Windfall ms-2

by Desmond Bagley

  'You always were sharp,' said Hardin with a grin. 'It's like this. Stafford has Europe pretty much tied up. Our clients are the multinational corporations and a couple of them aren't happy about their security out here, so they want Stafford to set up shop in Kenya. Well, he's not going to do it blind, and he'll need more than two clients to make it profitable, so he's here to see for himself. Follow me so far?"

  'You're doing fine,' said Pasternak dryly. 'Come to the point.'

  'We ran across a couple of guys who seem to be the cat's whiskers in our line, very smooth and efficient. Trouble is that Stafford thinks they're connected with the Kenya People's Union and that's bad. If Stafford is thinking of setting up a permanent office here he can't afford to be mixed up with a banned political party.'

  'It would be the kiss of death if it came out,' agreed Pasternak soberly. He reached for a pen. 'Who are these guys?'

  'A black Kenyan called Pete Chipende and a Sikh, Nair Singh. Know them?'

  Pasternak was so taken by surprise that his pen made a scrawled line on the pad. He controlled himself and wrote down the names. 'No, but I guess I can find out, given time.' His mind was busy with the implications of what he had just heard. 'What kind of a guy is Stafford?'

  'Not bad – so far,' said Hardin judiciously. 'He hasn't cut any corners yet, not that I know of.'

  'Maybe I'll meet him some time,' said Pasternak. 'What about a drink together?'

  'Why not? We're staying at the Norfolk.'

  'I'm busy today, but maybe I'll give you a ring tomorrow. Okay?'

  'That's fine. Stafford's an interesting guy; he was in British army intelligence – a colonel.'

  'Was he? I look forward to meeting him.'

  Hardin took his leave and Pasternak seated himself before the typewriter again and composed another request for information. This time the subject was Max Stafford and the telex was to be sent, after coding, to the American Embassy in London. After a moment's thought he wrote another request for information on Hardin and addressed it to Langley.

  Kenya was becoming livelier, thought Pasternak.

  Gunnarsson was in the Thorn Tree cafe at the New Stanley hotel having drinks with Dirk Hendriks. As he had been leaving the American Embassy he had heard a man saying to the marine guard, 'My name is Dirk Hendriks. Where do I go to find out about Henry Hendrix, the man who was kidnapped into Tanzania?'

  The marine pointed. 'Ask at the desk, sir.'

  Gunnarsson touched Hendriks on the arm. 'Are you Hank Hendrix's cousin?'

  Hendriks turned and looked at Gunnarsson in surprise. 'Yes, I am.'

  'I'm John Gunnarsson. I was there.'

  'You were where?'

  'With your cousin when he was kidnapped." Gunnarsson jerked his thumb towards the inquiry desk. 'You'd better talk with me before you butt your head against that brick wall.'

  Dirk looked at him interestedly. 'You mean you were kidnapped, too?"

  'Yeah. That's why I'm not too sharp on my feet. They made us walk out and I was stuck full of thorns.'

  'I've got my car here,' said Hendriks. 'No need to walk. Where shall we go?'

  'I'm staying at the New Stanley,' said Gunnarsson. 'We can have a drink at the Thorn Tree.'

  The Thorn Tree was a Nairobi institution, being an open air cafe serving light refreshments. In the centre grew a large acacia, tall and spreading wide to give pleasant shade and which gave the Thorn Tree its name. The peculiarity which made the Thorn Tree different was the notice board which surrounded the trunk of the tree. Here it was the custom to leave messages for friends and it was a commonplace to say, 'If you want to find out where I am I'll leave a message on the thorn tree.' A local beer company even provided message pads, and it certainly did no harm to the profits of the cafe.

  They sat down at one of the few available tables and Hendriks caught a waiter on the fly and ordered drinks. He resumed the conversation they had been having in the car. 'And that was the last you saw of my cousin?'

  'Yeah. Then we heard shots and the guys around us laughed.'

  'But you didn't see his body.'

  Gunnarsson shook his head. 'No, but there was something funny about that. They herded us downriver, three of them, leaving one guy to guard the loot. We went maybe half a mile and then they got excited, jabbering away to each other.'

  'What were they excited about?'

  'I wouldn't know. Maybe because they couldn't find Hendrix. Two of them stayed with us and the third, the guy with the sergeant's stripes, went away. After a while he came back and they had a conference, a lot of talk.' Gunnarsson shrugged. 'They shooed us away then. The sergeant pointed up the hill and the others poked at us with their rifles. We were glad to get away.'

  Hendrix frowned. 'The two men who took my cousin away; were they around at that time?'

  'I didn't see them.'

  The waiter brought their drinks. Hendriks picked up his glass and pondered. 'Could Henry have got away?' he asked. 'But if he did why hasn't he come back?'

  'I've thought about that,' said Gunnarsson. 'He might have got away and the shooting might have missed. The two Tanzanians would be chasing him, of course. Still, he might have got away.' Gunnarsson certainly hoped so.

  'Then why hasn't he come back?'

  'Have you been out there?' asked Gunnarsson rhetorically. 'It's the damnedest country, and every bit looks like every other bit. Hank might have got lost like the guys who followed us in. And remember he was stripped like us. He may still come back, though, if the Tanzanians didn't catch up with him.'

  'Who followed you in?' asked Hendriks alertly.

  'Another tourist crowd found our abandoned truck and tried to find us. They didn't; they got lost and spent a night in the bush.'

  Hendriks was pensive. 'I didn't read about that in the newspapers.'

  'I talked to one of them when we got back,' said Gunnarsson. 'A guy called Stafford. He said that…'

  'Max Stafford!' said Hendriks unbelievingly.

  'He didn't tell me his other name.' Gunnarsson stopped, his glass halfway to his lips as he was arrested in thought. The only Max Stafford he had heard of was the boss of Stafford Security Consultants back in London. Now just what the hell was going on?

  Hendriks was also thoughtful. Stafford had said he was taking a holiday in Kenya. But was it coincidental that he had been involved in the search for Henry Hendrix? He said, 'Do you know where Stafford is now?'

  'No; he left Keekorok and I haven't seen him since. You know the guy?'

  Hendriks nodded abstractedly. 'Yes, I think-so.'

  'Now isn't that a coincidence,' said Gunnarsson.

  'Isn't it?' Hendriks badly needed a telephone. He said, 'Glad to have talked with you, Mr Gunnarsson. Are you staying here at the New Stanley?'

  'Yeah.'

  'Then perhaps you'll have dinner with me before you leave. I'll give you a ring tomorrow morning. I'd like to know more about my cousin's disappearance but right now I have an appointment. Will you excuse me?'

  'Sure.' Gunnarsson watched Hendriks get up and walk away. Something goddamn odd was happening but he was not sure what it was. If the Stafford he had talked to at Keekorok was the Max Stafford of Stafford Security then there was definitely no coincidence. He decided he needed a telephone and hoisted himself laboriously to his feet.

  Stafford dined with Curtis at the Norfolk that evening and they were halfway through the meal when Hardin joined them. He said, 'I've just seen Chip. He says that Gunnarsson and Dirk Hendriks had a drink and a chat at the Thorn Tree this afternoon.'

  Stafford put down his knife and fork. 'Did they, by God?'

  Curtis grunted. 'That's not good for the Colonel.'

  'No.' Stafford looked at Hardin. 'Ben, do you remember when you followed Gunnarsson and Corliss to Mandeville's chambers in Lincoln's Inn? Did Gunnarsson meet Dirk there?'

  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 fi
ngers. '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 disappearance 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;'

  Chapter 20

  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.

  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 semi-salute. '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 disagree 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,' hi 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 marinate: in herbs; not the bananas, of course, and certainly not the coconut. The coconut, I assure you, is perfectly fresh; cot 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.