Flyaway / Windfall (59 page)

Stafford smiled slightly. He had cooled down and he knew what Hardin was doing; as an army officer he had done it himself when men were in a jumpy condition. Hardin was soothing Hunt as a man might soothe a fractious horse. Stafford said lightly, ‘Quite a cigarette lighter, isn’t it?’

The burner consisted of two coils of stainless steel tubing mounted in a rectangular frame so that they could swivel. Hardin said, ‘Looks as though you have two burners there. Why?’

‘Belt and braces principle,’ said Hunt. ‘If I’m in the sky and a burner fails I want to have another quickly.’ He turned a cock on the butane cylinder then lit a small pilot burner. The pilot flame burned blue. ‘I’m ready.’

Stafford said, ‘I’ll operate it.’

‘No,’ said Hunt. ‘I’ll do it. I know exactly how it works.’

‘Better think of what’s going to happen when you lift that trap,’ said Hardin. ‘The first thing that’ll come through is a bullet.’

‘Anyone got a knife?’ asked Stafford. Hunt produced a pocket knife and Stafford cut a length of electric wiring from
a table lamp. He lifted the small metal flap on the trap door and knotted the end of the wire around the ring beneath. He said, ‘I’ll pull up the trap from here, standing behind it. The trap door itself will protect my legs from the flame. Let the door be open at least a foot before you let go, Alan; and you’d better lie flat on the floor behind the burner. Bullets travel in straight lines so you should be safe. Ben, move that stuff off the trap and then get clear.’

Two minutes later he looked at Hunt. ‘Ready?’ Hunt nodded. ‘Give it a good long burst,’ said Stafford, and hauled the trap door open.

There was a shocking series of chattering explosions as soon as the trap started to move and a stream of bullets came through the opening to strike the ceiling and ricochet around the room. Lights went out as some of the overhead fluorescents were smashed and a monitor screen imploded when hit. Stafford flinched and was about to drop the trap door when Hunt cut loose with the burner. The room was lit by an acid-blue light as a six-foot long flame stabbed down into the basement. The shooting stopped and all that could be heard was the pulsating roar of the burner which seemed to go on interminably.

At last Hunt switched off and the room was quiet. Stafford dropped the trap door back into place and looked around. ‘Everyone all right?’

Hardin was clutching his upper right arm. ‘I caught one, Max. What the hell was that? A machine-gun?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Stafford. ‘My guess is that it was a Kalashnikov on automatic fire.’ He looked at the blood on Hardin’s hand. ‘A ricochet, Ben. If you’d stopped a direct hit at that range it would have torn your arm off. This is beginning to get bloody dangerous.’ He looked down at Hunt. ‘Are you all right?’

Hunt was pale but nodded. He said, ‘The shooting stopped.’

‘But was it because of us?’ asked Stafford. ‘Or did his magazine run out?’ He looked up and saw Curtis standing in the doorway. ‘Get back on watch, Sergeant. That doorway is in the line of fire.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Curtis smartly, and disappeared from view.

‘Are you ready to give it another go?’ asked Stafford, and Hunt nodded. ‘All right. I’ll open the door. If there’s no shooting give him a short burst and stop. If he shoots let him have it—a good long blast.’ He turned his head. ‘Ben, get the hell out of here.’

Hardin jerked his head. ‘I’ll be behind that bench.’

‘Take this then and stay ready.’ He gave Hardin the pistol and took up the slack on the wire, nodded to Hunt, and hauled the trap door open. There was silence for a moment and then again the flame stabbed out with a stomachtightening rumble. Hunt let it play for only a few seconds then turned it off.

Again there was silence.

Stafford shouted, ‘Hey! You down there! Come up with your hands empty. You have fifteen seconds or you’ll fry.’

There came a distant call. ‘I’m coming. Don’t burn me.’

Footsteps were heard climbing the stairs and a man appeared. His hair had been burned away and blisters were beginning to show on his face and the backs of his hands. Stafford said curtly, ‘Out!’ and he climbed up into the room. Hardin moved forward holding the pistol.

‘Anyone else down there?’ demanded Stafford. The man shook his head dumbly, and Stafford said, ‘We’ll make sure. Give it another long squirt, Alan.’

‘
Nee, man, nee,
’ the man shouted. ’
Jy kan nie…
’ His words were lost as Hunt turned on the burner in a long sustained blast. He turned to run but was stopped at the door by Hardin with the pistol. The burner stopped and then things began to happen so fast that Stafford was bemused.

Hardin dropped as though pole-axed as someone hit him from behind. He dropped the pistol which went off as it hit the ground and the bullet screamed past Stafford so close that he ducked involuntarily. When he looked up suddenly Hendriks and Brice were in the room and Hendriks held the pistol with the silencer. ‘Everyone freeze,’ he said. ‘No one move.’

Brice looked at Hunt lying on the floor, his hand still on the blast valve. ‘What in hell is happening?’ He looked at the scorched man. ‘What happened to you, van Heerden?’

‘I was down there and they turned that…that damned flame thrower on me,’ he said. ‘Things are burning…’

Hendriks gave a choked cry. He thrust his pistol into Brice’s hand and ran forward to the trap door, kicking the burner aside as he went. He clattered down the stairs and disappeared from sight. Hardly had he gone when a hand clamped on Brice’s wrist from behind and twisted it sharply. Brice screamed as his arm broke and Curtis appeared from behind him to catch the pistol as it dropped.

Stafford expelled a deep breath. ‘Get up, Alan,’ he said. Hunt got to his feet and turned around. ‘See to Ben.’ He was about to step forward when there was a muffled thump and the building shook. A dense column of smoke tinged with flame at its centre shot out of the basement through the open trap, and van Heerden screamed, ‘It’s going to blow up!’

Something fell and hit Stafford on the head and he knew nothing more.

‘These grapes are not bad,’ said Stafford appreciatively. ‘Thanks.’

‘It is customary to bring grapes to hospital,’ said Chip and hitched his chair closer to the bed. ‘It is also customary for those who bring them to eat them.’ He took a couple of grapes from the bunch and popped them into his mouth. ‘When are they letting you out?’

‘Another week.’ Stafford touched his bandaged head. ‘There’s nothing broken, but I get double vision when I’m tired. The doctor says it’s concussion and all I need is bed rest. How’s Nair?’

‘He’s all right. They took the bullet out of his leg and he’s on the mend. He’s in a room down the corridor.’

‘I’ll pop in and see him.’

Chip smiled slightly. ‘The population of this hospital has gone up since you began operations. Hardin had concussion like you; Hunt is having a skin graft on his legs—he got scorched.’

‘The Sergeant?’

‘Nothing wrong with him. He’s a real tough one. He’ll be coming in to see you soon.’

‘All right,’ said Stafford. ‘What happened?’

‘Curtis got Hardin out then went back to help Hunt get you out. Brice got himself out. Hendriks and Miller were both killed.’

‘Miller?’ said Stafford interrogatively.

‘The man in the basement.’

‘Oh! Brice called him van Heerden.’

‘Did he?’ Chip was interested in that and made a note of it. ‘His passport was in the name of Miller. A British passport.’

‘He spoke a few words of Afrikaans when he was under stress. What did you find in the cellar?’

Chip looked at him oddly. ‘Don’t you know?’

‘I don’t know a bloody thing,’ said Stafford. ‘You’re my first visitor.’

‘When Nair rang to tell me what you were doing I rounded up some men and commandeered an army helicopter from Eastleigh because I wanted to get to you fast. I thought you were tackling something bigger than you could handle. We were purring the helicopter down next to the building with the dish antenna when it blew up. The helicopter nearly crashed.’

‘Blew up!’ said Stafford, startled. ‘In God’s name, what was down there?’

‘We’ve had our forensic people looking at the bits and pieces that are left. Apparently there were a lot of explosives, commercial gelignite for the most part. They say that didn’t blow up—it needs a detonator—but it burned hot and that set off the rest of it. They had a small armoury down there, rifles and ammunition, hand grenades and so on.’

‘That wouldn’t be enough to blow up a building.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Chip. ‘The damage was really done when the fire got to three Russian SAM-7 rockets. We think there were three but it’s difficult to tell now.’

‘Rockets!’ Stafford rubbed his jaw. He was thinking of that hot, blue flame driving heat into the basement. Talk about playing with fire!

‘Most of the stuff down there was Russian,’ said Chip. ‘Probably captured equipment from Angola. The South Africans smuggled it in, probably through Mombasa. We’re going into that now.’

‘Indirection,’ said Stafford. ‘What do you think they were going to use it for?’

Chip shrugged. ‘There’s a lot of talk going on at the top. The general opinion is that the stuff was going to be used to arm various groups in the general interest of stirring up trouble. Those being used would even think they were being paid by the Russians. It could have caused a lot of bad blood.’

‘What does Brice say?’

‘Brice is saying nothing; he’s keeping his mouth shut. Patterson isn’t saying much, either. But Luke Maiyani will talk as soon as his jaw is unwired,’ said Chip grimly. ‘You’re going to have visitors, Max. They’ll tell you to keep your mouth shut, too. All this never happened. Understand?’

Stafford nodded. ‘I think so,’ he said wearily. ‘How are you going to keep it under cover?’

‘I’ve brought you some newspapers and marked the relevant stories. The matter of Brice hasn’t come up yet so it hasn’t been reported. I’ll tell you what will happen about him. He’s under arrest for embezzlement of Ol Njorowa funds; we found enough in his office to nail him on that. He’ll go on trial and he’ll stand for it because he can’t do anything else. We don’t know who he is but we do know he isn’t Brice.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Before Brice left Zimbabwe—Rhodesia—he got into trouble with the Smith government for some reason or other. Anyway, our brothers in Zimbabwe had a look
through police records and turned up his fingerprints, and they don’t match those of the Brice we’ve got.’

Stafford began to laugh. ‘So Brice goes to jail for embezzlement. He can’t do anything else.’

‘He’ll spend a long time inside, and he’ll be deported when he comes out.’ Chip smiled. ‘We’ll probably put him on a plane to Zimbabwe.’ He chuckled. ‘And the Zimbabweans will arrest him for false pretences and travelling on a false passport.’

‘I almost feel sorry for him,’ said Stafford.

‘Don’t,’ said Chip in a grim voice. ‘We found a safe built into the wall of the cellar. It was strong and fireproof. In it, among other things which I won’t go into, we found three passports in the name of Gunnarsson, Hendriks and Rosters. That pins the Tanzanian attack directly on Brice. The Hendrix passport had been tampered with.’

‘They’d replace Hendrix’s photo with that of Corliss,’ said Stafford. ‘What happens to Corliss?’

‘We’ll give him the passport and send him home,’ said Chip. ‘He knows nothing of what went on. He’s a very confused boy and will never tell a straight story.’ He stood up. ‘When you get out of here you must have dinner with me and my wife.’

Stafford was somewhat surprised. ‘I didn’t know you were married.’

‘Most people are.’ Chip flipped his hand in a semi-salute and left.

Stafford picked up the newspapers and read the articles Chip had marked. An American visitor, Mr John Gunnarsson, had been killed by a hippopotamus on Crescent Island, Lake Naivasha. His body was being returned to the United States. A brief editorial in the same issue commented that this should reinforce the warning to all visitors to Kenya that the animals they saw in such profusion
really
were wild and could not be approached with
impunity. While regretting the death of Mr Gunnarsson it could not be the function of the Kenyan authorities to wetnurse headstrong tourists.

In another issue was an account of the disastrous fire at Ol Njorowa College. The animal migration laboratory had been wrecked, mostly by the explosion of butane cylinders stored in the basement. Several people, including the Director, Mr Charles Brice, had been injured, and Mr Dirk Hendriks and Mr Paul Miller had been killed. Mr Brice was not available for comment but the Acting Director, Dr James Odhiambo, said it was a grave blow to the advance of science in Kenya. The police did not suspect arson.

Stafford was about to reach for another newspaper when there was a tap at the door and Hardin and Curtis came in. Curtis said, ‘I have taken the liberty of bringing the Colonel some fruit.’ He put a brown paper bag on the bedside table. Stafford looked at him with affection. ‘Thank you, Sergeant. And I understand I have to thank you for getting me out of the lab before it blew up.’

‘That was mostly Mr Hunt, sir,’ said Curtis imperturbably. ‘I’m sorry I let Brice and Hendriks get past me. I had to watch out on two sides and I was in the office when they came in.’

Stafford thought it was not so much an apology as an explanation. He said, ‘No harm done,’ then amended the statement. ‘Only to Hendriks—and Brice.’

‘Is there anything I can get for you, sir?’

‘Just a new head,’ said Stafford. ‘This one feels a bit second hand.’

‘I felt like that,’ said Hardin. ‘But you got a bigger thump than me. We’ll come back when you feel better.’

‘Hang on a minute, Ben. Do you mind, Sergeant?’ Curtis left the room and Stafford said, ‘Are you still going to work for me?’

Hardin grinned. ‘Not if it’s going to be like this month. The pay’s not enough.’

‘It isn’t always as exciting as this. How would you like to go to New York? I want someone across there fast—someone who knows the ropes.’

Hardin looked at Stafford appraisingly. ‘Yeah, Gunnarsson Associates will be up for grabs now Gunnarsson has gone. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’

‘Something like that. I need you there; you know the business. With a bit of luck you could get to be the boss of the American end of Stafford Security.’

‘Gunnarsson always kept the reins in his own hands,’ said Hardin musingly. ‘I guess things could tend to fall apart now. Sure, I’ll give it a whirl and see if I can pick up a few of the pieces. To tell the truth I’ve gotten a bit homesick. All this fresh air seems unnatural; I miss the smell of gasoline fumes. Hell, I’d even take Los Angeles right now.’

‘Go by way of London,’ said Stafford. ‘I’ll give you a letter for Jack Ellis. Arrange for whatever expenses you need with him.’ He paused. ‘Talking of Los Angeles, I wonder what happened to Hank Hendrix—the real one?’

‘I’ll ask around but I don’t think we’ll ever know,’ said Hardin.

When Hardin had gone Stafford felt tired and was beginning to see double again. He closed his eyes and composed himself for sleep. His last waking thought was of Alix Hendriks who would never know the truth about the death of her husband. It occurred to him that every time he helped Alix she got richer and he achieved a few more scars. This time she would inherit her husband’s fortune by courtesy of the South African government, and might even get Henry Hendrix’s money with a bit of luck.

He made a mental note that the next time Alix appealed for help or advice was the time to start running.