‘Dear Jesus!’ he said. ‘Gunnarsson’ll kill me.’
‘Gunnarsson won’t get near you,’ said Stafford. ‘Leave him to us. And what the devil do you think nearly happened by the river? You stay being Hendrix and you’re a dead man.’
The night noises in the bush were growing in intensity. The lion roared again in the distance and, from quite close, something snarled and something else squealed appallingly. The squalling noise was cut off sharply and Chip put another tree branch on the fire. ‘A leopard caught a baboon,’ he said. Nair picked up his rifle and stood up, staring into the darkness.
It got to Hendrix; his eyes rolled and he shivered violently. He’d had a hard time that day. He’d been kidnapped, nearly murdered, and now he was being interrogated by armed strangers who apparently knew everything about him except his name and in a place where animals were murdering each other. No wonder he cracked.
‘You’ll keep me safe from Gunnarsson. You guarantee it?’
Stafford glanced at Chip, who nodded. He said, ‘We’ll put you in a safe place where no one will know where you are. But you’ll have to co-operate. Tell us.’
Hendrix still hesitated. ‘Anyone got a cigarette?’ Chip took a packet from his pocket and shook one out, and Hendrix lit it with a burning twig from the fire. He took a long draught of smoke into his lungs and it seemed to calm him. ‘All right. My name’s Jack Corliss and Gunnarsson propositioned me a few weeks ago. Christ; I wish he’d never come near me.’
The story was moderately simple. Corliss worked in a bank in New York. He was a computer buff and had found a way to fiddle the electronic books and Gunnarsson had caught him at it. From then on it was straight blackmail. Stafford did not think Gunnarsson had to try too hard because Corliss was bent already.
‘I had to read a lot of stuff about Hendrix,’ said Corliss. ‘About his family. Then there were tape recordings—a lot of them. Hendrix talking with Gunnarsson. I don’t think Hendrix knew he was being taped. Gunnarsson got him to talk a lot about himself; it was real friendly. Gunnarsson got him drunk a couple of times and some good stuff came out.’
‘Good for anyone wanting to impersonate Hendrix,’ said Chip.
Corliss nodded. ‘It looked great. Hendrix was a loner; he had no family. Gunnarsson said it would be dead easy.’
‘Dead being the operative word,’ said Stafford. ‘What else was he offering you, apart from the chance of staying out of jail?’ Corliss avoided his eyes. ‘Let’s have it all.’
‘A quarter of a million bucks,’ he mumbled. ‘Gunnarsson said I’d have to have a hunk of dough to make it look good afterwards.’
‘One twelfth of the take,’ Stafford said. ‘You taking the risk and Gunnarsson taking the cream. What a patsy you were, Corliss. Do you think you’d have lived to enjoy it?’
‘For Christ’s sake! I had no goddamn choice. Gunnarsson had me by the balls.’
‘Where is Hendrix now?’
‘How would I know?’ demanded Corliss. ‘I never even met the guy.’
‘Terminated with extreme prejudice,’ said Chip. ‘That’s the CIA expression isn’t it?’
Stafford nodded. ‘No one knew he was in New York except Hardin. I think that’s why Hardin was fired, and I think Hardin was bloody lucky—it could have happened to him. But Gunnarsson underestimated Hardin; he never thought resentment would push Hardin into going to England.’
‘What happens to me now?’ asked Corliss apathetically.
‘Chip and Nair will take you away and put you in a safe place. You’ll have clothing and food but no freedom until this is all over. After that we’ll get you back to the States where you’d better get lost. Agreed, Chip?’
‘If he co-operates and makes no trouble,’ said Chip. ‘If he does anything foolish there are no guarantees any more.’
‘I’ll make no trouble,’ said Corliss eagerly. ‘All I want to do is to get out of this damn country.’ He listened to the night noises and shivered, drawing the fatigue jacket closer to him although it was not cold. ‘It scares me.’
‘There’s one more thing,’ Stafford said. ‘People don’t usually get shot for no reason at all. Who’d want to kill you, Corliss? Not Gunnarsson; he wouldn’t want to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. Who, then?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Corliss violently. ‘No one would want to kill me. I don’t know about Hendrix. You guys said it was open season on Hendrix.’
‘That was a manner of speaking,’ said Stafford.
Corliss shook his head as though in wonderment at what was happening to him. He said, ‘I had an auto accident in Cornwall, but I’m not that bad a driver. The brakes failed on a hill.’
Stafford shrugged. ‘It doesn’t have to be guns.’
‘Cui bono?‘ said Chip, unexpectedly breaking into Latin. He grinned at Stafford’s expression, his teeth gleaming in the firelight. ‘This nigger bastard went to university. Who inherits from Hendrix?’
Stafford thought about it, then said slowly, ‘The next of kin, I suppose. Corliss, here, says Hendrix had no family but, of course, he had, although he didn’t know it. His next of kin would be his cousin, Dirk Hendriks, assuming that Henry Hendrix made no will.’
‘I think we can accept that assumption,’ said Chip dryly.
Stafford shook his head. ‘It’s impossible. Dirk went back to England with Farrar. How could he organize a kidnapping into Tanzania? That would take organization on the spot. Anyway, he’s inherited three million himself. What’s the motive?’
From the darkness on the other side of the fire Nair said, ‘Six is better than three. Some people are greedy.’
‘I don’t see it,’ said Stafford. ‘Hendriks has no Kenyan connections; he’s a South African, damn it. He’d never been in the country until he came with Farrar. How could a man, not knowing either country, organize a kidnapping in Kenya by Tanzanians? I’d say South Africans are a damn sight more unwelcome in Tanzania than they are in Kenya.’
‘Yes,’ said Chip. ‘We’re a tolerant people. We don’t mind South Africans as long as they behave themselves. The Tanzanians aren’t so tolerant.’
They batted it around a bit more and got nowhere. At last Stafford said, ‘Perhaps we’re barking up the wrong tree. I know that no tourists have been killed in these Tanzanian raids but it was bound to happen sooner or later when people carry guns. Perhaps this attempt on Corliss was a statistical inevitability—a Tanzanian aberration.’
‘No,’ said Chip, ‘I can understand a gun going off and killing someone. I can understand one man going round the bend and killing someone. But two men deliberately took Corliss and, as you said, it was the nearest thing to an execution I’ve witnessed. It was deliberate.’
‘Jesus!’ said Corliss.
‘But why?’ Stafford asked.
No one could tell him.
The fire had to be kept going all night so one man stood watch while the others slept and Stafford stood first watch. By unspoken agreement Corliss did not stand a watch; no one was going to sleep having him loose with two rifles and a sub-machine-gun. When his time was up Stafford stretched out on the ground not expecting to sleep, but the next thing he knew Nair was shaking him awake. ‘Dawn,’ he said.
When Stafford stood up he was stiff and his bones creaked. In his time in the army and in the Sahara he had slept on the ground in the open air many times, but it is a game for a young man and as he grew older he found that it ceased to be fun. He looked around, and asked, ‘Where’s Chip?’
‘He left at first light—ten minutes ago. He said he’ll be back in an hour, maybe two.’ Nair nodded towards Corliss. ‘We have to make arrangements about him. He can’t be seen by anyone, including the police.’
Stafford stretched. ‘I know that you pair display an amazing efficiency but I’d like to know how Chip is going to fix that. The KPU must still have a lot of pull.’
Nair raised his eyebrows. ‘The Kenya People’s Union no longer exists. How can it have influence?’<
br />
‘All right, Nair; have it your own way.’
‘Max,’ he said, ‘a word of warning. It would be most unwise of you to talk openly about the KPU. Loose talk of that nature could put you in prison. It is still a touchy subject in Kenya.’
Stafford held up his hands placatingly. ‘Not another word shall pass my lips.’ Nair nodded gravely.
It was two and a half hours before Chip came back and he brought with him two men whom he introduced as Daniel Wekesa and Osano Gichure. ‘Good friends,’ he said.
‘Just good friends?’ Stafford said sardonically. ‘Not brothers-in-law?’
Chip ignored that. ‘They’ll look after Corliss and get him out of the Mara.’
‘Where will they take him?’
‘We’ll come to that later. The tourists haven’t come back yet, and the border is alive with police on the Kenyan side.’ He stroked his chin. ‘The tour group is probably still in Tanzania. Bare European feet make for slow going. Still, they should come in some time this morning if I know Adam.’
‘Which you do.’
‘Yes. I want to talk to him. I want to know exactly how the Tanzanians picked him up. I also want breakfast, so let’s go.’
Chip talked to Corliss, told him he’d be looked after if he behaved himself, and then they went, again heading north. They left the rifles and the Uzi with Chip’s good friends and he made Stafford empty his pockets of ammunition. ‘If the police find so much as a single round you’re in trouble,’ he said.
On the way he said he had seen the police. ‘Just stick to the story we arranged and we’ll be fine.’
Chip proved to be right. They walked for an hour and then saw a vehicle coming towards them, bumping through the bush. It contained a police lieutenant and a constable, both armed. They spun their yarn and the lieutenant shook his head. ‘It was very unwise to follow those men; it could have been dangerous. I am glad that Mr Chipende had the sense to stop you crossing the border.’
Stafford scowled at Chip who was now a virtuous citizen. The lieutenant smiled. ‘I hope this has not spoiled your holiday, Mr Stafford. I assure you that these incidents are rare. Certain wild elements in our neighbouring country get out of control.’
‘Is there news of the tour group?’ asked Nair.
The lieutenant looked bleak. ‘Not yet. They will be given a warm welcome when they arrive. Jump in; I’ll take you back to Keekorok in time for a late breakfast.’
So they rode back to the Lodge at Keekorok and got there inside half an hour; not long but long enough for Stafford to wonder if it was habitual for Kenyan police officers to administer a mild slap on the wrist for transgressions such as theirs. He had expected a real rocket and here was the lieutenant actually apologizing for a spoiled holiday. Perhaps it was his view that it was normal for a European tourist to be an idiot.
Their arrival was the occasion for a minor brouhaha. Although the manager met them and tried to ease them into their rooms quietly they were spotted and mobbed by a crowd eagerly asking questions in assorted accents. It was known they had been out all night and that there was another party still missing and, from the look on the manager’s face as they briefly answered queries, it was definitely a case of bad public relations.
And Curtis was there, his face set in a wide, relieved smile. He put his broad shoulders between Stafford and a particularly importunate American, and said, ‘I hope the Colonel is all right.’
‘Tired and a bit travel-worn, that’s all, Sergeant. Just point me towards breakfast and a bed.’
‘The manager’s arranged for you to have breakfast in your room, sir. He thought it would be better.’
‘Better for whom?’ Stafford said acidly. His guess was that the manager was wishing they would vanish instantly so as not to infect the other guests with the virus of bad news. And it would get worse when the others came back; having tourists kidnapped was not good for the image of Keekorok Lodge. It would get still worse when one tourist didn’t come back at all, and even worse than that when the tourist was identified as an American millionaire. The manager wouldn’t know what had hit him.
Over breakfast Stafford said, ‘I took your advice, Sergeant,’ and brought him up to date. ‘We separated Hendrix from Gunnarsson.’
Curtis was normally an imperturbable and phlegmatic man but the story made his thick, black eyebrows crawl up his scalp like a couple of hairy caterpillars until they threatened to eliminate his bald patch. When Stafford finished he thought in silence then remembered to close his mouth. ‘So we’ve got Hendrix—I mean Corliss. Where?’
Stafford buttered some toast. ‘I don’t know. Chip whistled a couple of characters out of nowhere and they went off with him.’ He took a bite and said indistinctly, ‘Sergeant, I think I’ll have to rechristen you Aladdin; you’ve rubbed a lamp and conjured up a genie. My slightest wish is Chip’s command and I don’t know how the hell he does it. Sheer magic.’
Curtis said, ‘Something’s just come to me.’
‘What?’
‘You remember when we came to the Masai Mara and stopped at the gate. Chip got us in. You have to pay to get into a Reserve—any Reserve.’
Stafford nodded. ‘He said we were his guests.’
‘But he didn’t pay,’ said Curtis. ‘No money passed. He showed a card and signed a book.’
Stafford was tired and looking longingly at the bed. ‘Maybe a season ticket,’ he mumbled, but a season ticket for four wasn’t likely.
SIXTEEN
Curtis woke Stafford. ‘I’m sure the Colonel would like to know that the other group has come in.’
He came wide awake. ‘You’re damned right. What time is it?’
‘Just after two.’ Stafford blinked disorientedly at the closed curtains and Curtis added gently, in the afternoon, sir.’
Stafford dressed in shirt and shorts with swimming trunks beneath and thrust his feet into sandals. Curtis said, ‘I’m going with Nair to see Corliss if the Colonel doesn’t mind.’
‘Why?’
‘Chip said they’re short of food so we’re taking it.’ He paused. ‘It would be good for us to know where he is, sir.’
Stafford nodded. ‘Carry on, Sergeant.’
The lobby was a hubbub of noise and crammed with a welcoming committee of the curious—those guests who had not gone game spotting. There were a lot of them. Stafford suspected that game spotting in the Masai Mara would be a depreciating part of the tourist industry until this storm had blown itself out. Game spotting was one thing and the risk of being kidnapped was another.
He joined Chip who was leaning against a wall. ‘How are they?’
‘I haven’t seen them yet, and we won’t be able to talk to them for a while. There’s a heavy police escort.’
The rescued tourists came in, spearheaded by a phalanx of police. Six of them—the Roches, Gunnarsson, Kosters and Adam Muliro. They did not walk well, but their feet had been bandaged and clothing had been issued, ill-fitting and incongruous but necessary. The crowd pressed around, shouting questions, and the police kept them back, linking arms.
A senior police officer held up his hands in one of which he held a swagger stick. ‘Quiet please! These people are not well. They need urgent medical attention. Now, make way, please.’
There was a brief hush, then someone called, ‘There are only six. Who’s missing?’
‘Mr Hendrix has not yet appeared. We are still looking for him.’
As photo-flashes began to pop Stafford watched Gunnarsson. He had a baffled, almost defeated, expression on his face. So that’s how a man looks when he’s been cheated of six million dollars. It must have been how many a man looked in New York in the crash of 1929 just before jumping out of the skyscraper window—an expression of unfocused anger at the unfairness of things. Not that Gunnarsson would commit suicide. He was not the type and, anyway, he had not lost the money because he had never had it. Still, it was a hard blow.
Stafford lost sight of him as the party was led
away. Chip made a motion of his hand as Adam Muliro went past and Adam nodded almost imperceptibly. Chip said, ‘We won’t see them for a while. Let’s have a swim.’
It was a good idea, so after waiting for the crowd to thin they walked towards the pool. Halfway there someone ran after them. ‘Mr Stafford?’ He turned and saw the man who had asked who was missing. ‘Eddy Ukiru—the Standard. Can I have a word with you?’
Behind Ukiru a man was unlimbering what was obviously a press camera. Stafford glanced at Chip who said, ‘Why not?’
And so Stafford gave a press interview. Midway through Ukiru was joined, to his displeasure, by another reporter from a rival newspaper, Nation, and Stafford had to repeat some of the details but essentially he stuck to the prepared story which Chip corroborated. Ukiru showed minor signs of disbelief. ‘So you turned back at the border,’ he said. ‘How did you know it was the border? There is no fence, no mark.’
Stafford shrugged. ‘You will have to ask Mr Chipende about that.’
So he did, and Chip switched into fast Swahili. Eventually Ukiru shrugged his acceptance, the photographers took their pictures, and they all went away. Stafford said, ‘They got here damned quickly. How?’
‘The manager will have telephoned his head office who will have notified the police in Nairobi. Plenty of room for leaks to the press there. They’ll have chartered aircraft. There’s an airstrip here.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen the airstrip,’ said Stafford. ‘But I didn’t know about the telephone. I’ve seen no wires.’
Chip smiled. ‘It’s a radio-phone in the manager’s office. And we can’t have wires because the elephants knock down the telegraph poles. Let’s have that swim.’
Stafford wanted to put himself next to Gunnarsson and found the opportunity during the pre-dinner cocktail hours. All the rescued tour group was there in the bar with the exception of Adam Muliro and they were being quizzed about their experience by the other guests. There was an air of euphoria about them; much laughter from the Roches and Kosters. Now saved, their adventure verged somewhat on unreality and would be something to dine out on for years to come. Adventure is discomfort recollected in tranquillity.
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