Desmond Bagley - Windfall

'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 in the bar of the Hilton. He lives at Langata, that's a suburb of Nairobi. He said all hell had broken loose early that morning because a lion bad taken a horse from the riding stables next door. Even in Manhattan we don't live that dangerously.'

Stafford thought Hardin had turned into the perfect goggling tourist. He was not there to hear small talk about lions. He said, 'What about the Foundation?'

Hardin caught the acerbity in Stafford's voice and gave him a sideways glance. He said quietly, 'Yeah, I got some information on that from the same guy who told me about die lion. He's one of the Trustees; Indian guy called Patterjee.'

Stafford sighed. 'Sorry again, Ben. This doesn't seem to be my day.'

'That's okay. We all have off days.'

'Did you get anything interesting out of Patterjee?'

'A few names – members of the Board and so on. He gave me a printed handout which describes the work of the Foundation. It runs agricultural schools, experimental laboratories – things like that. And a Co-operative. The Director responsible to the Board is called Brice; he's not in Nairobi – he's at Ol Njorowa. That's near Naivasha in the Rift Valley, about fifty miles from here.'

'Who started the Foundation – and when?'

'It was started just after the war, in the fifties. The handout doesn't say who by. I did some poking around Naivasha but I didn't see Brice; I thought I'd leave him for you. He's English and I thought you'd handle him better, maybe.'

'Did Patterjee say anything about the Hendrykxx inheritance?'

'Not a murmur. But he wasn't likely to talk about that to a stranger he met in a bar. The news isn't out yet. I checked the back issues in a newspaper office.'

They were coming into the city. Stafford had not known what to expect but was mildly surprised. He knew enough not to expect mud huts but the buildings were high rise and modem and the streets were well kept. Hardin braked hard. 'When you're driving around here watch out for guys on bicycles. They think traffic lights don't apply to them.'

The lights changed and Hardin let out the clutch. 'We're on Uhuru Highway. Over to the left is Uhuru Park.' Stafford saw black schoolgirls dressed in gym slips playing handball. There were flowers everywhere in a riot of colour. They turned a corner and then another, and Hardin said, 'Harry Thuku Road, named after a revolutionary hero who got on the wrong side of the British in colonial days. And there's the Norfolk where we're staying.'

He put the vehicle into a slot between two identically zebra-striped Nissans. 'One of those is ours. I thought we'd better have two sets of wheels.'

'Good thinking.' Stafford twisted and looked back at Curtis. 'You're very loquacious, Sergeant; you've been positively babbling. Anything on your mind?'

'Got things to do if the Colonel will excuse me,' he said stolidly. 'I could do with a street map.'

'I have one here,' said Hardin. 'But you'd better register first.'

They went into the hotel as a horde of porters descended on the Nissan. After registering Curtis gave Stafford a brief nod and went away, walking out of the hotel and into the street. Hardin stared after him. 'The strong, silent type,' he commented. 'Where's he going ?'

'Better you not ask,' said Stafford. 'He's going his mysterious ways his wonders to perform.'

Their rooms were across an inner courtyard alive with the noise of birds from two large aviaries. 'The Sergeant is bunking in with me,' said Hardin. 'You're on your own. I've ordered breakfast in your room; I reckoned you might be tired and not want to use the dining room.' They ascended stairs and he opened a door. 'Here you are.'

A waiter was stooping over a loaded tray which he had just set down. He straightened and said, with a wide grin. 'Breakfast, sah; guaranteed finest English breakfast.'

Hardin tipped him and he left. 'The refrigerator is full of booze.'

Stafford shuddered. 'Too early in the morning.'

'Tell me something,' said Hardin. 'What's with you and the Sergeant? I thought you had the class system in England. It doesn't show with you two.'

'I don't happen to believe in the class system,' said Stafford, uncovering a dish to reveal bacon and eggs. He picked up a glass of orange juice and sipped it, noting appreciatively that it was freshly squeezed. 'Have you anything more to tell me before I demolish this lot and fall on that bed?'

'Yeah. The name of the Foundation. Ol Njorowa is the name of a place near Naivasha. It's Masai. I don't know what the translation into English would be but the British settlers call it Hell's Gate. When do you want to be wakened?'

'Twelve-thirty.'

Stafford had breakfast and went to bed thinking of Hell's Gate. It was a hell of a name to give to a charitable foundation.

Hardin woke Stafford on time. He felt hot and sticky but a shower washed away the sweat. As he came out of the bathroom Hardin said, 'The Sergeant is back – with friends.'

'What friends?'

'You'll see them in the Delamere Bar.'

Stafford dressed and they went downstairs. As they crossed the courtyard in the midday sun Stafford felt the sweat break out again, and made a note to ask Curtis about his tailor.

The Delamere Bar was a large patio at the front of the hotel scattered with tables, each individually shaded, from which one could survey the passing throng. It was crowded, but the Sergeant had secured a table. He stood up as they approached. 'I would like the Colonel to meet Pete Chipende and Nair Singh.'

They shook hands. Chipende was a black African who offered a grin full of white teeth. 'Call me Chip; everyone does.' His English was almost accentless; just a hint of East African sing-song. Nair Singh was a turbanned Sikh with a ferocious black beard and a gentle smile.

As Stafford sat down Hardin said, 'The beer's not bad; cold and not too alcoholic.'

'Okay, a beer.' Stafford noted that it was probably too alcoholic for the Sikh who sat in front of a soft drink. He looked at Curtis and raised his eyebrows.

Curtis said, 'Back in London I thought we might need friends who know the territory and the language, so I made a few enquiries and got an address.'

'Our address,' said Chip. 'We work well; turn our hands to anything.'

Stafford kept his eye on Curtis. 'Where did you get the address?'

He shrugged. 'Friends, and friends of friends,' he said carelessly.

'You have useful friends.' Curtis was playing the old soldier, and Stafford knew he would get nothing more out of him -not then. He turned to the others. 'Do you know the score?"

Nair said, 'You want people watched.'

'Unobtrusively,' added Chip. He paused. 'And maybe you'll want more.'

'Maybe.' A waiter put down glasses and beer bottles. 'All right. A man arrives tomorrow from London. Gunnarsson, an American. I want to know where he goes and what he does.'

Chip poured himself some beer. 'Can be done.'