Then Corliss was groomed to take the part of Hendrix. It was lucky that Corliss was not unlike Hendrix physically—they were both blond and of about the same age—and the passport was easy to fix. After that something had to be done about Hendrix and Gunnarsson saw to it personally. It was a pity but it was necessary and Hendrix now resided encased in a block of concrete at the bottom of Long Island Sound.
Gunnarsson had second thoughts about Biggie and the commune. The sudden emergence of an overnight multimillionaire called Hendrix could attract the attention of the media. It might make the papers on the West Coast—it could even be on TV with pictures—something which Biggie might see. So something had to be done about that and, again, Gunnarsson saw to it personally.
He smiled grimly as he reflected that Hardin had told him how to do it in his report. If a pottery kiln had blown up once it could blow up again, this time with more serious consequences. Exit Biggie and the commune. It was then that he began looking for Hardin seriously and found that he was living in a fleabag in the Bronx, and another rooming house fire in the Bronx passed unnoticed. It did not even rate a paragraph on the bottom of page zilch. That worried Gunnarsson because he was not certain he had taken out Hardin. Discreet enquiries revealed that the bodies in the rooming house were unidentifiable and a further search for Hardin produced nothing so he relaxed.
After that everything had gone perfectly. Corliss had been accepted in London and that old fool, Farrar, had even anted up two hundred thousand bucks as an earnest of what was to come. That was only a sweetener of course; a morsel before the main meal. Then they came to Kenya and the whole goddamn scheme had fallen apart when Corliss was snatched in Tanzania. What griped Gunnarsson was that he did not know whether Corliss was alive or dead.
‘Jesus!’ he said aloud in the privacy of the car. ‘If he’s alive I could be cooked.’
He sorted out the possibilities. If Corliss was dead then goodbye to six million dollars; he would cut his losses and return to the States. If Corliss was alive there were two alternatives—either he stayed as Hendrix or he spilled his guts. If he had the nerve to stay as Hendrix then nothing would change and everything was fine. But if he talked and revealed that he was Corliss then that meant instant trouble. Everybody and his uncle would be asking what had happened to the real Hendrix. Maybe he could get out of it by fast talking—he could blame the whole schmeer on the absent Hardin. He could swear he had accepted Corliss as the real McCoy on the word of Hardin. Maybe. That would depend on exactly how wide Corliss opened his fat mouth.
But the stakes were goddamn high—six million dollars or his neck. Gunnarsson thumped the driving wheel in frustration and the car swerved slightly. Corliss! Where was the stupid son of a bitch?
And now someone else was butting in—Max Stafford! It was inconceivable that Stafford could be there by chance; there was no connection at all. So Stafford had caught on to something. But how? He thought back to the time when he and Corliss were in London, reviewing what they had done, and could not find any flaw. So what in hell was Stafford doing and how much did he know? Well, that was the purpose of this trip to Naivasha—to find out. But carefully. And for the moment he was short of troops—he needed legmen to nose around—but a couple of days would cure that problem.
He came off the tortuous road of the escarpment and drove along the straight and pot-holed road that led to Naivasha, and he was unaware of the Kenatco Mercedes taxi which kept a level distance of four hundred yards behind him. There was no reason why he should be aware of it because there were two fuel tankers and a beer truck between them.
As he turned off the main road and bumped across the railway track to join the road which led alongside the lake he thought fleetingly of Hardin’s report—the bit where it said Hendrix had been shot in Los Angeles. ‘Now, what the hell?’ he muttered. Had it started—whatever ‘it’ was—as early as that? What had Hardin said? A couple of guys with un-American accents—possibly Krauts—looking for Hendrix. And then he had been shot. It would bear thinking about.
He turned into the grounds of the Lake Naivasha Hotel, parked and locked his car, and went to the desk to register. As he signed in he said, ‘Which is Mr Stafford’s room?’
‘Stafford, sir? I don’t think…’ After a moment the manager said, ‘We have no Stafford here at the moment, sir. I do recall a Mr Stafford who stayed here some little time ago.’
‘I see,’ said Gunnarsson thoughtfully. Where was the guy?
‘I’ll send someone to take your bags to your room, sir.’
‘I’ll unlock the car.’ Gunnarsson turned away, brushing shoulders with an Indian as he walked towards the parking lot, and was again unaware that Nair Singh turned to stare after him. He strode towards his car followed by a hotel servant and unlocked it. As his bags were taken out he looked about him and his attention was caught by the taxi some little distance away. His eyes narrowed and he walked towards it.
He stopped about five yards away and surveyed it. One radio antenna was okay—a guy might need music while he travelled. Two radio antennas? Well, maybe; being a taxi it might be on a radio network. But three antennas? He knew enough about his own work to know what that meant. He tried proving it by approaching from the driver’s side and peering at the dashboard, and he saw an instrument which was definitely not standard—a signal strength meter.
Slowly he withdrew and returned to his own car where he dropped on his haunches and looked under the rear. He passed his hand under the bumper and found something small which shifted slightly under the pressure of his fingers. He wrenched it loose and withdrew it to find he was holding a small anonymous-looking grey metal box from which two stiff wires protruded. He tested it on the bumper and it adhered with a click as the magnet on the bottom caught hold.
Gunnarsson straightened, his lips compressed, and looked across at the taxi. Someone had been following him; someone who so badly did not want to lose him that a radio beeper had been planted on his car to make the task of trailing easier. He walked briskly back to the hotel and went to the desk. ‘That taxi back there,’ he said. ‘Whose is it?’
‘A taxi, sir?’
‘Yeah, a Mercedes,’ Gunnarsson said irritably. ‘Owned by Kenatco—least that’s what the sign says.’
‘It could have been the Indian gentleman who was just here,’ said the manager. ‘He went that way.’
Gunnarsson ran back quickly but, by the time he came within sight the taxi was taking off at speed in a cloud of dust. He stood there, tossing the radio bug in his hand, then he dropped it on to the ground and crushed it under his heel. Somebody was playing games and he did not know who. It was something to think about before proceeding too precipitately so he went to his room and lay on the bed before ringing the Kenatco Taxi Company in Nairobi, giving the registration number.
As he suspected, the Kenatco people denied all knowledge of it.
TWENTY-FOUR
Stafford was wakened at six-thirty next morning by the ringing of the telephone next to his bed. At first he was disorientated but put together the fragments of himself when he heard Hunt say, ‘We leave in half an hour, Max. I’ll meet you in the hall.’
Half an hour later Hunt said, ‘Don’t worry; you’ll get your breakfast.’ They got into a Land-Rover and Hunt drove out of the College grounds and up a winding unsurfaced road which ran next to the chain-link fence. ‘The wind is perfect,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll be able to take you through Hell’s Gate. Have you ever been up in a balloon before?’
‘No, I haven’t.’ Stafford did not mention that the suggestion that he go through Hell’s Gate on a first flight made him feel decidedly queasy.
Hunt swung off the road and the Land-Rover bumped across open bush country. ‘Here we are.’
Stafford got out of the Land-Rover stiffly and saw Judy about fifty yards away, standing next to what appeared to be a laundry basket. ‘Is she coming, too?’
‘Yes; she operates the camera.’
They wal
ked over to her, and she said, ‘Hi! Had breakfast?’ Stafford shook his head. ‘Good! Breakfast is better after a flight.’
He inspected the ‘laundry basket’ and found it was the thing they stood in while being wafted through the air. Judy was right; it was indubitably better to have breakfast after the flight. Stafford was not scared of many things but he did have a fear of heights. He was prepared to climb a cliff but nothing would ever get him close to the edge while walking at the top. Not an unusual phobia. He wondered how he was going to acquit himself during the next couple of hours.
The edge of the basket was padded with suede, and from each corner rose a pillar, the pillars supporting a complicated contraption of stainless steel piping in two coils which was, Stafford supposed, the burner which heated the air. Beyond the basket the multi-coloured balloon envelope was laid out on the ground. It was bigger than he expected and looked flimsy. Four black Kenyans were stretching it out and straightening wire ropes.
He turned to Hunt. ‘It’s bigger than I expected.’ He didn’t mention the flimsiness.
‘She’s a Cameron N-84. That means she’s 84,000 cubic feet in volume. When she’s inflated the height from the floor of the basket to the crown of the balloon is over 60 feet.’
‘What’s the fabric?’
‘Close weave nylon treated with polyurethane to close the pores. This envelope is nearly new; the old one became too porous and I was losing air and efficiency. It’s the ultraviolet that does it, of course. Even though the fabric is specially treated the sun gets it in the end. A balloon doesn’t last nearly as long here as it would in England. I’ll give the boys a hand.’
Hunt walked forward and began checking rigging. Stafford turned to see Judy working on the basket. She was clamping a big plate camera on to the side. ‘Can I help?’
She smiled. ‘I’ve just finished. We’ll be leaving in ten minutes.’
‘So soon?’ He looked at the flaccid nylon envelope and wondered how.
Hunt came back. ‘All right; let’s get this thing into the air. Lucas, get the fan. Chuma, you’re for the crown rope. You others start flapping.’ He turned to Stafford. ‘Max, you help us get the basket on its side, slow and easy.’
They tipped the basket over so that the burners pointed to the balloon. Two Kenyans were flapping the nylon, driving air into the envelope. It billowed enormously in slow waves and visibly expanded. Lucas came behind with the fan; it was like an over-sized electric fan but driven by a small Honda petrol engine. The engine sputtered and then caught with a roar, driving air into the balloon.
Hunt got into the basket and crouched behind the burners. He lit the pilot flames and then tilted the burners towards the balloon. ‘All right, Lucas,’ he said, raising his voice above the noise of the fan. ‘Join Chuma on the crown rope. Judy and Max to the basket.’
Stafford and Judy stood on each side of the basket. He did not know what to do but was prepared to follow her lead. The balloon was filling rapidly and suddenly there was a growling, deep-throated roar and a blue flame, six feet long and nearly a foot in diameter, shot into the open throat of the balloon. It took Stafford by surprise and he started, then looked towards Judy. She was laughing so he grinned back weakly.
The roar went on and on, and the balloon expanded like a blossoming flower caught in time-lapse photography. Hunt switched off the flame, and one of the Kenyans turned off the fan and there was blessed silence. Hunt looked up as the balloon rose above them. ‘All hands to the basket,’ he said, and sent another burst of flame into the balloon.
The two Kenyans joined Stafford and Judy as the basket began to stir like a live thing. Slowly it began to tilt upright as the flame poured heat into the envelope. Hunt switched off again, and shouted, ‘Let go the crown rope.’ Immediately the basket became upright as the balloon surged above them. ‘All hands on,’ said Hunt, and four pairs of black hands clamped on the padded edges. ‘Max, get in.’
There was a sort of footstep in the wickerwork so Stafford put his foot in it and swung his other leg inboard. Hunt caught his arm and helped him regain balance. Judy climbed in from the other side. She immediately began to turn a valve on one of the cylinders of which there were four, one in each corner of the basket. Hunt was giving short blasts of flame, a few seconds at a time. It seemed to Stafford as though he was doing some kind of fine tuning. Once he said, ‘Hands off,’ and then, almost immediately, ‘Hands on.’
Lucas was rolling a cylinder along the ground towards the basket. Judy unstrapped the cylinder she had been working on and exchanged it for the one brought by Lucas. Then she tapped her brother on the shoulder. ‘Okay to go.’
He released a sustained flame, then said ‘Hands off.’ For a moment nothing apparently happened and then Stafford became aware that they were airborne. The ground was dropping away as they rose in complete silence, and the slight breeze he had felt on the ground had disappeared.
Hunt said, ‘The wind is just right. We’ll pass over Jim’s vegetable patch, take our pictures, and we’re set for Hell’s Gate. But we’ll get some height for the photographs.’ The burner roared and Stafford felt heat on his face as he looked up into the vast, empty interior of the envelope into which the flame was disappearing. When he looked down again the ground was receding even faster and the landscape was opening out.
Hunt pointed. ‘The College. We’ll pass over it. You ready, Judy?’
She bent down to look through a viewfinder. ‘Everything okay.’
Stafford produced his own camera. It was a Pentax 110; not a ‘spy’ camera like the Minox, but still small enough to be carried unobtrusively in a pocket. It also came with a selection of good lenses.
The noise of the burner stopped. ‘We’ll still rise a bit,’ said Hunt conversationally. ‘What do you think of it?’
To Stafford’s surprise all his qualms had gone. ‘I think it’s bloody marvellous,’ he said. ‘So peaceful. Except for the noise of the burner, but that isn’t on all the time.’
‘There’s Dirk Hendriks down there,’ said Hunt. ‘Talking to Brice outside the Admin Block.’ He waved. ‘If we were lower we could have a chat.’
‘How high are we?’
‘Getting on for 2,000 feet from point of departure. That’s about 8,000 feet above sea level. The experimental plots are coming up, Judy.’
‘I see them.’ She took about ten photographs while Stafford took some of his own and then straightened. ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘The work’s done. Now for the pleasurable bit.’
‘About the noise of the burner,’ said Hunt. ‘It’s difficult to make a quiet burner; I’d say impossible. This one up here is rated at ten million Btu—that’s about 4,000 horsepower. You can’t keep that lot quiet when it’s ripping loose.’
‘You’re kidding,’ Stafford said unbelievingly.
‘No, it’s quite true. One of the gas cylinders will provide the average household with two months’ cooking—we use it up in less than half an hour. But we’re not operating at maximum efficiency, so I reckon we’re getting about 3,000 horsepower. In England and America they use propane but that’s a bit tricky in the African heat so we use butane which has a lesser calorific value. And we have to add pressure with nitrogen; that’s what that little cylinder there is for.’
Stafford found the power of the burner hard to believe. Hunt said, ‘This dial tells the temperature—not here, but at the crown of the balloon up there.’ He jerked his thumb upwards. ‘Optimum temperature is 100 degrees Celsius.’
‘But that’s the boiling point of water.’
‘Quite so,’ Hunt said equably. ‘If it gets above 110 degrees I’m in trouble—the nylon doesn’t like it—so I keep a careful eye on the bloody gauge.’
‘We’re coming up to the entrance of Hell’s Gate,’ said Judy. ‘Alan, come low over Fischer’s Column.’
‘Okay, but I’ll have to go up after that.’ He produced a packet of cigarettes and offered one. As Stafford looked doubtfully at the cylinders of butane sur
rounding them Hunt smiled, and said, ‘Quite safe; it’ll just add a bit more hot air.’
They drifted into the gorge of Hell’s Gate through a gap in sheer cliffs. Hunt occasionally reached up to the burner controls and gave a short blast. Apart from that it was quiet and Stafford could hear cicadas chirping and the twittering of birds. The smoke from his cigarette ascended lazily in a spiral and he realized that was because they were moving at the same speed as the wind. It was weird.
‘There’s Lucas in the chase car,’ said Judy. He. looked down and saw the Land-Rover bucketing along a track on the floor of the gorge and towing a trailer. ‘That’s one of the problems of ballooning; you have to have a way of getting back to where you started.’
Stafford looked up at the immensity of the envelope above, and then down again at the Land-Rover. It seemed strange that a structure the size of a six-storey office block could be folded up to fit in a small trailer. Ahead, rising from the floor of the gorge, was a big rock pillar, tapering to a needle point. ‘Fischer’s Column,’ said Judy. She opened the lid of a box which was lashed to the side of the basket and took out a pair of binoculars. ‘We should see rock hyrax. Believe it or not, they’re the nearest relation to the elephant. Cuddly creatures.’
‘Not too cuddly,’ remarked Hunt. ‘They carry rabies.’
They were now quite close to the ground, not more than fifty feet high, and Hunt was maintaining this height by short bursts of flame. For a moment Stafford thought they were going to crash into the rock column but they passed about twenty feet to one side. ‘There,’ said Judy. ‘Those are hyrax.’
They were small animals which he would have taken to be rodents. A couple of dozen of them took fright and dashed for crevices in the rocks and disappeared. As they passed Hunt said, ‘That’s the closest I’ve been to Old Man Fischer. It’s an old volcanic plug, you know.’ He operated the burner control and the flame roared in a sustained burst. ‘Up we go. There’ll be bigger game ahead.’
Flyaway / Windfall Page 53