Flyaway / Windfall

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘At the request of some Indian in London?’ said Stafford incredulously. ‘At the request of Curtis? Pull the other leg, it’s got bells on it. What do you think, Sergeant?’

  ‘It does seem rum, sir,’ said Curtis.

  Chip looked hurt, ‘I don’t think Max appreciates us, Nair.’

  Nair said, ‘Suspicion corrodes the soul, Max.’

  ‘Oh, balls!’ he said. ‘Look, I appreciate your help but I doubt your motives. I’ll be quite plain about that. I don’t know who you are and I don’t know what you want. The helping hand you are so kindly offering is bloody unnatural, and Christianity hasn’t got a damned thing to do with it. Nair isn’t even a Christian, and I doubt if you are, Chip.’

  Chip smiled. ‘“Him that is weak in the faith receive ye, but not to doubtful disputations.” Romans 14:1. I was educated in a mission school, Max; I’ll bet I know more of the Bible than you. Don’t be weak in the faith, Max; and let’s not have any doubtful disputations. Just accept.’

  ‘Chip is right,’ said Nair. ‘Is there anything else you’d like us to do?’

  It was obvious to Stafford that he was not going to get anything out of this pair that they did not want him to know. If they were members of a banned political organization then it was obvious they would be careful. But he wished he knew why they were being so damned helpful. He was sure it was not because they liked the colour of his eyes.

  Chip had been driving but at Narok Nair took over. Chip said, ‘He’s the better driver.’

  ‘Will a better driver be needed?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  After Narok they left the asphalt and encountered the most God-awful road it had been Stafford’s fate to be driven over. He had been more comfortable in a tank going across country in NATO exercises in Germany. Where heavy rains had washed gullies across the road they had not been filled in and repaired, and the traffic of heavy trucks had worn deep longitudinal grooves. Several times Nair got stuck in those and Stafford heard the underside of the chassis scraping the ground.

  ‘Manufacturers of exhausts must do a roaring trade out here.’ He looked back and saw they were creating a long rooster’s tail of dust. ‘Why the hell don’t they repair this road? Don’t they encourage visitors to Masai Mara?’

  Chip said, ‘Narok District and the Government are having an argument about who pays. So far no one pays—except to the repair shops.’

  Stafford took out the map he had bought in Nairobi and discovered they were driving across the Loita Plains. Every so often they passed villages of huts and sometimes a herdsman with his cattle. They were tall men with even taller spears and dressed in long gowns. Chip said they were Masai.

  ‘What tribe are you?’ Stafford asked.

  ‘Kikuyu.’

  Stafford remembered Hardin’s lecture on African tribal politics. ‘Not Luo?’

  Chip slanted his eyes at Stafford. ‘What makes you think I’d be Luo?’

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’ Chip frowned but said nothing.

  They passed a petrol tanker that had not made it. It was overturned by the side of the road and burnt out. They crossed a narrow bridge and Stafford checked the map. There were only two bridges marked and, after the second, the road changed status from being a main road to a secondary road. He commented on this with feeling and Nair burst out laughing.

  Oddly enough, after the second bridge the road improved somewhat. Game began to appear, small herds of antelope and zebra and some ostriches. Chip played courier to the ignorant tourist and identified them. ‘Impala,’ he would say, or ‘Thomson’s gazelle.’ There were also eland and kongoni.

  ‘Are we in the Reserve yet?’ Stafford asked.

  ‘Not until we pass the Police Post.’

  ‘Then there are more animals in the Reserve than here?’

  ‘More?’ Chip laughed. ‘Two million wildebeest make the migration from the Serengeti to the Mara every year.’ Stafford thought that was a lot of venison on the hoof. Chip rummaged around and found a map. ‘Here’s a map of the Mara. I thought you’d like to see what you’re getting into.’

  At first glance Stafford thought he was not getting into much. He checked the scale and found there were large chunks of damn-all cut through by what were described as ‘motorable tracks.’ Since the horrible road from Narok had been described as a main road he regarded that with reservation. There were two lodges, Keekorok and Mara Serena, and Governor’s Camp; also about a dozen camp sites scattered mainly in the north. Streams and rivers abounded, there were a couple of swamps thrown in and, as Chip had said, a couple of million wildebeest and an unknown number of other animals, some of which were illustrated on the map.

  He said, ‘Is there really a bird called a drongo? I thought that was an Australian epithet.’

  They arrived at the Police Post at the Olemelepo Gate and Nair drew to a halt. Chip said, ‘I’ll see to it. Be my guest.’ He got out and strolled across to the police officer who sat at a table outside the Post.

  Stafford got out to stretch his legs and when he slapped his jacket a cloud of dust arose. Curtis joined him. ‘Enjoying yourself, Sergeant?’

  Curtis brushed himself down and said ironically, ‘Not so dusty.’

  ‘People pay thousands for what you’re going through.’

  ‘If I have a beer it’ll hiss going down.’

  Stafford unfolded the map and checked the distance to Keekorok Lodge. ‘Not long to go—only eight miles to your beer.’

  Chip came back and they started off again and well within the hour the beer was hissing in the Sergeant’s throat.

  THIRTEEN

  Keekorok was 105 miles south of the Equator and at an altitude of 5,258 feet; there was a sign at the front of the Lodge which said so. It was a pleasant sprawling place with an unbuttoned air about it, a place to relax and be comfortable. There was a patio with a bar overlooking a wide lawn and that evening Stafford and Chip sat over drinks chatting desultorily while watching vervet monkeys scamper about in the fading light of sunset.

  ‘We might as well do the tourist bit tomorrow,’ said Chip. ‘We’ll go and look at the animals. I’ll be courier—I know the Mara well.’

  Stafford said, ‘I want to be here when Gunnarsson and Hendrix arrive.’

  ‘They won’t be here until six in the evening.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because that’s what the courier has been told,’ said Chip patiently.

  Stafford sat up straight. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean that Adam Muliro, the driver, has been told when to deliver the party. I told him.’ Chip paused and added with a grin. ‘He’s my brother-in-law.’

  ‘Another?’ said Stafford sceptically.

  ‘You know us Third World people—we believe in the extended family. Now take it easy, Max.’ He spread out a map on the table. ‘I’ll show you hippo here, at Mara New Bridge.’ He tapped his finger on the map.

  The River Mara ran a twisting course north to south and the place where it was bridged was close to the Tanzanian border. If the scale of the map was anything to go by the road ran within three hundred yards of the border. Stafford thought of the different political philosophies of the two countries; the Marxist state of Tanzania and Kenya with its mixed economy. He had heard there was no love lost between them. ‘Does Kenya have problems with Tanzania?’

  Chip shrugged. ‘The border is closed from time to time. There’s a bit of friction; nothing much. Some poaching. There’s an anti-poaching post here at Ngiro Are.’ He spoke of the collapse of the East African Federation; the attempt of the three ex-British African nations to work in unison. ‘It couldn’t work—the ideas were too different. Tanzania went socialist—a totally different political philosophy from ours. As for Uganda…’ He made a dismissive gesture. ‘With Amin in power it was impossible.’ He tapped the map again. ‘You see the problem?’

  Stafford frowned. ‘Not really.’

  ‘I have my finger on it,’ Ch
ip said. ‘South of the border is Tanzania. Until 1918 it was German East Africa, then it was British Tanganyika, and now Tanzania. But look at the border—a line drawn straight with a ruler by nineteenth-century European bureaucrats. The country is the same on both sides and so are the people. Here they are Masai.’ His finger moved south to Tanzania. ‘And there they are Masai. A people separated by nineteenth-century politics.’ He sounded bitter. ‘That’s why we have the Shifta trouble in the north.’

  ‘What’s the Shifta trouble?’

  ‘The same thing. A line drawn with a ruler. On one side the Somali Republic, on the other side, Kenya; on both sides, Somalis. There’s been a civil war running up there ever since I can remember. Nobody talks about it much. It’s referred to in the press as Shifta trouble—banditry. Cattle raids and so forth. What it is really is an attempt to get a United Somalia.’ Chip smiled grimly. ‘Tourists aren’t welcome on the North East Frontier.’

  There was a diversion. In the fading light a bull elephant had come up from the river and was now strolling on the lawn, making its way purposefully towards the swimming pool. There were cries of alarm and then white-coated staff erupted from the kitchen, clattering spoons on saucepans. The elephant stopped uncertainly and then backed away, its ears flapping. Ponderously it turned and lumbered away back to the river.

  Stafford said, ‘That’s one problem we don’t have in English gardens.’ He realized that the elephant had crossed the path he would have to walk to go to his room that night. ‘Are those things dangerous?’

  ‘Not if you don’t get too close. But you’re quite safe.’ Chip jerked his head. ‘Look.’

  Stafford turned and saw a man in uniform standing on the edge of the patio who was holding a rifle unobtrusively, and thought that if Stafford Security Consultants were to move into Africa they would have to learn new tricks and techniques.

  So next day they went to look at animals and saw them in profusion; wildebeest, impala, gazelle, topi, zebra. Also lion, elephant and giraffe. Stafford was astonished to realize that what he saw was but a fraction of the vast herds which roamed the plains in the nineteenth century. Although he was not in Kenya as a sightseer he found that he really enjoyed the day, and Chip, whatever he might be otherwise, knew his stuff as a guide.

  They returned to Keekorok at five in the afternoon and, after cleaning away the travel stains, Stafford settled down to wait for Gunnarsson and Hendrix while settling the dust in his throat with the inevitable and welcome cold beer. They arrived on time in a party of six travelling in the usual zebra-striped Nissan, booked in at the desk and then went to the room they shared. Stafford marked it.

  Later they appeared on the patio for drinks and he was able to assess them at close hand for the first time. Gunnarsson looked to be in his mid-fifties and his hair was turning iron-grey. He was a hard-looking man with a flat belly and appeared to be in good physical condition. His height was an even six feet and what there was on his bones was muscle and not fat. His eyes were pale blue and watchful, constantly on the move. He looked formidable.

  The fake Hendrix was in his late twenties, a gangling and loose-jointed young man with a fresh face and innocent expression, and stood about five feet, nine inches. He was blond with a fair complexion and if he missed shaving one day no one would notice, unlike Gunnarsson who had a blue chin.

  Chip joined Stafford at his table. ‘So they’re here. Now what?’

  Stafford sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Max, for God’s sake!’ he said exasperatedly. ‘I’m doing my best to help but what can I do if you don’t trust me? Nair is becoming really annoyed. He thinks you’re wasting our time and we should quit. I’m beginning to agree with him.’

  During the past couple of days Stafford had come to like Chip; his style was easy and his conversation intelligent. He didn’t want Chip to leave because he suspected he would need someone who really knew his way about Kenya. That was the role he had planned for Hardin but Hardin wasn’t around.

  He said, ‘All right; I’ll tell you. That young man has just come into a fortune—three million pounds sterling from the Hendrykxx estate.’

  Chip whistled. ‘And you want to take it from him?’

  ‘Don’t be a damned fool,’ Stafford said without heat.

  Chip grinned. ‘Sorry. I really didn’t put you down as a crook.’

  ‘The whole point is that he isn’t Hendrix. He’s a fake rung in by Gunnarsson.’ He told Chip the story.

  ‘But why didn’t you just tell the police in London?’ asked Chip.

  ‘Because Gunnarsson would have slid out from under, all injured innocence, and I want Gunnarsson. He’s a cheap, unethical bastard who has got in my way before, and I want his hide. The trouble is I can’t find a way of doing it. I’ve been beating my brains silly.’

  ‘I’ll have to think about this,’ said Chip. ‘This is a big one.’

  Stafford watched Hendrix. He was chatting up a girl who was in his party. ‘Who is she? Do you know?’

  ‘Her name is Michele Roche. She’s doing the tour with her parents. They’re French. Her father’s a retired businessman from Bordeaux; he was in the wine trade until six months ago.’

  ‘You don’t miss much,’ Stafford said.

  Chip grinned widely, ‘I told Adam Muliro to find out as much as he could. The other member of the tour group is a young Dutchman called Kosters, Frederik Kosters. He and Hendrix don’t like each other. They’re both trying to get to know Michele better and they get in each other’s way. Kosters is something in the diamond business in Amsterdam. Here he comes now.’

  Stafford turned and looked at the young man making his way to the bar. He greeted the girl and she smiled at him warmly. Chip said, ‘Kosters speaks French which gives him an advantage.’

  ‘Your Adam Muliro is a fund of information. What did he find out about Gunnarsson?’

  ‘He’s an insurance broker from New York.’

  ‘In a pig’s eye. He runs an industrial espionage outfit. He’s ex-CIA.’

  ‘Is he, now?’ said Chip thoughtfully. ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘And Hendrix; what about him?’

  ‘According to Adam he smokes bhang. You’ll know it better as marijuana. That’s an offence in Kenya, of course, but it could be useful. If you want him held at any time the police could be tipped off. I could make sure that bhang would be found in his possession.’

  ‘And you accused me of having a devious mind,’ Stafford remarked. ‘Anything else? Is he bragging about new found wealth, for instance?’

  ‘Not according to Adam. He doesn’t talk much about himself.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he can, seeing that he’s someone else.’

  Chip nodded. ‘Adam says that Gunnarsson jumped on Hendrix a couple of times and made a change of subject but he didn’t know why. We know why now.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stafford. ‘Hendrix must have been opening his mouth a bit too wide. Making trifling errors and in danger of blowing his cover. It must be wearing for Gunnarsson to be riding shotgun on three million pounds.’

  ‘When is Hendrix getting the money?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it will be very soon. Farrar is fixing that now.’ Stafford shook his head. ‘I’d like to know why Gunnarsson and Hendrix are hanging about here in Kenya when the cash is in England. If I were Hendrix I’d be twisting Farrar’s arm; urging him to get a move on.’

  ‘You would if you were innocent,’ said Chip. ‘But Hendrix isn’t. Perhaps Gunnarsson thinks he can keep closer to Hendrix here than in England. I wouldn’t suppose there’s all that much trust between them.’

  ‘No honour among thieves? That might be it. Gunnarsson won’t want Hendrix vanishing with the loot as soon as he lays hands on it. He’s certainly sticking close to him now.’

  Chip stretched his arms. ‘Now I understand your problem better, but I don’t know how to solve it. What do we do?’

  ‘What we’ve been doing; we watch and wait. I can’t think o
f anything else.’

  Next day they went game spotting again, but this time with a difference; they stayed within easy reach of Gunnarsson’s tour group. That was not difficult because Adam Muliro co-operated, never getting too far away. If Gunnarsson spotted them they would just be another group in the distance, and they were careful never to get too close. Stafford did not know why he was taking the trouble because it was a pretty pointless exercise. Action for the sake of action and born out of frustration.

  And, of course, they saw animals—sometimes. Stafford found how difficult it is to see an unmoving animal, even one so grotesque as a giraffe. Once Nair pointed out a giraffe and he could not see it until it moved and he found he had been staring between its legs. And the grass was long and the exact colour of a lion. Of them all it was, oddly enough, Curtis who was the best at game spotting.

  They were on the way back to Keekorok when Nair braked to a halt. ‘We’re getting too close,’ he said. The Nissan ahead of them topped a rise and disappeared over the other side. ‘We’ll be able to see it when it rounds the bend over there.’ He pointed to where the road curved about a mile away.

  Stafford produced a packet of cigarettes and offered them around. Chip said, ‘This isn’t getting us far, Max.’

  Nair smiled. ‘Call it a holiday, Chip. Look at the pretty impala over there.’

  Curtis said, ‘With due respect I think the Colonel is wasting his time.’

  Those were strong words coming from the Sergeant who had few words to spare at any time. Stafford said, ‘And what would you suggest?’

  ‘Get hold of Hendrix on his own and beat the bejesus out him until he admits he’s an impostor,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘Sergeant Curtis has a point,’ said Chip.

  ‘It’s an idea,’ said Stafford. ‘The problem will be to separate him from Gunnarsson. I don’t want to tip him off.’ Or anyone else, he thought. There was the peculiar conduct of Brice back at Ol Njorowa College; Stafford had not told Chip about the twenty-seven or so million pounds unaccounted for. That did not tie in at all.