Flyaway / Windfall

by Desmond Bagley

  Hardin looked up at the ceiling and gazed into the past. He said slowly, ‘Gunnarsson and Corliss went in then Gunnarsson came out.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Gunnarsson came out just as Dirk and Alix went in—they passed each other in the entrance.’

  ‘Any sign of recognition?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Then how did they get together here?’ asked Stafford.

  ‘I talked to Chip about that and maybe it can be explained,’ said Hardin. ‘Gunnarsson went to the police and then on to the American Embassy to raise some hell about them dragging their heels on the Hendrix case. I saw Mike Pasternak and he told me about it.’ Hardin retailed his discussion with Pasternak. ‘Chip says that Hendriks and Gunnarsson met in the lobby of the Embassy apparently by chance.’

  ‘It’s unlucky for us,’ said Stafford. ‘If Gunnarsson mentioned my name to Dirk in connection with the disppearance of Hendrix then he’s going to be suspicious.’

  ‘Suspicious about what?’ demanded Hardin. ‘I don’t know what you have against Dirk Hendriks—he’s just a guy who’s inherited a fortune. It’s Gunnarsson and Corliss who are trying to put one over on the estate.’

  Stafford was about to reply when he was interrupted by a waiter who handed him a note. ‘From the gentleman at the corner table, sir.’

  Stafford saw a man looking towards him. The man nodded curtly and then addressed himself to his plate. Stafford opened the folded paper and read, ‘I would appreciate a moment of your time when you finish dinner.’ There was an indecipherable scribble of a signature below.

  He looked across the room again and nodded, then passed the note to Hardin. ‘Do you know him?’

  Hardin paused in the middle of ordering from the menu. ‘A stranger to me.’ He finished ordering, then said, ‘Mike Pasternak phoned half an hour ago. He’d like to meet you. Is four o’clock tomorrow okay?’

  ‘I should think so.’

  ‘He’ll meet you here by the swimming pool. Maybe he’ll be able to tell you who Chip really is.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Stafford was lost in thought trying to fit together a jigsaw, taking a piece at a time and seeing if it made up a pattern. It was true he had nothing against Dirk beyond an instinctive dislike of the man but suppose…Suppose that Dirk’s meeting with Gunnarsson at the Embassy had not been by chance, that they already knew each other. Gunnarsson had been established as a crook so what did that make Dirk? And then there was Brice at Ol Njorowa who had unaccountably lost tens of millions of pounds. If Dirk talked to Brice and found that Stafford had been at Ol Njorowa and Keekorok then he would undoubtedly smell a rat.

  Stafford shook his head irritably. All this was moonshine—sheer supposition. He said, ‘What else did Dirk do today?’

  ‘He went out to Ol Njorowa, stayed for lunch, then came back to Nairobi where he went to the police and then on to the American Embassy.’

  ‘Where he met Gunnarsson. Did he see anyone at the Embassy?’

  ‘No,’ said Hardin. ‘He went with Gunnarsson to the Thorn Tree.’

  ‘Could have been pre-arranged,’ said Curtis.

  ‘You’re a man of few words, Sergeant,’ said Stafford, ‘but they make sense.’

  ‘But why meet at the Embassy?’ persisted Hardin. ‘They’re both staying at the New Stanley—why not there?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Stafford, tired of beating his brains out. He finished his coffee and nodded towards the corner table. ‘I’d better see what that chap wants.’

  He walked across the dining room and the man looked up as he approached. ‘Abercrombie-Smith,’ he said. ‘You’re Stafford.’

  He was a small compact man in his early fifties with a tanned square face and a neatly trimmed moustache. There was a faint and indefinable military air about him which could have been because of the erect way he held himself. He slid a business card from under his napkin and gave it to Stafford. His full name was Anthony Abercrombie-Smith and his card stated that he was from the British High Commission, Bruce House, Standard Street, Nairobi. It did not state what he did there.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to meet you,’ he said. ‘We’ve been expecting you at the office.’

  Stafford said, ‘It never occurred to me.’

  ‘Humph! All the same you should have come. Never mind; we’ll make it the occasion for a lunch. There’s no point in having the formality of an office meeting. What about tomorrow?’

  Stafford inclined his head. ‘That will be all right.’

  ‘Good. We’ll lunch at the Muthaiga Club. I’ll pick you up here at midday.’ He turned back to his plate and Stafford assumed that the audience was over so he left.

  TWENTY

  Stafford was ready when Abercrombie-Smith arrived on the dot of midday to pick him up. Hardin and Curtis had taken a Nissan and gone off to the Nairobi Game Park situated so conveniently nearby.

  Abercrombie-Smith drove north through a part of Nairobi Stafford had not seen and made bland conversation about the sights to be seen, the Indian temples and the thriving open markets. Presently they came to a suburb which was redolent of wealth. The houses were large—what little could be seen of them because they were set back far from the road and discreetly screened by hedges and trees. Stafford noted that many had guards on the gates which interested him professionally.

  ‘This is Muthaiga,’ said Abercrombie-Smith. ‘A rather select part of Nairobi. Most of the foreign embassies are here. My master, the High Commissioner, has his home quite close.’ They turned a corner, then off the road through a gateway. A Kenyan at the gate gave a semisalute. ‘And this is the Muthaiga Club.’

  Inside, the rooms were cool and airy. The walls were decked with animal trophies; kongoni, gazelle, impala, leopard. They went into the lounge and sat in comfortable club chairs. ‘And now, dear boy,’ said Abercrombie-Smith, ‘what will it be?’

  Stafford asked for a gin and tonic so he ordered two. ‘This is one of the oldest clubs in Kenya,’ he said. ‘And one of the most exclusive.’ He looked at the two Sikhs across the room who were engrossed in a discussion over papers spread on a table. ‘Although not as exclusive as it once was,’ he observed. ‘In my day one never discussed business in one’s club.’

  Stafford let it ride, content to let Abercrombie-Smith make the running. His small talk was more serious than most. He expatiated on the political situation in Britain, ditto in America, the dangers inherent in the Russian interference in Afghanistan and Poland, and so forth. But it was still small talk. Stafford let him run on, putting in the occasional comment so that the conversation would not run down, and waited for him to come to the nub. In the meantime he assessed the Muthaiga Club.

  It was obviously a relic of colonial days; the chosen, self-designed watering hole of the higher civil servants and the wealthier and more influential merchants—all white, of course, in those days. It was probably in here that the real decisions were made, and not in the Legislative Council or the Law Courts. The coming of Uhuru must have been painful for the membership who had to adapt to a determinedly multiracial society. Stafford wondered who had been the brave non-white to have first applied for membership.

  They finished their drinks and Abercrombie-Smith proposed a move. ‘I suggest we go into the dining room,’ he said. He still had not come to any point that was worth making. Stafford nodded, stood up with him, and followed into the dining room which was half full of a mixed crowd of whites, blacks and Asians.

  They consulted the menu together and Stafford chose melon to start with. ‘I recommend the tilapia,’ said Abercrombie-Smith. it’s a flavoursome freshwater fish from the lakes. And the curry here is exceptional.’ Stafford nodded so he ordered curry for both of them, then said to the waiter, ‘A bottle of hock with the fish and lager with the curry.’ The waiter went away. Abercrombie-Smith leaned across the table. ‘One cannot really drink wine with curry, can one? Besides, nothing goes better with curry than cold lager.’

  Stafford agreed politely. Who was he to disagre
e with his host?

  Over the melon they discussed cricket and the current Test Match; over the fish, current affairs in East Africa. Stafford thought Abercrombie-Smith was coming in a circumlocutory manner to some possible point at issue. But he was right; the tilapia was delicious.

  As the curry dishes were placed on the table he said, ‘Help yourself, dear boy. You know we really expected you to come to us after that unfortunate incident in the Masai Mara.’ He cocked an eyebrow at Stafford expectantly.

  Stafford said, ‘I don’t know why. I had no complaints to make.’ He spooned rice on to his plate.

  ‘But, still; a kidnapping!’

  Stafford passed him the rice dish. ‘I wasn’t kidnapped,’ he said briefly. The curry had a rich, spicy aroma.

  ‘Um,’ said Abercrombie-Smith. ‘Just so. All the same we thought you might. Would you like to tell me what happened down there?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Stafford said as he helped himself to the curry, and gave a strictly edited version.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘I see. You say you turned back at the border. How did you know it was the border? As I recollect there are no fences or signs in that wilderness. No fences because of the wildebeest migration of course, and the elephants tend to destroy any signposts.’

  ‘Like the telegraph poles,’ Stafford said, and he nodded. Stafford sampled the curry and found it good. ‘You’ll have to ask Pete Chipende about that. He’s the local expert.’

  ‘Try the sambals,’ Abercrombie-Smith urged. ‘They do them very well here. The tomatoes and onions are marinated in herbs; not the bananas, of course, and certainly not the coconut. The coconut, I assure you, is perfectly fresh; not the nasty, dried-up stuff you get in England. I recommend the mango chutney, too.’ He helped himself to curry. ‘Ah, yes; Chipende. An interesting man, don’t you think?’

  ‘Certainly an intelligent man,’ said Stafford.

  ‘I would tend to agree there; I certainly would. How did it come about that he was with you?’

  Abercrombie-Smith was being too damned nosey. Stafford said, ‘He offered to act as guide and courier.’

  ‘And Nair Singh? A courier also?’ His eyebrows twitched upwards. ‘Wasn’t that a little overkill, dear boy?’

  Stafford shrugged. ‘Chip wanted Nair along as driver. He said Nair was the better driver.’ That was the exact truth but he did not expect to be believed.

  Abercrombie-Smith started to laugh. He laughed so much that he was speechless. He choked on his curry and it was quite a time before he recovered. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin and said, still chuckling, ‘Oh, my dear chap; that’s rich—rich, indeed.’ He put down the napkin. ‘Didn’t you know that Mr Peter Chipende entered the East African Safari Rally three years in succession? He didn’t win but he finished every time and that is an achievement in itself.’

  Stafford had heard of the East African Safari Rally; it was supposed to be the most gruelling long-distance motor race in the world and, judging by the condition of the road between Narok and Keekorok, he could very well believe it. He cursed Chip for putting him in such an untenable position and said, ‘I wouldn’t know about that; I’m a stranger in these parts.’

  ‘So that’s what Chipende told you, is it? Well, well.’

  Stafford decided to give him back some of the malarkey he had been handing out. ‘This curry is really very good; thanks for recommending it. Do you think I could get the recipe from the chef? I pride myself on being a good cook.’

  Abercrombie-Smith’s eyes went flinty. He knew when someone was taking the mickey as well as the next man. However, he held himself in. ‘I would think it’s the chef’s family secret, dear boy.’ He fiddled with his napkin. ‘You haven’t been here long, Stafford; but you’ve mixed with some very interesting people. Interesting to me, that is.’

  Stafford thought it would be rather more interesting to MI6 or whatever funny number they gave to foreign espionage these days. He said, ‘Who, for instance?’

  ‘Well, Peter Chipende and Nair Singh, to start with. And then there are a couple of ex-CIA agents, Hardin and Gunnarsson. Not to mention Colour Sergeant Curtis, but he’s small fry and you did bring him with you.’

  ‘This curry is so good I think I’ll have some more.’ Stafford helped himself. ‘You seem to be taking an inordinate interest in me, too.’

  ‘Colonel Max Stafford,’ Abercrombie-Smith said meditatively. ‘Late of Military Intelligence.’

  ‘Bloody late,’ Stafford observed. ‘I left the army ten years ago and, by the way, I don’t use my rank.’

  ‘Still, you were a full colonel at the age of thirty-five. You ought to know which end is up.’

  ‘Come to the point. What do you want?’

  ‘I want to know what you’re doing here in Kenya.’

  ‘Taking a much needed holiday,’ Stafford said. ‘I haven’t had a holiday for three years.’

  ‘And I know about that one,’ said Abercrombie-Smith. ‘You take holidays in peculiar places. That was when you went to the Sahara and came back with a bullet in your shoulder.’

  Stafford put down his fork. ‘Now this be damned for a lark.’ He was trying to keep his temper. Besides, he wanted to string this joker along for a while. He was silent for a moment. ‘What else would you want to know? There’s sure to be more.’

  ‘Of course,’ Abercrombie-Smith said easily. ‘Principally I’d like to know more about Chipende.’ Who wouldn’t? Stafford thought. ‘And, of course, I’d like to know if Hardin and Gunnarsson really are ex-CIA as they claim. And I’d like to know your interest in the Ol Njorowa Foundation.’

  Stafford said deliberately, ‘And can you give me any reasons why I should do all this?’

  Abercrombie-Smith drummed his fingers on the table. ‘What about patriotism?’ he suggested.

  ‘Patriotism is not enough, as Edith Cavell said. And as Sam Johnson added, patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.’

  ‘Samuel Johnson was a self-opinionated old fool,’ Abercrombie-Smith snapped. ‘And I’m not here to bandy literary criticism.’

  Stafford grinned at him. ‘I didn’t think you were.’

  Abercrombie-Smith stared at Stafford. ‘So patriotism is not enough. I suppose that means you want money.’

  ‘The labourer is always worthy of his hire,’ said Stafford. ‘But, as it happens, you’re wrong. You know what you can do with your bloody money.’

  ‘Damn it, Stafford,’ he said. ‘Can’t you be reasonable?’

  ‘I can; if there’s anything to be reasonable about. As it is I resent you probing into my affairs, as you seem to have done quite thoroughly.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try to be reasonable. Don’t you recognize that you are in a most sensitive position? Stafford Security Consultants runs security on a dozen defence contractors back home.’ He reeled off the names of half-a-dozen. ‘Of course we’ve had you investigated. We’d have been fools not to. Under those circumstances we couldn’t take the risk of you being turned. You do see that, don’t you?’

  Stafford saw. His own dealings with the intelligence establishment had been with the counter-espionage crowd of MI5 and the police Special Branch. They were thin on the ground and could not possibly undertake the detailed work Stafford guaranteed when he took on a contract. Consequently they were distantly pleased and recognized that Stafford Security was largely on their side. But Stafford could see that they would want to guarantee he was safe. Many a one-time agent has been turned in the past.

  Abercrombie-Smith said, ‘Well, there you are. I think you’ll see the advantage of co-operation now because, if you don’t, your firm back in England could get into considerable difficulties.’

  He paused as the waiter began to clear dishes from the table. Stafford welcomed the interruption because Abercrombie-Smith’s eyes were shifting around as plates were swept away, and he did not see the expression on Stafford’s face as he contemplated this naked piece of blackmail.

  When the waiter had gone Abercr
ombie-Smith said, ‘I recommend something to take away the taste of curry before we have coffee. What do you say to lychees? They’re fresh, dear boy; not like those tinned monstrosities you get in England.’

  ‘Yes,’ Stafford said mechanically. ‘I’ll have lychees.’

  So they had lychees and then went into the lounge for coffee. On the way there Stafford excused himself and went into the entrance hall where he found the hall porter and asked him to order a taxi. ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘Five minutes, sah; no longer.’

  ‘Let me know as soon as it arrives. I’ll be in the lounge.’

  ‘Yes, sah. Immediately.’

  When he returned Abercrombie-Smith offered him a cigar which he declined. Abercrombie-Smith produced a silver cutter and nipped the end from his cigar and proceeded to light it with great concentration. When he had got it going to his satisfaction he put the cutter away and said, ‘Now, my dear boy; I think we can get down to business.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t discuss business in your club.’

  ‘Pah!’ he said. ‘I was referring to commercial business.’

  ‘You mean the sordid business of making money.’

  ‘Precisely. This is different.’

  Stafford put some sugar into his coffee and stirred. ‘Sam Johnson, whom you seem to despise, had something to say about that. He said that there are few ways in which a man can be more innocently employed than in getting money. Is the proposition you have just made to me in your club any less sordid than commerce?’

  Abercrombie-Smith raised his eyebrows. ‘My dear chap; I see you are a moralist. Scruples? I would have thought scruples to be undesirable in your profession; positively a hindrance.’ His voice sharpened. ‘I suggest you address yourself to self preservation and the protection of your—er—business interests since you seem to have such a high regard for money getting.’ He was openly contemptuous.

  His contempt Stafford could survive. ‘I’m Max. Do you mind if I call you Anthony?’ He sipped the coffee.