Desmond Bagley - Windfall

Stafford sighed. 'Since we're on first name terms you'd better call me Max.' He added something pungent in Punjabi. Nair lit up and responded with Punjabi in full flow. Stafford said, 'Whoa, there! I wasn't in the Punjab long enough to learn more than the swear words. I was there for a short time as a boy just after the war; my father was in the Army. It was at the time of Partition.'

'That must have been a bad time,' Nair said seriously. 'But I've never been to India; I was born in Kenya.' He looked over Stafford's shoulder. 'Here is Alan Hunt now.'

Hunt was a tall, tanned man, blond with hair bleached almost white by the sun. He was accompanied by his sister, a shade darker but not much. Nair made the introductions and Stafford found her name was Judy. A hovering waiter took the order for another round of drinks.

'Is this your first visit to Kenya?' asked Judy, launching into the inevitable introductory Smalltalk.

'Yes.' Stafford looked at his watch. 'I've been here about ten hours.'

'You get around quickly.'..

'The car is a great invention.' Alan Hunt was talking to Nair. 'Are you with your brother at the Ol Njorowa College?'

'Yes; I'm an agronomist and Alan is a soil scientist. I suppose we complement each other. What do you do, Mr Stafford?'

'Max, please. I'm your original City of London businessman.' He tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. 'When I'm not wearing this I'm kitted out in a black suit, bowler hat and umbrella.'

She laughed. 'I don't believe it.'

'Take my word for it. It's still de rigueur.' 'I've never been to England,' she said a little wistfully.

'It's cold and wet,' Stafford said. 'You're better off here. Tell me something. I've been hearing about Hell's Gate -that's Ol Njorowa, isn't it?'

'In a way. It's what the English call it.'

'It sounds like the entrance to Dante's Inferno. What is it really?'

'It's a pass which runs along the western flank of Longonot; that's the big volcano near here. There are a lot of hot springs and steam vents which gave it its name, I suppose. But really it used to be an outlet for Lake Naivasha when the lake was a lot bigger than it is now.'

'How long ago was that?'

She smiled. She had a good smile. 'I wouldn't know. Maybe a million years.'

Nair stood up. 'We'd better go inside. The lake flies will be coming out now the sun has set.'

'Bad?' asked Hardin.

'Definitely not good,' said Hunt.

Over dinner Stafford got to know something about Hunt -and the Foundation. Hunt told about his work as a soil scientist. 'Jack of all trades,' he said. 'Something of geology, something of botany, something of microbiology, a smidgin of chemistry. Its a wide field.' He had been with the Foundation for two years and was enthusiastic about it. 'We're doing good work, but it's slow. You can't transform a people in a generation.'

When Stafford asked what he meant he said, 'Well, the tribes here were subsistence farmers; the growing of cash crops is a different matter. It demands better land management and a touch of science. But they're learning.'

Stafford looked across at Judy. 'Don't they object to being taught by a woman?'

Hunt laughed. 'Just the opposite. You see, the Kikuyu women are traditionally the cultivators of land and Judy gets on well with them. Her problem is that she loses her young, unmarried women too fast.'

'How come?'

'They marry Masai men. The Masai are to the south of here – nomadic cattle breeders. Their women won't cultivate so the men like to marry Kikuyu women who will take care of their patches of maize and millet.'

Stafford smiled. 'An unexpected problem.'

'There are many problems,' Hunt said seriously. 'But we're licking them. The Commonwealth Development Corporation and the World Bank are funding projects. Up near Baringo there's a CDC outfit doing the same thing among the Njemps. It's a matter of finding the right crops to suit the soil. Our Foundation is more of a home grown project and we're a bit squeezed for cash, although there's a rumour going around that the Foundation has been left a bit of money.'

Not for long, Stafford thought. He said, 'When was the Foundation started?'

'Just after the war. It took a knock during the Mau-Mau troubles, went moribund and nearly died on its feet, but it perked up five or six years ago when Brice came. He's our Director.'

'A good man?'

'The best; a real live wire – a good administrator even though he doesn't know much about agriculture. But he has the sense to leave that to those who do. You must come to see us while you're here. Combine it with your visit to Ol Karia.'

'I'd like that,' said Stafford. He did not want to be at Ol Njorowa when Dirk Hendriks was around because his curiosity might arouse comment. 'Could we make it next week?'

'Of course. Give me a ring.'

They went into the lounge for coffee and brandy. Hunt was about to sit down when he paused. 'There's Brice now, having a drink with Patterson. He's one of the animal study boys. I can clear your visit to the College right away.' He went over and talked with Brice then he turned and beckoned.

He introduced Stafford and Hardin to Brice who was a square man of medium height and with a skin tanned to the colour of cordovan leather. His speech was almost standard Oxford English but there was a barely perceptible broadening of the vowels which betrayed his Southern Africa origins. It was so faint that Hardin could be excused for identifying him as English.

He shook hands with a muscular grip. 'Glad to have you with us, Mr Stafford; we don't get too many visitors from England. Have you been in Kenya long?' The standard ice-breaking question.

'I arrived this morning. It's a beautiful country.'

'Indeed it is,' Brice said. 'It's not my own country – not yet – but I like it.'

Judy said questioningly, 'Not yet?'

Brice laughed jovially. 'I'm taking out Kenya citizenship. My papers should be through in a couple of months.'

'Then you're English,' Stafford said.

He laughed again. 'Not me; I'm Rhodesian. Can't you tell by my accent?' He raised his eyebrows at Stafford's silence. 'No? Well, I lived in England a while, so I suppose I've lost it. I got out of Rhodesia when that idiot Smith took over with UDI.'

'What's that?' asked Hardin.

'The Unilateral Declaration of Independence.' Brice smiled.

'I believe you Americans made a similar Declaration a couple of hundred years ago.'

'Of course,' said Hardin. 'I was here in Africa when it happened, but I never got that far south. How did it come out in the end? African affairs aren't very well reported back home.'

'It couldn't last,' said Brice. 'You couldn't have a hundred thousand whites ruling millions of blacks and make it stick. There was a period of guerilla warfare and then the whites caved in. The British government supervised elections and the Prime Minister is now Mugabe, a black; and the name of the country is now Zimbabwe.'

'Do you have any intention of going back now that Mugabe is in command?' asked Stafford.

Brice shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'Never go back – that's my motto. Besides, I have precious little to go back to. I had a farm up near Umtali, and that's where the war was.' His face hardened. 'My parents were killed and I heard that the farmhouse my father built was burned out – a total loss. No, this will be my country from now on.' He sipped from his glass. 'Mind you, I couldn't leave Africa. I didn't like England; it was too bloody cold for my liking.'

He turned to Hunt. 'I don't see any reason why Mr Stafford shouldn't take a look at the College. When would that be?'

'Some time next week?' suggested Stafford.

They arranged a day and Brice noted it in his diary. He smiled, and said, 'That will probably be the day I kill the rumours.'