Flyaway / Windfall

by Desmond Bagley

  Stafford talked with Kosters and Michele Roche and got their account with no great difficulty, then said with an air of puzzlement, ‘But what about Hendrix? What happened to him?’

  The euphoric gaiety disappeared fast. ‘I don’t know,’ said Kosters soberly. ‘They took him away and there was shooting.’

  ‘You think he’s dead?’

  Michele’s voice was sombre. ‘He hasn’t come back. We didn’t see him again.’

  Stafford looked across at Gunnarsson. There was no euphoria about him. He sat with his legs stretched out, gloomily regarding his bandaged feet. Someone had found him a pair of carpet slippers which had been slashed to accommodate the bandages. Stafford took his drink and walked over to Gunnarsson. ‘You’ve had a nasty experience. Oh; my name is Stafford.’

  Gunnarsson squinted up at him. ‘Stafford? You the guy who tried to come after us?’

  ‘We didn’t get very far,’ Stafford said ruefully. ‘We just got lost and made bloody fools of ourselves.’

  ‘Let me top up your drink.’ Stafford sat down. ‘I’m John Gunnarsson.’ He turned and looked at Stafford, then shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t have done any good, Mr Stafford—those guys were a walking arsenal—but thanks for trying. What will you have?’

  ‘Gin and tonic.’

  Gunnarsson beckoned to a waiter and gave the order, then sighed. ‘Christ, what an experience. I’ve been in some tough spots in my time but that was one of the toughest.’

  ‘They tell me it’s happened before,’ Stafford said casually.

  ‘Yeah. These damned half-ass Kenyans ought to beef up their border force. You know what was the worst? There’s nothing takes the steam out of a guy faster than to strip him bollock naked.’ He gave a small snort. ‘Well, not quite; they let us keep our underpants.’ He brooded. ‘It was bad coming back what with the sun and the thorns. My feet feel the size of footballs. And there was the goddamn hyena…’

  ‘A hyena?’

  ‘A big son of a bitch. It trotted parallel with us about a hundred yards off, I guess. Waiting for someone to lag or drop out. If it wasn’t for the nig…the black guy, Adam Somebody, I don’t think we’d have made it. He was good.’

  ‘I hear somebody didn’t make it,’ Stafford said.

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’ Gunnarsson’s neck swelled.

  ‘What happened to him? Enderby, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Hendrix.’ Gunnarsson glowered. ‘There were six of us, six of them, and Adam, the driver. Trouble was, they were armed. Kalashnikovs. Know what they are?’

  Stafford shook his head. ‘Things like that don’t come my way.’

  ‘You’re lucky. They’re Russian-made automatic rifles. We couldn’t do a goddamn thing. Helpless.’ He made a fist in his frustration. ‘Then a couple of them took Hendrix away and later there was firing and the four black guys with us burst out laughing. Imagine that.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Stafford said soberly. ‘Were these men in uniform?’

  ‘Yeah. Camouflage gear. A real military set-up. Jesus, but there’s going to be trouble when I get back to Nairobi. Nobody’s going to get away with doing this to an American citizen.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Stafford asked interestedly.

  ‘Do! I’m going to raise hell with the American Ambassador, that’s what I’m going to do. Hendrix was a real nice young guy and I want him found, dead or alive. And if he’s dead I want blood if I have to take it all the way to the United Nations.’

  Stafford contemplated that statement. If Gunnarsson was prepared to raise a stink at that level it meant that the real Hendrix was not around to object. Terminated with extreme prejudice, as Chip had said. The killing of a newly made American millionaire was certain to find its way into New York newspapers if Gunnarsson was prepared to push it so far, which meant that Gunnarsson thought he was safe.

  ‘Had you known him long? Hendrix, I mean.’

  ‘A while—not long,’ said Gunnarsson. ‘But that’s not the point, Mr Stafford. The point is they can’t get away with doing this to an American citizen and I’m going to scream that loud and clear.’

  Yes, it was his only chance if Hendrix/Corliss was still alive and in the hands of the Tanzanians. Only strong diplomatic pressure put on Tanzania by Kenya and the United States could get back Gunnarsson’s walking treasure chest. It would take nerve but Gunnarsson had that in plenty.

  ‘I wish you well,’ Stafford said. ‘Let me buy you a drink.’

  So he bought Gunnarsson a drink and presently took his leave. As he walked by the back of Gunnarsson’s chair he said, ‘Good luck,’ and clapped him on the shoulder. Gunnarsson jumped a foot in the air, let out a scream and banged both feet on the floor, whereupon he emitted another piercing yell. Stafford apologized, professing to have forgotten his sunburn, and made a quick getaway.

  SEVENTEEN

  They left for Nairobi next morning and so did a lot of others but for different reasons. After seeing the condition in which the tour group had come back from their unwanted, brief sojourn in Tanzania the front desk was busy as the fearful paid their bills. The manager was gloomy but resigned.

  Again they drove that spine-jolting, back-breaking road to Narok and then sat back with relief as they hit the asphalt which led all the way to Nairobi, and pulled into a parking slot in front of the Norfolk Hotel in comfortable time for lunch. There Stafford received a surprise. On opening the door of his room he found an envelope on the floor just inside. It contained the briefest of messages: ‘I’m back. Come see me. Room 14. Ben.’

  He dumped his bags, went to room 14, and knocked. A guarded voice said, ‘Yeah; who is it?’

  ‘Stafford.’

  There was the snap of a lock and the door opened and swung wide. He went in and Hardin said, ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been telephoning every two hours for the last two days and getting no answer. So I jump a plane and what do I find? No one.’ He was aggrieved.

  ‘Calm down, Ben,’ Stafford said. ‘We had to go away but it had good results.’ He paused and examined that statement, then added, ‘If I knew what they were.’

  Hardin examined Stafford closely. ‘Your face is scratched. Been with a dame?’

  Stafford sat down. ‘When you’ve stopped being funny we can carry on. You were sent back for a reason. Did you find anything?’

  Hardin said, ‘I’ve just ordered from room service. I didn’t want to eat in public before I knew where Gunnarsson was. I’ll cancel.’

  ‘No, I’ll join you,’ said Stafford. ‘Duplicate the order.’

  ‘Okay.’ Hardin telephoned the order before opening the refrigerator and taking out a couple of bottles of beer. ‘Jan-Willem Hendrykxx—an old guy and a travelling man. I’ve been spending a lot of your money, Max; ran up a hell of a phone bill. And I had to go to Belgium.’ He held up his hand. ‘Don’t worry; I flew economy.’

  ‘I think the firm can stand it.’

  Hardin gave Stafford an opened bottle and a glass. ‘I’ve written a detailed report but I can give you the guts of it now. Okay?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  He sat down. ‘Jan-Willem Hendrykxx born in 1899 in—believe it or not—Hoboken.’

  Stafford looked up, startled. ‘In the States!’

  ‘It got me, too,’ Hardin admitted. ‘No, the original Hoboken is a little place just outside Antwerp in Belgium. Parents poor but honest, which is more than we can say of Jan-Willem. Reasonable education for those days but he ran away to sea when he was seventeen. Knocked about a bit, I expect, but ended up in South Africa in 1921 where he married Anna Vermuelen.’

  He rubbed his jaw. ‘There was a strike in Johannesburg in 1922, if that’s what you can call it. Both sides had artillery and it sounds more like a civil war to me. Anyway, Jan-Willem disappeared leaving Anna to carry the can—the can being twin babies, Jan and Adriaan. Jan is the father of Dirk Hendriks, and Adriaan is the father of Hank Hendrix, the guy I picked up in Los Angeles. Follow me so far?’

  ‘It�
�s quite clear,’ Stafford said.

  ‘Jan-Willem jumped a freighter going to San Francisco, got to like the Californian climate, and decided to stay. Now, you must remember these were Prohibition days. Most people, when they think of Prohibition, think of Rum Row off Atlantic City, but there was just as much rum running on the West Coast, either from Canada or Mexico, and Hendrykxx got in on the act. By the time Repeal came he was well entrenched in the rackets.’

  ‘You mean he was a genuine dyed-in-the-wool gangster?’

  Hardin shrugged. ‘You could put it that way. But he made a mistake—he never took out US citizenship. So when he put a foot wrong he wasn’t jailed; he was deported back to his country of origin as an undesirable alien. He arrived back in Antwerp in April, 1940.’

  Stafford said, ‘You’ve been busy, Ben. How did you discover all this?’

  ‘A hunch. What I found out in Belgium made Hendrykxx a crook. He was supposed to have been killed in Jo’burg in 1922 but we know he wasn’t, so I wondered where he’d go, and being a crook he’d likely have a record. I have some good buddies in the FBI dating back to my CIA days. They looked up the files. There’s a hell of a dossier on Hendrykxx. When he came to the attention of the FBI they checked him very thoroughly. That’s where the phone bill came in; I spent about six hours talking long distance to the States.’

  The room waiter came in with lunch and set it on the table. Hardin waited until he had gone before continuing. ‘I don’t know whether it was good or bad for Hendrykxx that he arrived in Antwerp when he did. Probably good. The German offensive began on May 10th, Holland and Belgium fell like ninepins and France soon after. Antwerp was in German hands about two weeks after Hendrykxx got there. His wartime history is misty but from what I’ve picked up he was well into the Belgian rackets, the black market and all that. Of course, in those days it was patriotic but I believe Hendrykxx wasn’t above doing deals with the Germans.’

  ‘A collaborator?’

  Hardin bit into a club sandwich and said, with his mouth full, ‘Never proved. But he came out of the war in better financial shape than he went into it. Then he started import-export corporations and when the EEC was organized he went to town in his own way which, naturally, was the illegal way. There was a whole slew of EEC regulations which could be bent. Bargeloads of butter going up the Rhine from Holland to Germany found themselves relabelled and back in Holland with Hendrykxx creaming off the subsidy. He could do that several times with the same bargeload until the damn stuff went rancid on him. He was into a lot of rackets like that.’

  ‘The bloody crook,’ said Stafford.

  ‘On the way through the years there was also a couple of marriages, both bigamous because Anna was still alive back in South Africa. In 1974 he retired and went to live in Jersey, probably for tax reasons. By then he was pretty old. Last year he died, leaving close on a hundred million bucks, most of which went to the Ol Njorowa Foundation in Kenya. End of story.’

  Stafford stared at Hardin. ‘You must be kidding, Ben. Where’s the Kenya connection?’

  ‘There isn’t one,’ said Hardin airily.

  ‘But there must be.’

  ‘None that I could find.’ He leaned forward. ‘And I’ll tell you something else. Hendrykxx never was all that big time and crooks like him are usually big spenders. I doubt if he made more than five million dollars in his whole life. Maybe ten. Of course, that’s not bad but it doesn’t make him into any kind of financial giant. So where did the rest of the dough come from?’

  ‘Every time we find anything new this whole business gets crazier,’ Stafford said disgustedly.

  ‘I checked a couple of other things,’ said Hardin. ‘I went to Jersey and saw Hendrykxx’s death certificate in the Greffe—that’s their Public Record Office. The old guy died of a heart attack. I talked to the doctor, a guy called Morton, and he confirmed it. He said Hendrykxx could have gone any time, but…’ Hardin shook his head.

  ‘But what?’ asked Stafford.

  ‘Nothing to put a finger on definitely, but I had the impression that Morton was uneasy about something.’ Hardin refilled his glass. ‘Back in London I checked on Mandeville, the lawyer who handled the London end of the legacy business. Very right wing. He’s making a name for himself defending neo-Nazi groups, the guys who find themselves in court for race rioting. But I don’t see that has anything to do with us.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Stafford. ‘Did you talk to him?’

  ‘I couldn’t. He’s vacationing in South Africa.’ Hardin drank some beer. ‘What’s new with you?’

  Stafford told him and by the time he had finished it was late afternoon and the undrunk coffee had gone cold. Hardin listened to it all thoughtfully. ‘You’ve had quite a time,’ he commented. ‘Where’s Corliss now?’

  ‘Curtis saw him yesterday,’ Stafford said. ‘He was in a remote tented camp in the Masai Mara, but I wouldn’t want to guarantee he’s there now. What do you think of the line Gunnarsson pitched me?’

  ‘Righteous anger isn’t Gunnarsson’s style,’ said Hardin. ‘He sure as hell wants Corliss back and if that’s the way he’s going about it you know what it means—Hendrix is dead.’

  ‘I’d already got that far,’ said Stafford.

  ‘But there’s more.’ Hardin took out his wallet. ‘I got this at poste restante in London. Jack Richardson sent it, and he got it from Charlie Wainwright in Los Angeles. Charlie remembered I’d been interested in Biggie.’

  He took a newspaper clipping from the wallet and passed it to Stafford. It was a brief report from the Los Angeles Examiner to the effect that a disastrous fire had broken out in a house in Santa Monica and that all the occupants had died, six of them. The fire was believed to have been caused by an over-heated pottery kiln which had exploded. The names of the dead were given. Five of them were unknown to Stafford, but the sixth was Olaf Hamsun. Biggie.

  He looked at Hardin and said slowly, ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘If you’re thinking that Gunnarsson plays for keeps.’

  ‘Ben; you’re a bloody lucky man. How did Gunnarsson miss you?’

  ‘You’ve just said it—sheer goddamn luck. Jack Richardson sent a letter with that clipping; he told me that the rooming house I’d been living in had burned up. Maybe I’d slipped to London just in time.’ Hardin rubbed his jaw. ‘On the other hand it might not have been Gunnarsson at all. In the Bronx they have a habit of burning buildings for the insurance money. The whole damn place is falling apart.’

  Stafford held up the clipping. ‘Was this the whole of the commune?’

  ‘Just about, I reckon.’

  ‘Then that means that you are possibly the only person who definitely knows that the Hendrix who claimed the estate is a fake. What’s more, it means that Gunnarsson, if he’s going to make a big song and dance at the Embassy, is sure that you won’t pop up to prove him wrong. If Gunnarsson thinks you’re out of the game—and that’s the way he’s acting—then that gives us an edge.’

  ‘What do I do? Dress in a white sheet and scare him to death?’

  ‘We’ll think of something. Let’s get back to the main issue. Who would want Hendrix dead? Chip asked the question—who benefits? The answer to that is his cousin and sole relative, Dirk Hendriks. I argued that he couldn’t have organized it because he was in England, but these days one can get around really fast.’

  ‘He was in England,’ said Hardin. ‘I forgot to tell you. He was on the same plane that I came in on this morning.’

  ‘Was he?’ said Stafford.

  ‘It’s okay, Max; he’s never met me. Besides, he travelled first class, and the guys up front don’t mix with the hoi polloi in economy.’

  Stafford said sarcastically, ‘I’m mixing with a real egghead crowd. First Chip with Latin, now you with Greek.’

  Hardin scratched the angle of his jaw. ‘You’ve had a funny feeling about Hendriks all along, haven’t you? Mind telling me why?’

  ‘I’m suspicious abo
ut everyone in this case,’ Stafford said. ‘The more I know about it the stranger it becomes.’ He shrugged. ‘As for Dirk I suppose it’s a gut feeling. I’ve never really liked him even before you came along and blew the whistle on Gunnarsson.’

  Hardin looked at him shrewdly. ‘Something to do with his wife?’

  ‘Good God, no! At least, not in the way you’re thinking. Alix means nothing to me apart from the fact that we’re friends. But you don’t like to see friends get hurt. She’s a wealthy woman and Dirk is battening on her, or was until this Hendrykxx thing blew up. He’s too much the playboy type for my liking.’ Stafford changed the subject. ‘When you were with the CIA how long did you spend in Kenya?’

  ‘A couple of years.’

  ‘Would you know your way around now?’

  ‘Sure. It hasn’t changed much.’

  ‘Do you still have contacts?’

  ‘A few, I guess. It depends on what you want.’

  ‘What I want is to find out more about Pete Chipende and Nair Singh, particularly Chip. I’ve noticed that he tends to give the orders and Nair jumps.’

  Hardin frowned. ‘What’s the point? They’re helping plenty judging by your account.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Stafford. ‘They’re helping too damn much, and they’re too efficient. When we wanted Corliss taken off our hands Chip just pushed off into the bush in the middle of nowhere and turned up two of his friends very conveniently. And there are a few other things. One is that they know soldiering—they’re no amateurs at that. In fact, they’re thorough all-round professionals. There’s also something you said just before you went to England.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘You said there’d be others behind Chip and Nair. You said they might not show but they’d be there. I think you’re right, and I also think there’s an organization, a complex organization, and I want to know what it is before we get into this thing over our heads. Chip is helpful all right, but I’d like to be sure he doesn’t help us right into a jail—or a coffin. I don’t want to get into any political trouble here.’