Flyaway / Windfall

by Desmond Bagley

  Hunt looked at Stafford curiously. ‘Are you a colonel, too?’

  ‘I’m trying to retire but Sergeant Curtis won’t let me,’ said Stafford dryly. ‘All right, a water tower in the wrong place.’

  Hardin picked up the photograph. ‘It’s close to the perimeter fence where it angles. I’d say it’s an observation tower. From the top you could cover a hell of a lot of that fence. Good place to put a couple of TV cameras.’

  Chip said, ‘What about at night? Is the fence illuminated?’

  ‘No; I checked,’ said Stafford.

  ‘Could be infra-red,’ said Nair. ‘You couldn’t see that.’

  ‘No infra-red. You’re behind the times, Nair. If there is TV coverage of the fence they’d probably use photomultipliers—the things they use as night sights in the army. Even on a moonless, cloudy night you get a pretty good picture.’

  ‘Are you serious about this?’ demanded Hunt.

  ‘Very.’ Stafford waved his hands over the photographs. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Hardin. ‘But it doesn’t show in these pictures.’ He turned to Hunt. ‘You said a leopard was getting over the fence and that’s why there was an armed guard. Right?’

  Hunt nodded. ‘Brice had a patrol out. He reckoned the leopard was getting over by climbing a tree which was too near the fence.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what you said.’ Hardin jerked his head at Curtis. ‘Tell him, Sergeant.’

  ‘Acting on instructions of the Colonel I did a tour of the perimeter from the outside. The vegetation has been cut back on the outside of the fence to a distance of at least thirty feet. There is no tree near the fence. I found evidence of weed killer; there was an empty paper sack. I didn’t remove it but I made a note of what it was.’ He took a piece of paper and gave it to Stafford.

  ‘Pretty powerful stuff,’ said Hardin, looking over Stafford’s shoulder. ‘It’s the defoliant we used in Vietnam, and it’s now illegal for commercial use. It looks as though someone wants a clear view along the fence.’

  ‘How long is the fence?’ asked Stafford.

  ‘About six and a half miles, sir,’ said Curtis.

  ‘A ten foot chain-link fence six and a half miles long,’ commented Stafford. ‘That’s pretty much security overkill for an innocent agricultural college short of funds, wouldn’t you say, Alan?’

  ‘I hadn’t really thought of it in that light,’ said Hunt, ‘It was already there when I came to Ol Njorowa.’ He shook his head. ‘And I hadn’t noticed the cleared strip on the outside.’

  Chip picked up a photograph. ‘This interests me.’

  ‘It interests me, too,’ said Stafford. ‘In fact, it’s the key to the whole bloody situation. What about it, Alan?’

  Hunt took the photograph. ‘Oh, that’s the animal movement laboratory. I don’t know much about it. I’ve never been inside.’

  ‘Tell Chip about the pretty wildebeest,’ said Stafford ironically.

  Hunt retailed all he knew about the work done there on patterns of animal migration. He shrugged. ‘I don’t know much more; it’s, not my field. In any case it’s not really a part of the College; we just give them house room.’

  ‘I’ve been all over Ol Njorowa,’ said Stafford. ‘I’ve been given the grand tour; I’ve been everywhere except inside that so-called laboratory. Alan has been at Ol Njorowa for two years and he hasn’t been inside.’

  ‘Well, it’s not used all the year round,’ said Hunt. ‘And the wildebeest migration doesn’t begin for another six weeks.’

  Judy said, ‘We don’t see much of those people, anyway. They’re not good mixers.’

  ‘So Alan remarked before.’ Stafford looked at the sky and said dreamily, ‘Up there, a little over 22,000 miles high, is an American satellite for extended weather research, a laudable project and no doubt quite genuine. But it contains equipment used by these people at Ol Njorowa. It occurred to me that a signal sent from that dish antenna to the satellite could be relayed and picked up in, say, Pretoria which is about 25 degrees south. Or possibly somewhere in the Northern Transvaal such as Messina or Louis Trichardt which are about 22 to 23 degrees south.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve been looking at maps.’

  Hunt said, ‘This is all sheer supposition. You talk of TV cameras on the water tower, but you don’t know they’re there. And all this waffle about signalling to Pretoria is just sheer guff in my opinion. If this is what you’ve brought me to hear you’re wasting my time.’

  ‘Alan,’ said Stafford gently. ‘Does a respectable establishment bug the guest bedrooms?’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’ said Chip sharply.

  ‘Dead sure. Microphone and radio transmitter disguised as a picture of an elephant.’ He described what he had found.

  Chip blew out his cheeks in a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God!’ he said. ‘It’s the first firm evidence we’ve had.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Stafford. He recounted the events of the day in detail, then said, ‘I manoeuvred Gunnarsson into a private conversation in the bedroom because I was pretty sure that Brice would be listening. All the time I talked to Gunnarsson I was really addressing Brice.’ He grinned. ‘I needled Gunnarsson into saying that he’s going to stick around to investigate Ol Njorowa because he thinks it’s a phoney set-up.’

  ‘He always was a sharp operator,’ said Hardin soberly. ‘I’ll give him that. He doesn’t have cotton wadding between his ears.’

  ‘Yes, but Brice will have heard him saying it.’ Stafford laughed, ‘It will be interesting to see what happens now.’

  Hunt looked at his sister. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Until Max told about the picture in his room I wasn’t convinced,’ she said. ‘But he’s really getting to me now.’

  ‘Have you seen the TV camera in the entrance hall of the Admin Block?’ asked Stafford helpfully.

  Hunt looked startled. ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘That’s not surprising; it’s hard to spot unless you know what you’re looking for. As you face the counter it’s behind and to your left in the top corner. Now, don’t go staring at it, for God’s sake! Just do an unobtrusive check.’

  Hunt shook his head in bewilderment. ‘You know, last year Brice showed me a couple of papers in a journal about the work done by the animal migration lab. From what I could see it was really good stuff.’

  ‘No doubt it was. The best cover is always genuine.’ Stafford turned to Chip. ‘When I was talking to Gunnarsson I indicated I was leaving Kenya and going back to London. Brice might believe it or he might not. Can you do anything to support that story?’

  Chip thought about it. ‘We don’t know yet how big an organization Brice has built up, or how far we’ve been penetrated. I’ll have someone book air tickets in the names of you and Curtis. Let me have your passport numbers, and the records will show that you left tomorrow morning. In the meantime you’ll have to go to ground.’

  ‘Why not here?’ said Nair. ‘Here on Crescent Island. It’s close to Ol Njorowa and it’s quiet. We can bring a tent and sleeping bags and anything else you might need.’

  ‘We’ll need a boat,’ said Stafford.

  Curtis leaned forward and said in a low voice, ‘The Colonel might like to know there’s someone coming.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Up the slope from the water and moving quietly.’

  Chip had caught it. He signalled to Nair and they both headed down the slope, angling in different directions. They disappeared and, for a while, nothing happened. Then they came back, strolling casually, and Chip was tearing open an envelope. ‘It’s all right; just someone bringing me a message.’ He took a sheet of paper from the envelope and scanned it. ‘The man who was asking for Gunnarsson at the New Stanley. He’s been traced back to Ol Njorowa; his name is Patterson.’

  Stafford wrinkled his brow. ‘That name rings a faint bell.’

  Hunt said, ‘He’s one of the animal migration team. I suppose that does it.’

  �
��Wasn’t he the man with Brice when I met him for the first time at the Lake Naivasha Hotel?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Judy. ‘Alan, I think Max has proved his point.’ She looked directly at Stafford. ‘What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Chip’s the boss,’ said Stafford.

  ‘Not really,’ said Chip, and nodded his head towards the grey-haired Kenyan who was knocking out his pipe on the rock he sat on. Stafford had glanced at him from time to time during the conference. His face had remained blandly blank but he had obviously listened to every word. Chip said, ‘I’ll have to have a private talk first.’ He walked to one side and the elderly man put away his pipe and followed him.

  Curtis said to Nair, ‘If we’re staying on this island we’ll need essential supplies. Beer.’

  Stafford smiled, and Hardin said, ‘What do I do?’

  ‘That depends upon what Chip wants to do, and that depends upon the decision of Mr Anonymous over there. Or he could be General Anonymous, since this seems to be an army operation. We’ll have to wait and see.’

  ‘You know,’ said Hunt, ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’

  ‘You don’t know the whole story yet,’ said Stafford. ‘You’d find that even more incredible.’ He turned to Hardin. ‘It seems that Gunnarsson is not involved with Brice or Hendriks. He had a ploy of his own which he’d probably call a scam.’

  ‘Ripping off the Hendrykxx estate with Corliss,’ agreed Hardin.

  Stafford laughed. ‘You started all this, Ben. Did you imagine, back in Los Angeles, that you would uncover an international espionage plot in the middle of Africa? It’s only because we were suspicious of Gunnarsson that we got wind of it. You know, it puzzled me a long time. I was trying to fit pieces into a jig-saw and only now have I realized there were two jig-saw puzzles—one around Gunnarsson and the other around Ol Njorowa.’

  Judy said, ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘I suspect we fall into the hands of politicians,’ said Stafford. He jerked his head. ‘That pair over there are, I think, simple-minded military men. If they have their way they’ll climb in to Ol Njorowa and disinfect it. The direct way. The politicians might have other ideas.’

  Hunt said, ‘Curtis refers to you as the Colonel. Are you still active, and in what capacity?’

  ‘God, no! I got out ten years ago.’ Stafford sat up. ‘I was in Military Intelligence and I became tired of my work being either ignored or being buggered about by politicos who don’t know which end is up. So I quit and started my own civilian and commercial organization. I resigned from Weltpolitik.’ He paused. ‘Until now.’

  Hardin lifted his head. ‘Chip’s coming back.’

  Stafford heard the crunch of Chip’s footsteps. He raised his head and said, ‘What’s the verdict?’ His eyes slid sideways and he watched the grey-haired Mr Anonymous walk down the slope and out of sight among the trees.

  Chip said, ‘We wait awhile.’

  ‘I might have guessed it,’ said Stafford. He shrugged elaborately as though to make his point with Alan Hunt.

  Hunt said, ‘What about us?’ He indicated his sister.

  ‘You just carry on normally,’ said Chip, ‘If we need you we’ll get word to you. But until then you don’t, by any action or quiver of a muscle, give any indication that anything is out of the ordinary.’

  Hardin said, ‘And me? What do I do?’

  Chip blew out his cheeks. ‘I suppose you come under Mr Stafford. I recommend that you stay here—on Crescent Island.’

  Hardin nudged Nair. ‘That means more beer.’

  Stafford said, a little bitterly, ‘Chip, you’ve talked to that mate of yours. I suppose he was a high-ranking officer. Am I to take it that he’s going for instructions?’

  Chip shook his head sadly. ‘You know how it is, Max. Wheels within wheels. Everyone has someone on his neck. Any action on this has to be taken on instruction from the top. We’re talking about international stuff now—a clash of nations.’

  Stafford sighed. He leaned back so that he lay flat, and put his hands over his eyes to shade them from the sun. ‘Then get on with your bloody clash of nations.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Brice stood looking out of his window over the grounds of Ol Njorowa. His brow was furrowed as he swung to face Hendriks. ‘First Stafford, and now Gunnarsson. You heard them. They’re on to us.’

  ‘Not Max,’ said Hendriks. ‘He’s going home.’

  ‘All right. But Gunnarsson suspects something. Who is he?’

  ‘You know as much as I do,’ said Hendriks. ‘He’s boss of the American agency which found Henry Hendrix in California. You heard what he said to Stafford. He tried to cut himself a slice but he failed when he lost Hendrix. He’s a bloody crook if you ask me.’

  ‘I don’t need to ask you,’ said Brice acidly. ‘It’s self-evident.’ Hendriks held up a finger. ‘One thing seems clear,’ he said. ‘Cousin Henry really must be dead. Stafford certainly thinks so.’

  ‘That doesn’t do us much good if there’s no body.’ Brice sat behind his desk. ‘And you heard Gunnarsson. He says he’s staying around to investigate.’

  ‘So what is there to investigate?’ asked Hendriks. ‘He’s not interested in us. All he wants is to find Henry—which he won’t. After a while he’ll get tired of it and go home like Max. There’s nothing for him to find, not now.’

  ‘Perhaps, but we’ll keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Do that,’ said Hendriks. He stood up and walked to the door. ‘If you want me I’ll be in my room.’

  He left Brice and went upstairs. In his room he lay on the bed and lit a cigarette, and his thoughts went back over the years to the time it had all started.

  He supposed it began when he was recruited to the National Intelligence Service. Of course in those days it was called the Bureau for State Security. Joel Mervis, the then editor of the Johannesburg Sunday Times, had consistently replaced ‘for’ with ‘of’ which resulted in the acronym BOSS. A cheap trick but it worked and was adopted by newspapers all over the world. Hendriks reflected how oddly insensitive his fellow countrymen were in matters of this nature. It took them a long time to get the point and then the name was changed to the Department of National Security which made the acronym DONS. Even that was received with some hilarity and another change was made to the National Intelligence Service. Nothing much could be made of NIS.

  He was thoroughly trained and began his fieldwork, working mostly in Rhodesia at that time. South Africa was desperately trying to buttress the Smith government but, of course, that came to nothing in the end. The death of Salazar in faraway Portugal sent a whole row of dominoes toppling. An anti-colonial regime in Portugal meant the loss of Angola and then Mozambique; the enemy was on the frontier and Rhodesia could not be saved. Now the Cubans were in Angola and South West Africa was threatened. It was a bleak outlook.

  But that was now. In the days when it seemed that Rhodesia could be saved for white civilization Hendriks had enjoyed his work until he stopped a bullet fired not by a black guerilla but, ironically, by a trigger-happy white farmer. He was pulled back to South Africa, hospitalized, and then given a month’s leave.

  Time hung heavily on his hands and he sought for something to do. He was normally a mentally and physically active man and not for him the lounging on the beach at Clifton or Durban broiling his brains under the sun. His thoughts went back to his grandmother whom he dimly remembered—and to his grandfather who was thought to have been killed in the Red Revolt of Johannesburg in 1922. But there had been no body and Hendriks wondered. Using the techniques he had been taught and the authority he had acquired he began an investigation, an intelligence man’s way of passing the time and searching the family tree. It paid off. He found from old port records that Jan-Willem Hendrykxx had sailed from Cape Town for San Francisco on March 25, 1922, a week after the revolt had been crushed by General Smuts. And that was as far as he got by the end of his leave.

  He did not go back to Rhodesia but, in
stead, was posted to England. ‘Go to the Embassy once,’ he was told. ‘You’d be expected to do that. But don’t go near it again. They’ll give you instructions on cut-outs and so on.’

  So Hendriks went to London where his main task was to keep track of the movements of those exiled members of the African National Congress then living in England, and to record whom they met and talked with. He also kept a check on certain members of the staffs of other Embassies in London as and when he was told.

  Intelligence outfits have their own way of doing things. The governments of two countries may be publicly cold towards each other while their respective intelligence agencies can be quite fraternal. So it was with South Africa and the United States—BOSS and the CIA. One day Hendriks passed a message through his cut-out; Could someone, as a favour, find out what happened to Jan-Willem Hendrykxx who had arrived in San Francisco in 1922? A personal matter, so no hurry.

  Two months later he had an answer which surprised him. Apparently his grandfather could out-grandfather the Mafia. He had been deported from the United States in 1940. Hendriks, out of curiosity, took a week’s holiday which he spent in Brussels. Discreet enquiries found his grandfather hale and well. Hendriks went nowhere near the old man, but he did go to the South African Embassy in Brussels where he had a chat with a man. Three months later he wrote a very detailed report which he sent to Pretoria and was promptly pulled back to South Africa.

  Hendriks’s immediate superior was a Colonel Malan, a heavily built Afrikaner with a square face and cold eyes. He opened a file on his desk and took out Hendriks’s report. ‘This is an odd suggestion you’ve come up with.’ The report plopped on the desk. ‘How good is your evidence on this Belgian, Hendrykxx?’

  ‘Solid. He’s the head of a heroin-smuggling ring operating from Antwerp, and we have enough on him to send him to jail for the rest of his life. On the other hand, if he comes in with us he lives the rest of his life in luxury.’ Hendriks smiled. ‘What would you do, sir?’