Flyaway / Windfall (39 page)

They were on their way back to the Admin Block when his attention was caught by something not usually associated with an agricultural college—a dish antenna about twelve feet across and looking up almost vertically. ‘Stop a minute,’ he said. ‘What’s that for?’

Hunt braked. ‘Oh, that’s the animal boys. It’s a bit peripheral to us.’

‘That,’ Stafford said positively, ‘is a radar dish and nothing to do with bloody animals.’

‘Wrong,’ said Hunt. ‘It’s a transmitter-receiver on communication with a satellite up there.’ He jerked his thumb upwards. ‘And it has everything to do with animals.’

‘All right; I’ll buy it.’

‘Well, it’s no use us developing super crops if animals wreck the fields. You’ve no idea how much damage an elephant can do, and hippos are even worse. A hippo going through a maize field is like a combine harvester, and what it doesn’t eat it tramples. So there’s basic research going on into the movement of animals; we want to know how far they move, and where they’re likely to move, and when. Selected animals are tagged with a small radio, and a geostationary satellite traces their movements.’

‘What will you scientists get up to next?’

Hunt shrugged, ‘It’s of more use in tracing truly migratory animals like the Alaskan caribou. They used this method when they were planning the oil pipeline across Alaska. An elephant doesn’t migrate in the true sense of the word although the herds do get around, and a hippo might go on a twenty-mile stomp.’ He nodded towards the dish on the top of the building. ‘But they’re also using this to trace the annual migration of wildebeest from the Serengeti.’ He released the brake.

‘That’s in Tanzania, isn’t it?’

‘Yes; but wildebeest don’t respect national boundaries.’

Stafford laughed. ‘Neither do radio waves.’

As they drove off Hunt said, ‘I’d take you in there but there’s no one about right now. As I said, it’s peripheral to our work here. The radio crowd isn’t financed by the Foundation; we just give them space here. They’re a bit clannish; too; they don’t mix well. We very rarely see them.’

He pulled up in front of the Admin Block, and Stafford said, ‘Thanks for the guided tour. What about coming to the hotel for dinner?’

Hunt shook his head regretfully. ‘Sorry, I’ve got something else on—a committee meeting. But what about coming up with me in the balloon tomorrow? Jim Odhiambo wants me to do some photography.’

Always something new. ‘I’d like that,’ said Stafford.

‘I’ll pick you up at the hotel—seven o’clock.’

Stafford drove back to the hotel and found a message waiting. Ring Curtis. He used the telephone in his room and got Curtis on the line who said, ‘Chip wants to speak with the Colonel if the Colonel will hold on a minute.’

Stafford held on. Presently Chip said, ‘Max?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Gunnarsson and Hendrix are going on safari.’

‘And just what does that mean?’

‘Going to a game lodge to see animals. Our main tourist attraction. They’ve booked with a tour group going to the Masai Mara down on the Tanzanian border. They’ll be staying at the lodge at Keekorok. Don’t worry; we’ll be keeping an eye on them. No need for you to change any plans.’

Stafford said, ‘Are you sure this is just an ordinary tour group?’

‘Sure,’ said Chip soothingly, ‘I used to do the courier bit with them. It’s standard operational procedure for tourists, showing them the big five—lion, leopard, elephant, rhino and buffalo.’ He laughed, ‘If they’re lucky they see the lot; sometimes they aren’t lucky.’

‘What have our pair been doing?’

‘Sightseeing around town. They had lunch once in the revolving restaurant on top of the Kenyatta Conference Centre. Gunnarsson’s been playing the tables in the International Casino. Just the usual tourist stuff.’

‘When are they going on safari?’

‘Day after tomorrow.’

Stafford made up his mind. ‘Can you lay me alongside Gunnarsson? I’d like to get a closer look at him.’

‘You want to go to the Mara?’ Chip paused. ‘Sure, that can be arranged. When?’

‘I’d like to be there when Gunnarsson arrives.’

‘Stay where you are. We’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.’

‘Bring the Sergeant,’ said Stafford, and hung up.

He had no idea why he wanted to see Gunnarsson but inactivity irked him, and he wanted to know why Gunnarsson was sticking around. It could not be to see animals—he doubted if Gunnarsson was a wild life enthusiast—so he was possibly waiting for something. If so, what? Anyway, this was more important than ballooning so Stafford picked up the telephone to cancel the appointment with Hunt.

Chip came early next morning accompanied by Nair and Curtis. ‘We won’t need two trucks,’ he said to Stafford. ‘We’ll leave yours here and pick it up on the way back.’

Stafford took Curtis on one side. ‘Any problems, Sergeant?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I hope you’ve been keeping your ears open. Did Chip or Nair let anything drop to give a reason why they’re being so bloody helpful?’

‘Nothing I heard, sir.’ Curtis paused, waiting for Stafford to continue, then he said, ‘I’ll pack the Colonel’s case.’

Stafford had already packed so they wasted no time and were soon on the road. It was a good road, if narrow, and went straight as an arrow across the Rift Valley, and they made good time. They skirted the Mau Escarpment and eventually arrived at Narok which was nothing more than a village.

On the way Chip probed a little. ‘Did you find what you wanted to know about Brice?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Stafford. ‘He tells me he’s applying for Kenyan citizenship. I would have thought a white colonial Rhodesian would be
persona non grata
here.’

‘Normally you’d be right,’ said Chip. ‘But Brice’s credentials are impeccable. He was anti-UDI, anti-Smith, anti-white
rule. He left Zimbabwe—Rhodesia as it was then—at the right time. Brice is a liberal of the liberals, isn’t that so, Nair?’

‘Oh, yes; he’s very liberal,’ said Nair.

‘You seem to know a lot about him,’ observed Stafford.

‘Just interested,’ said Chip. ‘He’s not a secretive man. He talks a lot and we listen. We listen to lots of people, including you. But you don’t say anything.’

‘I don’t go much for light conversation.’

‘No, you don’t,’ he agreed. ‘But some things don’t need words. That scar on your shoulder, for instance. I saw it this morning before you put your shirt on. A bullet wound, of course.’

Stafford’s hand automatically went up to touch his shoulder. ‘Not unusual in a soldier,’ he said. Actually the bullet had been taken out three years before by Dr Fahkri in Algiers; he had not done a good job and the wound had gone bad in England and so the scarring was particularly noticeable.

‘You left the army ten years ago,’ said Chip. ‘That scar is more recent.’

Stafford looked sideways at him. ‘Then you
have
been investigating me.’

Chip shrugged. ‘To protect our own interests. That’s all.’

‘I hope I came out clean.’

‘As much as anyone can. What’s your interest in Brice?’

‘He’s come into a lot of money,’ said Stafford. ‘Or the Foundation has.’

‘We know,’ said Nair. ‘It’s in today’s
Standard.
’ He passed the newspaper forward from the back seat.

It was on the front page. The Ol Njorowa Foundation had inherited a sum of money from the estate of Jan-Willem Hendrykxx, a mysterious millionaire. The exact amount was not yet known but was believed to be in the region of £7 million. It was a thin story which told Stafford nothing he did not know already except that someone was pulling a fast one.

Chip said, ‘Yet another spelling of the name. Are they all connected?’

Stafford nodded. ‘Dirk Hendriks and Henry Hendrix are both heirs under the Hendrykxx estate.’

‘A South African and an American,’ said Chip thoughtfully. ‘Sounds improbable, doesn’t it, Nair?’

‘Highly improbable,’ said Nair, the eternal echo.

‘They’re both grandsons of old Hendrykxx,’ said Stafford. ‘The family got scattered and the names got changed. Nothing impossible about that.’

‘I didn’t say impossible,’ said Chip, and added, ‘Seven million sterling is a lot of money. I wonder what the Trustees think of it, Nair.’

Nair smiled through his beard. ‘I should think they are delighted.’

Stafford said, ‘I wish I could check out Brice; he seems too good to be true.’

‘What would you want to know?’ asked Chip.

‘I’d like to know if Mr and Mrs Brice had a farm near Umtali in Zimbabwe. I’d like to know if the farm was burned and the Brices killed by guerillas. I’d like to know if their son…what’s his name, anyway?’

‘Charles,’ said Nair. ‘Charles Brice.’

‘I’d like to know if their son, Charlie, left when he says he did.’

‘I think we could find that out,’ said Chip seriously.

‘How?’

‘I think our brothers in Zimbabwe would co-operate. Wouldn’t you say so, Nair?’

‘I think they would,’ said Nair. ‘I’ll see to it.’

Stafford took a deep breath. ‘You boys seem to have an extensive organization.’

‘People are supposed to help and support each other,’ said Chip, smiling. ‘Isn’t that what Christianity teaches? So we’re helping
you
.’

‘At the request of some Indian in London?’ said Stafford incredulously. ‘At the request of Curtis? Pull the other leg, it’s got bells on it. What do you think, Sergeant?’

‘It does seem rum, sir,’ said Curtis.

Chip looked hurt, ‘I don’t think Max appreciates us, Nair.’

Nair said, ‘Suspicion corrodes the soul, Max.’

‘Oh, balls!’ he said. ‘Look, I appreciate your help but I doubt your motives. I’ll be quite plain about that. I don’t know who you are and I don’t know what you want. The helping hand you are so kindly offering is bloody unnatural, and Christianity hasn’t got a damned thing to do with it. Nair isn’t even a Christian, and I doubt if you are, Chip.’

Chip smiled. ‘“Him that is weak in the faith receive ye, but not to doubtful disputations.” Romans 14:1. I was educated in a mission school, Max; I’ll bet I know more of the Bible than you. Don’t be weak in the faith, Max; and let’s not have any doubtful disputations. Just accept.’

‘Chip is right,’ said Nair. ‘Is there anything else you’d like us to do?’

It was obvious to Stafford that he was not going to get anything out of this pair that they did not want him to know. If they were members of a banned political organization then it was obvious they would be careful. But he wished he knew why they were being so damned helpful. He was sure it was not because they liked the colour of his eyes.

Chip had been driving but at Narok Nair took over. Chip said, ‘He’s the better driver.’

‘Will a better driver be needed?’

‘You’ll see.’

After Narok they left the asphalt and encountered the most God-awful road it had been Stafford’s fate to be driven over. He had been more comfortable in a tank going across
country in NATO exercises in Germany. Where heavy rains had washed gullies across the road they had not been filled in and repaired, and the traffic of heavy trucks had worn deep longitudinal grooves. Several times Nair got stuck in those and Stafford heard the underside of the chassis scraping the ground.

‘Manufacturers of exhausts must do a roaring trade out here.’ He looked back and saw they were creating a long rooster’s tail of dust. ‘Why the hell don’t they repair this road? Don’t they encourage visitors to Masai Mara?’

Chip said, ‘Narok District and the Government are having an argument about who pays. So far no one pays—except to the repair shops.’

Stafford took out the map he had bought in Nairobi and discovered they were driving across the Loita Plains. Every so often they passed villages of huts and sometimes a herdsman with his cattle. They were tall men with even taller spears and dressed in long gowns. Chip said they were Masai.

‘What tribe are you?’ Stafford asked.

‘Kikuyu.’

Stafford remembered Hardin’s lecture on African tribal politics. ‘Not Luo?’

Chip slanted his eyes at Stafford. ‘What makes you think I’d be Luo?’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’ Chip frowned but said nothing.

They passed a petrol tanker that had not made it. It was overturned by the side of the road and burnt out. They crossed a narrow bridge and Stafford checked the map. There were only two bridges marked and, after the second, the road changed status from being a main road to a secondary road. He commented on this with feeling and Nair burst out laughing.

Oddly enough, after the second bridge the road improved somewhat. Game began to appear, small herds of antelope and zebra and some ostriches. Chip played courier to the ignorant tourist and identified them. ‘Impala,’ he would say, or ‘Thomson’s gazelle.’ There were also eland and kongoni.

‘Are we in the Reserve yet?’ Stafford asked.

‘Not until we pass the Police Post.’

‘Then there are more animals in the Reserve than here?’

‘More?’ Chip laughed. ‘Two million wildebeest make the migration from the Serengeti to the Mara every year.’ Stafford thought that was a lot of venison on the hoof. Chip rummaged around and found a map. ‘Here’s a map of the Mara. I thought you’d like to see what you’re getting into.’

At first glance Stafford thought he was not getting into much. He checked the scale and found there were large chunks of damn-all cut through by what were described as ‘motorable tracks.’ Since the horrible road from Narok had been described as a main road he regarded that with reservation. There were two lodges, Keekorok and Mara Serena, and Governor’s Camp; also about a dozen camp sites scattered mainly in the north. Streams and rivers abounded, there were a couple of swamps thrown in and, as Chip had said, a couple of million wildebeest and an unknown number of other animals, some of which were illustrated on the map.

He said, ‘Is there really a bird called a drongo? I thought that was an Australian epithet.’

They arrived at the Police Post at the Olemelepo Gate and Nair drew to a halt. Chip said, ‘I’ll see to it. Be my guest.’ He got out and strolled across to the police officer who sat at a table outside the Post.

Stafford got out to stretch his legs and when he slapped his jacket a cloud of dust arose. Curtis joined him. ‘Enjoying yourself, Sergeant?’

Curtis brushed himself down and said ironically, ‘Not so dusty.’

‘People pay thousands for what you’re going through.’

‘If I have a beer it’ll hiss going down.’

Stafford unfolded the map and checked the distance to Keekorok Lodge. ‘Not long to go—only eight miles to your beer.’

Chip came back and they started off again and well within the hour the beer was hissing in the Sergeant’s throat.