Windfall. Desmond Bagley

only a few months ago.’

      ‘And your grandmother—did you know her?’ asked Stafford.

      ‘I have vague recollections,’ said Dirk, frowning. ‘She used to tell me stories. It must have been she who told me about my grandfather. She died when I was a kid. They all did.’

      ‘All?’ said Alix questioningly.

      ‘Both my parents, my sister and my grandmother were killed in a car crash. The only reason I wasn’t in the car was because I was in hospital. Scarlet fever, I believe. I was six years old.’ He put on a mock lugubrious expression. ‘I’m a lone orphan.’

      Alix put her hand over his. ‘My poor darling. I didn’t know.’

      Stafford thought it odd that Dirk had not told Alix this before but made no comment. Instead he said, ‘What’s this Foundation in Kenya?’

      ‘Ol Njorowa?’ Dirk shook his head, ‘I don’t know much about it other than what I’ve already told you. We’re going out next Wednesday to inspect it. Since I have to spend a month a year there I’d better learn about it. The Director is a man called Brice. Mandeville thinks a lot of him.’

      ‘How does Mandeville come into it? He’s a QC, isn’t he? I thought Farrar was the executor.’ Stafford held up a finger to a passing waiter.

      ‘He did a lot of legal work for my grandfather. Apparently they were on terms of friendship because he said he used to stay at my grandfather’s house whenever he went to Jersey.’

      ‘Is he going to Kenya with you?’

      Dirk laughed. ‘Lord, no! He’s a bigwig; he doesn’t go to people—they go to him. But Farrar is coming along; he has business to discuss with Brice.’

      Stafford turned to Alix. ‘Are you going, too?’

      She smiled ruefully. ‘I’d like to, but I couldn’t take young Max. Perhaps we’ll go next time.’

      ‘And Henry Hendrix is going, of course. Where is he, by the way? I thought you’d be together.’

      ‘He’s sightseeing in the country,’ said Dirk, and added tartly, ‘We’re not going to live in each other’s pockets. It’s only now that I appreciate the saying, “You can choose your friends but not your relatives.”’

      ‘Don’t you like him?’

      ‘He’s not my type,’ said Dirk briefly. ‘I think we’ll choose different months to stay at Ol Njorowa. But, yes; he will be going with Farrar and me.’

      ‘I might bump into you in Nairobi,’ said Stafford casually. ‘I’m taking a holiday out there. My flight is on Tuesday.’

      ‘Oh?’ Dirk looked at him intently. ‘When did you decide that?’

      ‘I booked the trip a couple of weeks ago—at least, my secretary did.’

      The waiter came up, and Alix said, ‘I won’t have another drink, Max.’

      ‘Then we’ll go in to dine,’ he said, and rose, satisfied with his probing.

      Next day he learned that Gunnarsson had visited a travel agent and a discreet enquiry elicited his destination—Nairobi. Stafford had Curtis book two seats on the Tuesday flight and cabled Hardin, advising him to lie low. Curtis said, ‘Am I going, sir?’

      ‘Yes; I might want someone to hang my trousers. What kind of natty gent’s clothing would be suitable for Kenya?’

      ‘The Colonel doesn’t want to trouble his head about that. Any of the Indian stores will make him up a suit within twenty-four hours. Cheap too, and good for the climate.’

      ‘You’re a mine of information, Sergeant. Where did you pick up that bit?’

      ‘I’ve been there,’ Curtis said unexpectedly. ‘I was in Mombasa a few years ago during the Mau-Mau business. I got a bit of travel up-country to Nairobi and beyond.’ He paused. ‘What kind of trouble is the Colonel expecting—fisticuffs or guns?’ Stafford regarded him thoughtfully, and Curtis said, ‘It’s just that I’d like to know what preparations to make.’

      Stafford said, ‘You know as much as I do. Make what preparations you think advisable.’ The first thing any green lieutenant learns is when to say ‘Carry on, Sergeant.’ The non-commissioned officers of any service run the nuts and bolts of the outfit and the wise officer knows it.

      Curtis said, ‘Then have I the Colonel’s permission to take the afternoon off? I have things to do.’

      ‘Yes; but don’t tell me what they are. I don’t want to know.’

      The only matter of consequence that happened before they went to Kenya was that Hendrix crashed his car when careering down a steep hill in Cornwall near Tintagel. He came out with a few scratches but the car was a total write-off.

      They flew to Nairobi first class on the night flight. Curtis was a big man and Stafford no midget and he saw no reason to be cramped in economy class where the seats are tailored for the inhabitants of Munchkinland. If all went well Gunnarsson would be paying ultimately. Stafford resisted the attempts of the cabin staff to anaesthetize him with alcohol so he would be less trouble but, since he found it difficult to sleep on aircraft, at 3 a.m. he went to the upstairs lounge where he read a thriller over a long, cold beer while intermittently watching the chief steward jiggle the accounts. The thriller had a hero who always knew when he was being followed by a prickling at the nape of his neck; this handy accomplishment helped the plot along on no fewer than four occasions.

      Curtis slept like a baby.

      They landed just after eight in the morning and, even at that early hour, the sun was like a hammer. Stafford sniffed and caught the faintly spicy, dusty smell he had first encountered in Algeria—the smell of Africa. They went through Immigration and Customs and found Hardin waiting. ‘’Lo, Max; ‘lo, Sergeant. Have a good flight?’

      ‘Not bad.’ Stafford felt the bristles on his jaw. ‘A day flight would have been better.’

      ‘The pilots don’t like that,’ said Hardin. ‘This airport is nearly six thousand feet high and the midday air is hot and thin. They reckon it’s a bit risky landing at noon.’

      Stafford’s eyes felt gritty. ‘You’re as bad as the Sergeant, here, for unexpected nuggets of information.’

      ‘I have wheels outside. Let me help you with your bags. Don’t let these porters get their hands on them; they want an arm and a leg for a tip.’

      They followed Hardin and Stafford stared unbelievingly at the vehicle to which he was led. It was a Nissan van, an eight-seater with an opening roof, and it was dazzlingly painted in zebra stripes barely veiled in a thin film of dust. He said, ‘For Christ’s sake, Ben! We’re trying to be inconspicuous and you get us a circus van. That thing shouts at you from a bloody mile away.’

      ‘Don’t worry,’ Hardin said reassuringly. ‘These safari trucks are as common as fleas on a dog out here, and they’ll go anywhere. We’re disguised as tourists. You’ll see.’

      Hardin drove, Stafford sat next to him, and Curtis got in the back. There was an unexpectedly good divided highway. Stafford said, ‘How far is the city?’

      ‘About seven miles.’ Hardin jerked his thumb. ‘See that fence? On the other side is the Nairobi National Game Park. Lots of animals back there.’ He laughed, it’s goddamn funny to see giraffes roaming free with skyscrapers in the background.’

      ‘I didn’t send you here to look at animals.’

      ‘Hell, it was Sunday morning. My way of going to church. Don’t be a grouch, Max.’

      Hardin had a point. ‘Sorry, Ben. I suppose it’s the lack of sleep.’

      ‘That’s okay.’ Hardin was silent for a while, then he said, ‘I was talking to one of the local inhabitants