?’
Chip lounged over and looked over his shoulder. ‘One Indian, a Parsee; three Brits and a black Kenyan.’
‘People of influence? Of standing in the community?’
Stafford heard a chuckle and looked up to see that Nair’s face was wreathed in a smile as well as a beard. Chip said, ‘We wouldn’t go as far as to say that; would we, Nair?’
Nair laughed outright, ‘I don’t think so.’
Chip’s hand came over Stafford’s shoulder and tapped on the paper. ‘Patterjee was jailed for trying to smuggle 12,000 kilogrammes of cloves from Mombasa. That’s highly illegal in this country. Peters was convicted of evading currency regulations and jailed. Ngotho was convicted of being a business prostitute; also jailed.’
‘What the hell is a business prostitute?’
Nair said, ‘Non-citizens cannot hold controlling interests in businesses in Kenya. There was a brisk trade in front men—Kenyans who would apparently own shares but who did not actually do so. Pure legal fakery. It was Mzee Kenyatta who coined the phrase, “business prostitute”, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ said Chip. ‘He made it illegal. Colonel Lovejoy is okay, though; he’s been in Kenya forever. An old man now. Peacock is a missionary.’
Stafford was baffled. It was a curious mixture. ‘How in hell did three crooks get made Trustees of the Ol Njorowa Foundation?’
‘It is odd,’ agreed Chip. ‘What is your interest in the Foundation, Max?’
‘I don’t know that I have any interest in the Foundation itself. The Foundation is peripheral to my investigation.’
‘I wonder…’ mused Nair.
Chip said, ‘You wonder what?’
‘If the Foundation is really peripheral to Max’s investigation.’
‘Since we don’t know what Max is investigating that’s hard to say,’ observed Chip judiciously.
Stafford sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘All right, boys; suppose we stop talking with forked tongues.’
Chip said, ‘Well, if we knew what we were doing it would help. Wouldn’t it, Nair?’
‘I should think so.’
Stafford said, ‘I’ll think about it. Meanwhile, if you crosstalk comedians will allow me, I’ll get on with this.’ He turned pages. There were plans of the College which appeared to be quite extensive, involving lecture rooms, laboratories, studies, a library and a residential area. There were sports facilities including a swimming pool, tennis courts and a football field. There was also a large area devoted to experimental plots, something like British garden allotments but more scientific.
Stafford flipped a few pages and found a list of the faculty and caught the name of Alan Hunt. He tapped the name at the top of the page. ‘This man, Brice, the Director. Your friend, Hunt, seems to think he’s a good man, good for the Foundation. Would you agree?’
‘Yes, I would. He’s built up the place since he’s been there. He works in well with the agronomists at the University, too.’ Nair shrugged, ‘I think the University—and the Government—are pleased that the Foundation can take up some of the financial load. Research is expensive.’
But Hunt had said that cash was tight. Stafford ignored that for the moment and flipped back the pages to the beginning—to the Trustees. ‘How long have these three jokers been on the Board of Trustees?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Chip. ‘But we can find out. Can’t we, Nair?’
‘I should think so,’ said Nair. ‘Not much difficulty there.’
The telephone rang and Stafford picked it up, then held it out to Chip. ‘For you.’
He listened, answering in monosyllables and not speaking English. Then he put down the phone, and said, ‘Gunnarsson is up and about. He’s at the New Stanley, having a coffee at the Thorn Tree.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll be about his business. Coming, Nair?’
‘Might as well. Nothing to do here except drink Max’s beer, and I can’t.’ He joined Chip at the door.
Chip turned, and said softly, ‘I hope you’ll make up your mind about telling us what this is about, Max. It would be better for all of us.’ The door closed behind them.
Stafford seriously doubted that. If Hardin was right and a proscribed political party was looking for loot to replenish its war chest there was too much of it about floating relatively loose for him to take chances. He spent the rest of the afternoon concocting a suitable story which would satisfy Chip and Nair, and then went to see Hardin who was in his room packing.
Hardin went back to London. Farrar duly arrived and wasted no time. He whisked the two heirs down to Naivasha. Unknown to him Gunnarsson went, too, and they all stayed at the Lake Naivasha Hotel. And, unknown to any of them, Chip and Nair were there. A real cosy gathering. Stafford stayed in Nairobi digging a little deeper into the curious matter of the Trustees, although he would dearly have liked to be a fly on the wall when Farrar, Hendrix, Hendriks and Brice got together in Brice’s office.
They stayed in Naivasha for a total of three days and then returned to Nairobi. Farrar and Dirk took the night flight to London, and Stafford wired Hardin to expect them. Gunnarsson moved into the New Stanley with Hendrix, and Stafford sat back wondering what
was to happen next. Sooner or later he would have to make a move, but he didn’t know the move to make. It was like playing chess blindfold, but he knew he would have to do something before distribution of the estate was made and Gunnarsson and Hendrix departed over the horizon, disappearing with three million pounds. Stafford badly needed ammunition—bullets to shoot—and he hoped Hardin would find something.
Chip came to see him. ‘You wanted to know when the various Trustees of the Foundation were appointed.’
‘I could bear to know.’
Chip grinned. ‘Lovejoy and Peacock are founder Trustees; they’ve been on the Board since 1950. The others all came on at the same time in 1975.’
Stafford sat back to think. ‘When did Brice take over as Director? When exactly?’
Chip said, ‘Early 1976.’
‘Interesting. Try this on for size, Chip. The Foundation was started in the 1950s but, according to Alan Hunt, it went moribund just after Kenya went independent. But that doesn’t mean to say it had no money. I’ll bet it had more than ever. The Charities Commission in the UK has done a survey and found scores of charities not doing what their charters have called for, but piling up investment money. No jiggery-pokery intended, just apathy and laxity on the part of the Trustees.’
‘So?’
‘So the Foundation must have had money. Where else could Brice have got it for his revitalizing programme? Now, take three vultures called Patterjee, Peters and Ngotho who realize there’s a fat pigeon to be picked over. Somehow, I don’t know how, they get themselves elected on to the Board of Trustees. They appoint as Director a non-Kenyan, a stranger called Brice, a man who doesn’t know the country or its customs and they think they can pull the wool over his eyes.’
‘While they milk the Foundation?’ said Chip. He nodded. ‘It would fit. But what about Lovejoy and Peacock?’
‘I’ve done a little check on that pair,’ said Stafford. ‘Colonel Lovejoy is, as you say, an old man. He’s eighty-two and senile, and no longer takes any active role in any business. Peacock, the missionary, used to be active in the Naivasha area but he moved to Uganda when Amin was kicked out. Now he’s doing famine relief work there up in Karamoja. I don’t think they’d be any problem to our thieves. But Brice is too sharp. He’s no figurehead; he’s proved that while he’s been Director. Our trio have hardly got their hands into the cash register before he’s really taken charge. He’s got his hands on the accounts and they can’t do a damned thing about it.’
‘And they couldn’t fire him,’ said Chip. He laughed. ‘If he caught them at it he’d have them by the short and curlies. And if he was sharp enough he’d keep them on as Trustees. That would put him in as top dog in the Foundation. He wouldn’t want a stronger Board—it might get in his way.’
‘Maybe he’d sweeten them by letting them take a healthy honorarium this side of larceny. That’s what I’d do,’ said Stafford. ‘Just to keep them really quiet.’
Chip said, ‘Max, you have a devious mind. You could just be right about this.’
‘And what it means is that Brice is an honest man. The take could have been split four ways instead of three, but he really built up the Foundation into a going concern. I’d like to see this man; I have a standing invitation from Alan Hunt.’ Stafford looked at his watch. ‘I’ll ring him now.’
‘I’ll drive you to Naivasha,’ Chip offered.
‘No, I’ll go alone. But stay in touch. And keep a careful eye on Gunnarsson and Hendrix. If they move I want to know.’
ELEVEN
Ol Njorowa College was about twelve kilometres from the Lake Naivasha Hotel. Stafford showered to wash away the travel stains and then drove there, first along the all-weather road that skirted the lake, and then along the rough track which would, no doubt, be dicey in wet weather. He found the College under the slopes of brooding Longonot.
There was a heavy meshed high fence and a gatehouse with closed gates, which surprised him. A toot on the horn brought a man running, and he wound the window right down as the man approached. He stopped and brought a gnarled, lined face to Stafford’s level. ‘Yes, sah?’
‘Max Stafford to see Mr Hunt.’
‘Dr Hunt? Yes, sah.’ The lines of suspicion smoothed from the face. ‘You’re expected.’ He straightened, issued a piercing whistle, then bent again. ‘Straight through, sah, and follow the arrows. You can’t miss it.’
The gates were opening so Stafford let out the clutch and drove through the gateway. The road inside the College grounds was asphalted and in good condition. There were ‘sleeping policemen’ every fifty yards, humps right across the road to cut down the speed of cars. They did, and as Stafford bumped over the first he checked the rear view mirror; the gates were closing behind and there was no evidence of anyone pushing them. Most of the buildings were long, low structures but there was a two-storey building ahead. The grounds were kept in good condition with mown lawns, and flowering trees were everywhere, bougainvillea and jacaranda.
Outside the big building he put the car into a slot between neatly painted white lines. When he got out he felt the hammer blow of the sun striking vertically on to his head. Because the elevation cut the heat one tended to forget that this was equatorial Africa, with the Equator not very far away. Hunt was waiting in the shade under the portico at the entrance and came forward.
They shook hands. ‘Glad you could come.’
‘Glad to be here.’ Stafford looked around. ‘Nice place you have.’
Hunt nodded. ‘We like to think so. I’ll give you the Grand Tour. Would you like it before or after a beer?’
‘Lead me to your beer,’ Stafford said fervently, and Hunt chuckled.
As they went inside he said, ‘This block is mostly for administration, offices and so on. Plus those laboratories that need special facilities such as refrigeration. We have our own diesel-electric generators at the back.’
‘Then you’re not on mains power? That surprises me. I saw a lot of high tension pylons as I drove around the lake. Big ones.’
‘Those are the new ones from the geothermal electric plant at Ol Karia. It’s not on line yet. The power lines are being erected by the Japanese, and the geothermal project has advisors from Iceland and New Zealand. Those boys know about geothermal stuff. Have you been out there yet?’
‘It’s next on my list.’
‘When we get mains power we’ll still keep our own generators for standby in case of a power cut.’ He opened a door. ‘This way.’
He led Stafford into a recreation room. There was a half-size billiards table, a ping-pong table, several card tables scattered about, and comfortable armchairs. At the far end there was a bar behind which stood a black Kenyan in a white coat polishing a glass. Hunt walked forward and flopped into a chair. ‘Billy,’ he called. ‘Two beers.’
‘Yes, sah; two beers coming. Premium?’
‘Hapana; White Cap.’ Hunt gave Stafford a half smile.
‘Premium is a bit too strong if we’re going to walk in the midday sun.’
‘Mad dogs and Englishmen,’ Stafford suggested.
‘Something like that.’ Hunt laughed. ‘You know, the Victorians had entirely the wrong idea, what with their pith helmets and flannel spinal pads. They were more likely to get heatstroke indoors than outdoors in their day; their roofs were of corrugated iron and they cooked on wood-burning stoves. The rooms must have been like ovens.’
Stafford looked at Hunt’s sun-bleached hair. ‘So you’re not worried about sunstroke?’
‘You’re all right once you’re acclimatized and as long as you don’t overdo it.’ The bartender put a tray on the table. ‘Put it on my chit,’ said Hunt. He poured his beer. ‘Cheers!’
Stafford waited until he had swallowed the first stinging, cold freshness before he said, ‘Tell me something. Isn’t a place like this eligible for a government grant?’
Hunt stretched his legs and absently rubbed a red scratch on his thigh. ‘Oh, we get a grant but it doesn’t go f
ar enough. They never do. But things are changing. You heard what Brice said the other day. He still hasn’t made the official announcement, though.’ Hunt paused, then added, ‘Anyway, it was enough to bring the Trustees out of the woodwork. They came this week and it’s the first time I’ve seen them here, and that’s been two years.’
Stafford said, ‘I’d have thought, if money was tight, they’d have been in your hair seeing there wasn’t any wastage.’
‘Oh, Brice keeps them informed.’ There was a slight hesitation as though he had meant to say something else, and Stafford guessed it was that Brice kept the Trustees in line, ‘I wouldn’t say he’s machiavellian about it, but it suits me if I never see the Trustees. I have enough to bother about.’ He looked up and waved. ‘Here’s Judy and Jim Odhiambo.’
Stafford stood up but Judy waved him back into the chair. ‘Sit down, Max. I’d give my soul for an ice-cold tonic.’
He was introduced. Odhiambo was a short and stocky black with muscular arms. Hunt said, ‘Dr Odhiambo is our resident expert on cereals—maize, millet, wheat—you name it.’
‘Dr Hunt exaggerates,’ said Odhiambo deprecatingly.
He ordered a beer for himself and a tonic for Judy. Hunt said, ‘I’ve got something for you, Jim. I came across a paper in the Abstracts about primitive, ancestral forms of maize in Peru and I remembered what you said about preserving the gene pool. If you’re interested I’ll dig it out.’
Within two minutes they were engaged in a technical conversation. Judy said ruefully, ‘This must be very dull for you.’
‘Not at all,’ Stafford said lightly, ‘I like to hear experts talk, even though I don’t understand one word in ten.’ He looked at the bubbles rising in his glass. ‘Alan has been telling me about the Foundation’s good fortune.’
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