Flyaway / Windfall (49 page)

‘Going alone?’ said Hardin.

‘No, I’ll take the Sergeant.’ Stafford smiled at Curtis. ‘How would you like to go ballooning, Sergeant?’

The expression of disgust on Curtis’s face was an eloquent answer.

The air of tension in Brice’s office was electric as Hendriks said, ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me that Stafford was mixed up in this?’

‘Because I didn’t know,’ snapped Brice.

‘Christ, he’d been here! You’d met him, damn it!’

‘So how would I know who he was?’ Brice asked plaintively. ‘You’d never mentioned him. All I knew then was that he was a friend of the Hunts; they were dining together at the Lake Naivasha Hotel with an Indian, a Sikh called Nair Singh.’

‘Who is he?’

‘A friend of Alan Hunt. They were at University together.’

‘And then Stafford turned up in the Masai Mara chasing after Hendriks. Couldn’t you put two and two together?’

‘I didn’t hear about it. It wasn’t reported in the press. Who is Stafford, anyway?’

‘A friend of Alix,’ said Dirk broodingly. ‘And he’s sharp, Brice; damned sharp.’ He told Brice exactly who and what Stafford was. ‘It’s not coincidence that he’s popping up here and there at critical times and places. Did he mention me when he was here?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Dirk. ‘He knew I was coming.’ His mind was busy with possible implications, then he said explosively, ‘Good God!’

‘What’s the matter now?’ said Brice tiredly.

‘He’s seen the bloody will, that’s what’s the matter,’ said Dirk viciously. ‘A man called Hardin came to see Alix when I was in South Africa.’ He told Brice about it, then said, ‘I never met Hardin. Alix said he’d gone back to the States.’

‘And you never thought to tell me about this?’ said Brice acidly.

‘I was too busy thinking about what to do with Hendrix. But that doesn’t matter now. What matters is that Stafford knows the Foundation has inherited a hell of a lot more than seven million.’

Brice shrugged. ‘We’ve got a cover for that. I told you about it. I’ll just have to report the full extent of our windfall. A pity, but there it is.’ He stood up and began to pace. ‘This is a damn funny tale you’re telling me. Hardin, an American, tells your wife that you had an unknown cousin. Further, Hardin has taken the trouble to get a copy of the will. Why should he do that?’

‘He said he was suspicious of the man he was working for, according to Alix. I told you I never met the man.’

‘And who was he working for?’

‘A private detective agency in New York.’

‘The name?’

‘I don’t know. Alix didn’t say.’

‘Who employed the detective agency?’

‘Farrar, the Jersey lawyer.’

Brice stopped his pacing and faced Hendriks. ‘Now tell me something,’ he said coldly. ‘How did Farrar know there was an American heir?’ Dirk was silent. Brice said, ‘How many people knew there was an American heir?’

‘Pretoria knew,’ said Dirk. ‘I knew, but I didn’t go near Farrar. Mandeville knew, of course.’ He stopped.

‘Mandeville knew,’ repeated Brice. ‘The eminent Queen’s Counsel knew. Do you know what happened, Hendriks? While Pretoria was chasing Hendrix in Los Angeles he was also being chased by American detectives employed by Farrar at the instigation of Mandeville. Pretoria nearly got Hendrix but he was rescued by Mandeville’s crowd. What a balls-up! Hasn’t anyone heard of co-ordination and liaison? We’ve been fighting ourselves, you damned fool.’ His tone was cutting. ‘What made Mandeville go off half-cocked like that?’

‘He always said Pretoria was slow off the mark,’ said Dirk. His voice was sullen.

‘I think you’d better talk to Mandeville. Find out if our reasoning is correct. If it is, you tell him never to do anything without orders again.’ He picked up the telephone. ‘Find out the delay on London calls, please.’ As he put down the telephone he said, ‘And you might ask him for the name of the American detective agency.’

‘Why? It doesn’t matter any more.’

‘How do you know that? Have you got crystal balls?’ Brice slammed his hand on the desk with a noise like a
pistol shot. ‘There’s been too much going wrong on this operation. I haven’t been sweating blood here to see it torpedoed by inefficiency.’ He sat down. ‘Now tell me more about Stafford. How did he come to see the will?’

‘Hardin had a copy and took it to Alix. I was in South Africa so Alix asked Stafford for his advice. Hardin showed him the will.’

‘So he knows the extent of the will, he’s been prowling about here, and he was in the Masai Mara when Hendrix was snatched. This man you met…er…?’ Brice snapped his fingers impatiently.

‘Gunnarsson.’

‘Gunnarsson told you that Stafford had followed the raiders. Is that it?’

‘That’s right. Afterwards Stafford told him that his party got lost in the bush.’

‘Got lost, did they? I wonder.’ Brice cocked a raised eyebrow at Hendriks. ‘I lost two men and your cousin is still missing. We discussed it before but we didn’t know about Stafford then.’ He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. ‘I can see we’ll have to find out more about Stafford.’ The telephone rang and he picked it up. ‘Oh!’ He covered the mouthpiece. ‘Someone for you. Who knows you’re here?’

‘No one,’ said Hendriks. ‘After I talked to Gunnarsson I went to the American Embassy but I told no one where I was going after that.’

‘Someone knows.’ Brice held out the telephone. ‘You’d better find out who it is.’

Hendriks took it. ‘Dirk Hendriks speaking.’

‘Hello, Dirk; so I’ve tracked you down at last,’ said Stafford, and Hendriks nearly dropped the phone. ‘Max here. I thought I’d phone Ol Njorowa on the off chance you’d be there. How are you doing?’

‘Fine,’ said Dirk. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and said in a low voice, ‘It’s Stafford.’

‘Have you been ballooning yet?’ asked Stafford.

‘What?’ said Dirk stupidly.

‘Ballooning with the Hunts. They’ve extended an invitation for me to go ballooning with them tomorrow. I’ve just been talking to Alan. I’ll be staying at the Lake Naivasha Hotel. We must have dinner.’

‘Yes, we must,’ said Dirk mechanically. ‘Hang on a minute.’ Again he covered the mouthpiece. ‘He’s coming here. Some crazy talk about ballooning with someone called Hunt. He’ll be at the hotel.’

Brice began to smile. ‘Give me the phone.’ He took it, and said, ‘Hello, Mr Stafford; Charles Brice here. I hear Alan Hunt is taking you up tomorrow. Now, there’s no question of your staying at the hotel, we can put you up here. Apart from anything else it will be more convenient for Alan. Yes, I insist. What time shall we expect you? All right, we’ll see you then.’

His smile broadened as he cradled the telephone. ‘I’d just as soon have him here where I can keep an eye on him. “Walk into my parlour,” said the spider to the fly.’

Gunnarsson lay on the bed in his room at the New Stanley reading a paperback novel in which he had no interest. Several times he had lost the drift of the plot and had to turn back several pages and he was bored and irritable. True, being on his back helped his feet which were still sore, and the doctor had recommended bed rest, but what he was really doing was waiting for a telephone call from London.

The telephone rang and he reached for it. ‘Gunnarsson.’

‘Mr Gunnarsson, this is George Barbour of Peacemore, Willis and Franks in London. I understand that you want to know the present location of Max Stafford of Stafford Security Consultants.’

‘Yeah.’

‘To the best of our knowledge Mr Stafford is now in Kenya on holiday. He left London on the eighteenth.’

So the bastard had been waiting in Nairobi, thought Gunnarsson. He said, ‘You didn’t tip off Stafford Security, I hope.’

Barbour was hurt. ‘We know how to make discreet enquiries, Mr Gunnarsson.’

‘Okay. Well, thanks.’

He rang off and pulled the telephone directory towards him and began to ring the Nairobi hotels. He struck lucky on his fifth try which was the Norfolk. Yes, Mr Stafford was
staying at the Norfolk. No, he was not in the hotel at the moment. It was believed that Mr Stafford was away on safari, although he had retained his room. No, the whereabouts of Mr Stafford were not known. Did the gentleman wish to leave a message?

Gunnarsson did not wish to leave a message so he hung up abruptly and lay back on the bed and tried to sort out his thoughts. He had never met Stafford but had heard much of him from Peacemore, Willis and Franks. There was no Peacemore, nor Willis, nor Franks; the three-barrelled name having been invented by Gunnarsson as having a cosy ring to it suitable for the City of London. The outfit was ramrodded by Terence Ferney who had been vitriolic on the subject of Stafford Security Consultants from time to time. ‘Stafford’s halo is getting tight the way his head is swelling,’ he once said. ‘But he’s a good operator, there’s no doubt about that. He keeps his security tight and he’s recruited good men—Jack Ellis for one.’

Gunnarsson had seen Ferney in London and Ferney had been crowing about how they had got past Stafford Security’s guard at Electronomics during the Electronomics takeover and Gunnarsson had cut him short curtly. ‘You’ve won one and lost five. Your record’s not good, Terry. Get on the ball.’

So it was Stafford who had followed him in the Masai Mara. What sort of coincidence was that? The boss of one of America’s biggest private security organizations is kidnapped and the boss of one of Europe’s largest security organizations is conveniently at hand. Nuts!

But how had Stafford got on to him? And had he anything to do with the disappearance of Corliss? Did he know about Corliss—that he was a ringer for Hank Hendrix? And why was he horning in anyway? Gunnarsson picked up the telephone again and dialled. ‘I’d like to put in a call to New York.’

Hardin was also lying down, but on a lounger by the swimming pool at the Norfolk Hotel and acquiring a tan. He lay on his stomach, intently watching the bubbles rise in a glass of Premium beer, and reflected that he could not be said to be earning his pay. Stafford and Curtis had gone to Ol Njorowa, Chip and his myrmidons were keeping an eye on Gunnarsson, and there was nothing left for Hardin to do. He felt dissatisfied and vaguely guilty.

He lay there for an hour soaking in the sun, then swam ten lengths of the pool before rubbing himself down and changing into street clothes in the change room. He walked through the bird-noisy courtyard towards the rear entrance of the hotel lobby but, as he entered the lobby, he did a smart about turn and retreated into the courtyard. Gunnarsson was at the reception desk talking to the clerk.

He was about to return to his room when Nair Singh walked into the courtyard from the lobby, his eyes half closed protectively against the sudden blast of sunlight. As he put on sunglasses Hardin tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Damn it!’ he said. ‘I nearly walked straight into Gunnarsson. I should have had warning.’

‘I phoned your room on the house phone,’ said Nair. ‘You weren’t there.’

‘I was at the pool. What the hell is Gunnarsson doing here?’

‘I’d say he’s trying to find Stafford,’ said Nair. ‘He knows who Stafford is. He took the trouble to ring London to establish that the Stafford he met at Keekorok is the same Stafford of Stafford Security Consultants.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘We put a tap on his phone.’ Nair smiled ‘Standard procedure. He rang New York an hour ago requesting reinforcements. He’s bringing in three men.’

‘Who?’ demanded Hardin. ‘Did he give names?’

Nair nodded. ‘Walters, Gottschalk and Rudinsky.’

‘Gottschalk I don’t know,’ said Hardin. ‘But Walters is a pretty good man and Rudinsky has worked in Africa before. He’s an ex-Company man, too. The pace is hotting up. When are they expected?’

‘The day after tomorrow, on the morning flight. Plenty of time to decide what to do. I’ll talk it over with Chip; he might have them barred as undesirable aliens.’

Hardin jerked his head towards the lobby. ‘You’d better get on with the job. Gunnarsson might give you the slip.’

‘He won’t. I have three men out there and there’s a radio transmitter in the car. He’s still at the reception desk.’ Nair regarded Hardin blandly. ‘I have a radio in my turban; they miniaturize them these days.’

‘Neat,’ said Hardin admiringly and looked at the turban with interest. The folds of cloth over Nair’s ears even concealed the earphone he must be wearing.

Nair held up his hand for silence and cocked his head on one side. ‘He’s leaving now—getting into a taxi. We’ll see him on his way before we check at the reception desk.’

‘I wonder how Gunnarsson got on to Stafford,’ mused Hardin.

‘Could have been through Dirk Hendriks,’ said Nair. ‘It doesn’t really matter. He’s out of Harry Thuku Road now. Let’s find out what he wanted.’

They went into the lobby to interrogate the man at the desk. Nair said, ‘The man who was here just now…’

‘Mr Andrews? The American?’

‘Yeah,’ said Hardin. ‘Mr Andrews. Was he looking for someone?’

‘He wanted to see Mr Stafford. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he? I’ve seen you together.’

Hardin nodded. ‘What did you tell Andrews?’

‘I told him where to find Mr Stafford.’ The clerk looked at the expression on Hardin’s face nervously. ‘Did I do wrong?’

‘I guess not,’ said Hardin, thinking otherwise. ‘Where did you tell him to go?’

‘Ol Njorowa College. Mr Stafford mentioned it before he left. He said he’d be away for a couple of days but wanted to keep his room here.’

Hardin looked at Nair blankly. ‘Thanks,’ he said. As they moved away he said, ‘That was pretty foolish of Max.’

‘He wasn’t to know Gunnarsson would come looking for him.’ Nair stopped with an intent look on his face as he listened to his inner voice. He said, ‘Gunnarsson is getting out of his taxi in Muindi Mbingu Street.’ He paused. ‘He’s going into the United Touring Company office. The UTC is a car hire firm among other things.’

There was no discussion. ‘I’ll pack a bag,’ said Hardin. ‘Ready in fifteen minutes.’ As he walked out of the lobby he saw Nair already reaching for a telephone.

Again Stafford suffered the ritual of inspection before the gates of Ol Njorowa College opened for him. He drove to the Administration Block, parked the Nissan, and went inside where he gave his name to the black Kenyan behind the counter in the hall. He looked around and saw what he had not noticed on his first visit. Chip was right; security was tighter than one would expect in such an innocent organization.

No one could penetrate anywhere into the building without passing the wicket gate, and he was willing to bet that every time it opened it would send out a signal; at least it would if he had been responsible for security. He looked around with a keen professional eye and detected a soft gleam of glass high in a corner of the hall where two walls and a ceiling met, and guessed it was the wide-angle lens of a TV camera. It was unnoticeable and only to be detected by someone actively looking for it. He wondered where they kept the monitor screen.

The man behind the counter put down the telephone. ‘Mr Hendriks will be with you in a moment. Please take a seat.’

Stafford sat on a comfortable settee, picked up a magazine from the low table in front of him, and flipped through the pages. It was a scientific journal devoted to tropical crop production and of no particular interest. Presently Hendriks appeared and came through the wicket, his arm outstretched. ‘Max! Good to see you.’

Stafford doubted that statement but he got up and they shook hands. ‘Nice of Brice to have me here,’ he said. ‘I could just as easily have stayed at the hotel. It’s not far down the road.’

‘Charles wouldn’t hear of it,’ said Hendriks. ‘As soon as he knew we were friends. Why didn’t you mention it when you were here last?’

‘I didn’t have all that much time with Brice, and I was with another party—the Hunts, Alan and Judy. Do you know them?’

‘No; but I haven’t been here all that long. I’ve just got back from England.’

‘And how are Alix and young Max?’ asked Stafford politely.

‘Motherhood agrees with her,’ said Hendriks, and took Stafford’s arm. ‘Come and see Charles.’ He led Stafford through the wicket gate and along a corridor where he opened a door. ‘Max is here,’ he said.

Brice greeted Stafford genially. ‘So you’ve come to be an intrepid birdman with Alan Hunt. Rather you than me; I don’t trust that contraption—it looks much too flimsy.’ He waved Stafford to a chair.

As he sat down Hendriks said, ‘Bad news about cousin Henry. You’ve heard, of course?’

Stafford was ready for that one and had already formulated his reply. ‘More than heard,’ he said. ‘I was there. Not
with the kidnapped party but with a group who charged off somewhat blunderingly to the rescue. I didn’t know that Henry Hendrix was involved, though, and when we got back to Keekorok I got a shock when I heard the name. In fact, at first I thought it might have been you.’

Brice said, ‘Odd that your adventure wasn’t reported in the press.’

Stafford shrugged. ‘Bloody bad journalism. Have there been any developments?’

‘Nothing,’ said Dirk. ‘I’ve been to the police and the American Embassy but no one seems to know anything or, if they do, they aren’t saying.’

‘It hasn’t done diplomatic relations between Kenya and Tanzania any good,’ remarked Brice. ‘Not that they were so sparkling in the first place.’ He changed the subject. ‘I suspect you’ll want to clean up. We have some bedrooms upstairs for VIPs—the Trustees visit us from time to time and sometimes the odd government official. You can have one of those while you’re here.’

‘It’s very good of you.’

‘No problem at all. You know, we’re a rather ingrown community here—something like a monastery but for the few women among us like Judy Hunt. It will do us good to see a new face and have fresh conversation and ideas. Dirk will show you to your room and then…er…hunt up Hunt, if you’ll pardon the phrase.’

‘Right,’ said Dirk. ‘I’ll take you up. You have the room next to mine.’

‘And you’ll join us for dinner,’ said Brice.

As they went upstairs Stafford said to Hendriks, ‘You’re the real VIP here, of course. What do you think of the place?’

‘I haven’t seen much of it yet. I’ve been too busy trying to get some action on my cousin. But what I’ve seen has impressed me. Here’s your room.’

The ‘monks’ in Brice’s monastery lived well, thought Stafford as he surveyed the bedroom which would not have disgraced a three-star hotel. Dirk indicated a door. ‘That’s the bathroom. If you’ll give me your car keys I’ll have someone bring up your bags.’

‘It’s not locked.’

‘Right. The staff room is at the far end of the corridor. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes with Hunt. We’ll have a drink together.’

‘I know where the staff room is.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Dirk. ‘I’d forgotten you’ve been here before.’

He departed and Stafford did not doubt that the Nissan would be thoroughly searched, as would his suitcase. He did not mind; there was nothing unusual to be found. He inspected the room with an experienced eye, looking not for comfort but for bugs, the electronic kind. He had no doubt that the room would be bugged; Brice would be interested in the private conversations of the Trustees and government officials.

The table lamp was clean as was the reading lamp over the bed. There were no strange objects attached beneath the coffee table, the dressing table or the bed. He looked at the telephone doubtfully. It would probably be tapped but that did not matter; any conversation he used it for would definitely be innocuous. However, it might have been gimmicked in another way. He unscrewed the mouthpiece and shook out the carbon button to inspect it. It looked all right so he put it back and replaced the mouthpiece. It had taken him fifteen seconds.

As he put down the telephone there was a knock at the door and the Kenyan who had been at the counter in the hall downstairs came in bearing Stafford’s suitcase. He put it next to the dressing table, and said, ‘Mr Hunt is in the staff room, sah.’

‘Thank you. Tell him I’ll be along in a few minutes.’ Stafford took his toilet kit and went into the bathroom. When he came out he looked at the picture on the wall which appeared conventional enough. It was a reproduction of a painting of an elephant by David Shepherd, typical of those to be found in the curio shops in Nairobi. He examined it more closely paying attention, not to the picture itself, but to the frame which was of unpainted white wood and which seemed unusually thick. Near the bottom of the frame he found a small knot hole and he smiled.

From his jacket pocket he took a pen torch and examined the hole more carefully. By angling the light and moving it rhythmically he caught a repeated metallic wink from the bottom of the hole—the diaphragm of a miniature button microphone. As he put away the torch he felt relieved. If he had not found a bug he would have been worried because so far all his suspicions about Hendriks and Brice had been built on a tenuous chain of suppositions. But this was the clincher; no innocent organization would bug its own rooms.