'It is odd,' agreed Chip. 'What is your interest in the Foundation, Max?'
'I don't know that I have any interest in the Foundation itself. The Foundation is peripheral to my investigation.'
'I wonder…' mused Nair.
Chip said, 'You wonder what?'
'If the Foundation is really peripheral to Max's investigation.'
'Since we don't know what Max is investigating that's hard to say,' observed Chip judiciously.
Stafford sighed and leaned back in his chair. 'All right, boys; suppose we stop talking with forked tongues.'
Chip said, 'Well, if we knew what we were doing it would help. Wouldn't it, Nair?'
'I should think so.'
Stafford said, 'I'll think about it. Meanwhile, if you cross-talk comedians will allow me, 'I'll get on with this.' He turned pages. There were plans of the College which appeared to be quite extensive, involving lecture rooms, laboratories, studies, a library and a residential area. There were sports facilities including a swimming pool, tennis courts and a football field. There was also a large area devoted to experimental plots, something like British garden allotments but more scientific.
Stafford flipped a few pages and found a list of the faculty and caught the name of Alan Hunt. He tapped the name at the top of the page. 'This man, Brice, the Director. Your friend, Hunt, seems to think he's a good man, good for the Foundation. Would you agree?'
'Yes, I would. He's built up the place since he's been there.
He works in well with the agronomists at the University, too.' Nair shrugged. 'I think the University – and the Government – are pleased that the Foundation can take up some of the financial load. Research is expensive.'
But Hunt had said that cash was tight. Stafford ignored that for the moment and flipped back the pages to the beginning – to the Trustees. 'How long have these three jokers been on the Board of Trustees?'
'. 'I don't know,' said Chip. 'But we can find out. Can't we, Nair?'
'I should think so,' said Nair. 'Not much difficulty there.'
The telephone rang and Stafford picked it up, then held it out to Chip. 'For you.'
He listened, answering in monosyllables and not speaking English. Then he put down the phone, and said, 'Gunnarsson is up and about. He's at the New Stanley, having a coffee at the Thorn Tree.' He stood up. 'I'll be about his business. Coming, Nair?'
'Might as well. Nothing to do here except drink Max's beer, and I can't.' He joined Chip at the door.
Chip turned, and said softly, 'I hope you'll make up your mind about telling us what this is about, Max. It would be better for all of us.' The door closed behind them.
Stafford seriously doubted that. If Hardin was right and a proscribed political party was looking for loot to replenish its war chest there was too much of it about floating relatively loose for him to take chances. He spent the rest of the afternoon concocting a suitable story which would satisfy Chip and Nair, and then went to see Hardin who was in his room packing.
Hardin went back to London. Farrar duly arrived and wasted no time. He whisked the two heirs down to Naivasha. Unknown to him Gunnarsson went, too, and they all stayed at the Lake Naivasha Hotel. And, unknown to any of them, Chip and Nair were there. A real cosy gathering. Stafford stayed in Nairobi digging a little deeper into the curious matter of the Trustees, although he would dearly have liked to be a fly on the wall when Farrar, Hendrix, Hendriks and Brice got together in Brice's office.
They stayed in Naivasha for a total of three days and then returned to Nairobi. Farrar and Dirk took the night flight to London, and Stafford wired Hardin to expect them. Gunnarsson moved into the New Stanley with Hendrix, and Stafford sat back wondering what was to happen next. Sooner or later he would have to make a move, but he didn't know the move to make. It was like playing chess blindfold, but he knew he would have to do something before distribution of the estate was made and Gunnarsson and Hendrix departed over the horizon, disappearing with three million pounds. Stafford badly needed ammunition – bullets to shoot – and he hoped Hardin would find something.
Chip came to see him. 'You wanted to know when the various Trustees of the Foundation were appointed.'
'I could bear to know.'
Chip grinned. 'Lovejoy and Peacock are founder Trustees; they've been on the Board since 1950. The others all came on at the same time in 1975.'
Stafford sat back to think. 'When did Brice take over as Director? When exactly?'
Chip said, 'Early 1976.'
'Interesting. Try this on for size, Chip. The Foundation was started in the 1950s but, according to Alan Hunt, it went moribund just after Kenya went independent. But that doesn't mean to say it had no money. 'I'll bet it had more than ever. The Charities Commission in the UK has done a survey and found scores of charities not doing what their charters have called for, but piling up investment money. No jiggery-pokery intended, just apathy and laxity on the part of the Trustees."
'So?'
'So the Foundation must have had money. Where else could Brice have got it for his revitalizing programme? Now, take three vultures called Patterjee, Peters and Ngotho who realize there's a fat pigeon to be picked over. Somehow, I don't know how, they get themselves elected on to the Board of Trustees. They appoint as Director a non-Kenyan, a stranger called Brice, a man who doesn't know the country or its customs and they think they can pull the wool over his eyes.'
'While they milk the Foundation?' said Chip. He nodded. 'It would fit. But what about Lovejoy and Peacock?'
'I've done a little check on that pair,' said Stafford. 'Colonel Lovejoy is, as you say, an old man. He's eighty-two and senile, and no longer takes any active role in any business. Peacock, the missionary, used to be active in the Naivasha area but he moved to Uganda when Amin was kicked out. Now he's doing famine relief work there up in Karamoja. I don't think they'd be any problem to our thieves. But Brice is too sharp. He's no figurehead; he's proved that while he's been Director. Our trio have hardly got their hands into the cash register before he's really taken charge. He's got his hands on the accounts and they can't do a damned thing about it.'
'And they couldn't fire him,' said Chip. He laughed. 'If he caught them at it he'd have them by the short and curlies. And if he was sharp enough he'd keep them on as Trustees. That would put him in as top dog in the Foundation. He wouldn't want a stronger Board – it might get in his way.'
'Maybe he'd sweeten them by letting them take a healthy honorarium this side of larceny. That's what I'd do,' said Stafford. 'Just to keep them really quiet.'
Chip said, 'Max, you have a devious mind. You could just be right about this.'
'And what it means is that Brice is an honest man. The take could have been split four ways instead of three, but he really built up the Foundation into a going concern. I'd like to see this man; I have a standing invitation from Alan Hunt.' Stafford looked at his watch. 'I'll ring him now.'
'I'll drive you to Naivasha,' Chip offered.
'No, 'I'll go alone. But stay in touch. And keep a careful eye on Gunnarsson and Hendrix. If they move I want to know.'
Chapter 11
Ol Njorowa College was about twelve kilometres from the Lake Naivasha Hotel. Stafford showered to wash away the travel stains and then drove there, first along the all-weather road that skirted the lake, and then along the rough track which would, no doubt, be dicey in wet weather. He found the College under the slopes of brooding Longonot.
There was a heavy meshed high fence and a gatehouse with closed gates, which surprised him. A toot on the horn brought a man running, and he wound the window right down as the man approached. He stooped and brought a gnarled, lined face to Stafford's level. 'Yes, sah?'
Max Stafford to see Mr Hunt.'
'Dr Hunt? Yes, sah.' The lines of suspicion smoothed from the face. 'You're expected.' He straightened, issued a piercing whistle, then bent again. 'Straight through, sah, and follow the arrows. You can't miss it.'
The gates were
opening so Stafford let out the clutch and drove through the gateway. The road inside the College grounds was asphalted and in good condition. There were 'sleeping policemen' every fifty yards, humps right across the road to cut down the speed of cars. They did, and as Stafford bumped over the first he checked the rear view mirror; the gates were closing behind and there was no evidence of anyone pushing them. Most of the buildings were long, low structures but there was a two-storey building ahead. The grounds were kept in good condition with mown lawns, and flowering trees were everywhere, bougainvillea and jacaranda.
Outside the big building he put the car into a slot between neatly painted white lines. When he got out he felt the hammer blow of the sun striking vertically on to his head. Because the elevation cut the heat one tended to forget that this was equatorial Africa, with the Equator not very far away. Hunt was waiting in the shade under the portico at the entrance and came forward.
They shook hands. 'Glad you could come.'
'Glad to be here.' Stafford looked around. 'Nice place you have.'
Hunt nodded. 'We like to think so. 'I'll give you the Grand Tour. Would you like it before or after a beer?'
'Lead me to your beer,' Stafford said fervently, and Hunt chuckled.
As they went inside he said, 'This block is mostly for administration, offices and so on. Plus those laboratories that need special facilities such as refrigeration. We have our own diesel-electric generators at the back."
'Then you're not on mains power? That surprises me. I saw a lot of high tension pylons as I drove around the lake. Big ones.'
'Those are the new ones from the geothermal electric plant at Ol Karia. It's not on line yet. The power lines are being erected by the Japanese, and the geothermal project has advisors from Iceland and New Zealand. Those boys know about geothermal stuff. Have you been out there yet?'
'It's next on my list.'
'When we get mains power we'll still keep our own generators for standby in case of a power cut.' He opened a door. 'This way.'
He led Stafford into a recreation room. There was a half-size billiards table, a ping-pong table, several card tables scattered about, and comfortable armchairs. At the far end there was a bar behind which stood a black Kenyan in a white coat polishing a glass. Hunt walked forward and flopped into a chair. 'Billy,' he called. 'Two beers.'
'Yes, sah; two beers coming. Premium?'
'Hapana; White Cap.' Hunt gave Stafford a half smile. 'Premium is a bit too strong if we're going to walk in the midday sun.'
'Mad dogs and Englishmen,' Stafford suggested.
'Something like that.' Hunt laughed. 'You know, the Victorians had entirely the wrong idea, what with their pith helmets and flannel spinal pads. They were more likely to get heatstroke indoors than outdoors in their day; their roofs were of corrugated iron and they cooked on wood-burning stoves. The rooms must have been like ovens.'
Stafford looked at Hunt's sun-bleached hair. 'So you're not worried about sunstroke?'
'You're all right once you're acclimatized and as long as you don't overdo it.' The bartender put a tray on the table. 'Put it on my chit,' said Hunt. He poured his beer. 'Cheers!'
Stafford waited until he had swallowed the first stinging, cold freshness before he said, 'Tell me something. Isn't a place like this eligible for a government grant?'
Hunt stretched his legs and absently rubbed a red scratch on his thigh. 'Oh, we get a grant but it doesn't go far enough. They never do. But things are changing. You heard what Brice said the other day. He still hasn't made the official announcement, though.'
Hunt said, 'Anyway, it was enough to bring the Trustees out of the woodwork. They came this week and it's the first time I've seen them here, and that's been two years.'
Stafford said, 'I'd have thought, if money was tight, they'd have been in your hair seeing there wasn't any wastage.'
'Oh, Brice keeps them informed.' There was a slight hesitation as though he had meant to say something else, and Stafford guessed it was that Brice kept the Trustees in line. 'I wouldn't say he's machiavellian about it, but it suits me if I never see the Trustees. I have enough to bother about." He looked up and waved. 'Here's Judy and Jim Odhiambo.'
Stafford stood up but Judy waved him back into the chair. 'Sit down, Max. I'd give my soul for an ice-cold tonic.'
He was introduced. Odhiambo was a short and stocky black with muscular arms. Hunt said, 'Dr Odhiambo is our resident expert on cereals-maize, millet, wheat-you name it.'
'Dr Hunt exaggerates,' said Odhiambo deprecatingly.
He ordered a beer for himself and a tonic for Judy. Hunt said, 'I've got something for you, Jim. I came across a paper in the Abstracts about primitive, ancestral forms of maize in Peru and I remembered what you said about preserving the gene pool. If you're interested 'I'll dig it out.'
Within two minutes they were engaged in a technical conversation. Judy said ruefully, 'This must be very dull for you.'
'Not at all,' Stafford said lightly. 'I like to hear experts talk, even though I don't understand one word in ten.' He looked at the bubbles rising in his glass. 'Alan has been telling me about the Foundation's good fortune.'
She lit up. 'Yes, isn't it wonderful.' And more soberly she said, 'Not that I'm cheering about the death of an old man in England, but I never knew him, and we can do so much good with the money here.'
'Who was he?'
I haven't the slightest idea.'
A cul-de-sac. A bit of offensive was needed or he would never get anywhere. 'Why the fortifications?'
Judy wrinkled her brow, 'What fortifications?'
Stafford said, 'The fence around the grounds, and the gatehouse with closed gates.'
'Oh, that.' Her voice was rueful again. 'We like to give visitors to Kenya a good impression, but there are some awfully light-fingered people around here. We were losing things; not much – just minor agricultural implements, seeds, petrol – stuff like that. Most of it didn't matter very much, but when Jim Odhiambo breeds a special kind of maize for a certain soil and the seed is stolen and probably ends up in the stewpot of some ignorant wananchi then it hurts. It really does.'
'Wananchi? ' 'Indigenous Kenyan. You can't really blame them, I suppose. The seed would look like any other seed, and they don't really understand what we're doing here.' She shook her head. 'Anyway, with the fence and the gates we tightened security.'
Hunt drained his glass: 'Come and see my little empire, Max. The bit of it that's upstairs.'
Stafford followed him and, on the way, said, 'Is Brice here today?'
'You'll probably meet him at lunch.' Hunt led the way along a corridor. 'Here we are.' He opened a door.
It was a laboratory filled with incomprehensible equipment and instruments the uses of which Hunt explained with gusto and, although much of it was over Stafford's head, he could not but admire Hunt's enthusiasm. 'Perhaps, with this new money, I can get the gas chromatograph I've been pushing for,' Hunt said. 'I need it to identify trace elements.'
Stafford wandered over to the window. Being on the top storey he had quite an extensive view. Away in the distance he could see the fence around the College grounds, and there was a man walking along it as though on patrol. He wore a rifle slung over his shoulder. He said, 'Why do you need armed guards?'
Hunt stopped in full spate. 'Huh?'
'Armed guards; why do you need them?'
'We don't.'
Stafford pointed. 'Then what's he doing out there?'
Hunt crossed to the window. 'Oh, we've been having a problem with a leopard lately, but how the devil it gets over the fence we don't know. It's taken a couple of dogs and the resident staff are disturbed – some of them have children here just about the size to attract a leopard.'
'And you don't know how it gets in?'
'Brice thinks there must be a tree, probably an acacia, which is growing too near the fence. He was organizing an exploration of the perimeter this morning. That's why he wasn't around.'
'Ho
w long is your perimeter?'
'I wouldn't know,' said Hunt lightly. 'I haven't measured it.'
Lunch was in the staff canteen which would not have disgraced a moderately good hotel as a dining room. It was spacious with good napery and silverware, and the food was very good. It seemed to Stafford that for a Foundation supposed to be hard up for money the senior staff did themselves well.
He was introduced to most of the staff over a pre-lunch drink at the bar. Their names and faces were forgotten as soon as the introductions were made, as usually happens on these occasions, but he estimated that they were black Kenyans, Indians and whites in roughly equal proportions, and honorifics like 'Doctor' and 'Professor' were bandied about with enthusiasm.
Hunt grinned at him, and said sotto voce, 'We have an almost Germanic regard for academic titles out here. You don't happen to be a Ph. D., do you?'
'Not a hope.'
'Pity.'
Stafford was re-introduced to Brice who said, 'Is Alan looking after you, Mr Stafford?'
Stafford smiled. 'Like royalty.'
They had a few moments more of conversation and then Brice drifted away, going easily from group to group with a word and a laugh for everyone. A jovial man with an instinct for leadership. Stafford had it himself to some degree and recognized it in another.
A few minutes later they adjourned for lunch and he found himself sitting with the Hunts and Odhiambo. He nodded towards Brice who was at what could be called the top table. 'Nice chap.'
Odhiambo nodded. 'For a non-scientist.' He leaned forward. 'Do you know he hardly understands a thing about what we're doing here. Odd in such an intelligent man. But he's a good administrator.'
Judy said, 'But, Jim, you don't really understand literature, do you?'
'I appreciate it,' he said stiffly. 'Even if I don't wholly understand it. But Brice doesn't want to know about our work.' He shook his head and looked at Stafford. 'We have a review meeting each week for the senior staff which Brice used to chair. It was impossible because he simply didn't understand. In the end he gave up and left it to us.'
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