Desmond Bagley - Windfall

Gunnarsson took a cigarette and Stafford snapped on his lighter. He lit the cigarettes, taking his time, blew out a plume of smoke, and said, 'Is it true what Brice said? That you delivered Henry Hendrix from the States to London?'

Gunnarsson glowered. 'What's it to you?'

'Not a damn thing. But if it is true then you have some explaining to do.' He held up his hand. 'Not to me, but questions will certainly be asked. Dirk Hendriks will probably go to the police and they'll be asking the questions. They'll want to know why you came to Kenya after delivering the heir. You'd better have some good answers. I don't believe the yarn you spun to Brice.'

'I'm not here to talk about me,' said Gunnarsson. 'What about you? What ate you doing in Kenya? You were in the Masai Mara when Hank was kidnapped, and now you're here. It's too goddamn coincidental.'

'You heard about that downstairs,' said Stafford tiredly. 'I'm a family friend of the Hendriks's.' He paused. 'Well, not really. I'm more of a friend of Alix Hendriks. I might have married her at one time, and Dirk knows it. I don't think he likes me much.'

'Is it true his wife named the baby after you?' When Stafford nodded Gunnarsson said, 'Yeah, I guess he could be sore about that.' He pulled on his cigarette. 'But you were at Keekorok at the right time and pulling heroics. And now someone is trailing me.'

'When did you discover that?'

'Yesterday – about midday at the Lake Naivasha Hotel.'

Stafford spread his hands. 'Then it wasn't me. I was already here talking to Alan Hunt about a balloon trip. You can go down and ask him; he's in the dining room.' He flicked ash into the ashtray. 'I have no interest in you, Gunnarsson. But you must have been doing something for someone to take notice of you, and it's my guess that it's connected with your coming to Kenya with young Hendrix.'

'Aw, hell!' said Gunnarsson. 'It's like this. Here's this young guy still wet behind the ears who's just inherited six million bucks. He talked to me about it. He was worried, see? Hank wasn't exactly stupid; just inexperienced. He talked me into coming along as protection.'

'As a bodyguard?'

'Yeah; something like that.'

Stafford laughed. 'Gunnarsson, this is Max Stafford you're talking to. Better men than you have tried to con me. The boss of Gunnarsson Associates wouldn't take on that job himself; you'd assign it to one of your goons. Now let's have the real story.'

Gunnarsson sighed. 'Okay, why not? The truth is that I was standing right next to six million bucks and I was trying to figure a way to cut me a slice. I talked Hank into letting me come along with him to Kenya.'

'You were going to con him into something,' said Stafford flatly.

'I guess I was. I just didn't know exactly how. I was trying to work out a scam when he was kidnapped and maybe killed. How do you like that?'

Stafford got up and walked to the window. Gunnarsson sounded properly aggrieved and his story was cleverly near the truth. All that Gunnarsson had left out was that he had substituted Corliss for Hendrix in the United States. Stafford hoped that Brice and Hendriks were absorbing all this.

He looked out over the grounds of Ol Njorowa and stiffened when he saw the sheet of newspaper caught against the acacia on the other side of the fence. Nair had wasted no time in getting the prints developed and that meant they were ready to hold the conference.

He turned and said, 'Well, all this has nothing to do with me.' He picked up his suitcase, put it on the bed, and opened it. He took his toilet kit and began to put away his shaving tackle.

Gunnarsson said, 'What are you doing?'

Stafford zipped the leather case closed and dropped it into his suitcase. 'What does it look as though I'm doing? I'm packing. I came here for the sole reason of having a balloon flight with Alan Hunt. I had the balloon flight this morning so that's it. When I've got this suitcase packed I'll be going down to say goodbye to Brice, Dirk and the Hunts. Then I'm going back to Nairobi. If you want a lift you're welcome.'

'I have my own car.'

Stafford became sarcastic. 'And if you want notice of my further movements I'll be leaving for London on the flight tomorrow morning or the day after, depending on whether I can get a seat. Does that satisfy you?'

Gunnarsson watched him folding a shirt. 'Why should you want to satisfy me?'

'I wouldn't know,' said Stafford. 'But this was intended to be a holiday, the first I've had for three years, and it hasn't really turned out that way. I became involved, quite accidentally, in the kidnapping of a group of tourists, and since then everyone has been questioning my motives. Even Charles Brice has been asking pointed questions. Well, I've had enough. I'm going home.' He opened drawers to make sure he had packed everything, then closed his suitcase hoping that Brice was taking it all in.

He said, 'Gunnarsson; what do you think happened to young Henry Hendrix? You were there.'

'I don't know what to think. How about you?'

'I think the group was kidnapped by Tanzanians. It's happened before. I think Hendrix was killed, probably accidentally, and buried. Probably not even buried – the scavengers would take care of him. And I think you're wasting your time, Gunnarsson. You've lost out on your con game. Why don't you go home as I'm doing?'

Gunnarsson regarded Stafford sardonically. 'It'll be a long, long day before I take advice from you. There's something goddamn phoney going on here, and if you can't see it then I can. I'm sticking around to do some probing.'

Stafford shrugged and picked up his case. 'Suit yourself.' He walked to the door. 'I suppose we'll meet again, probably in New York. Brace yourself for a fight.'

'I fight rough,' warned Gunnarsson.

'I don't mind that." Stafford stood at the door, his hand on the handle. 'Are you coming down or do you think you've inherited this bedroom?'

'Go to hell!' said Gunnarsson, but he stood up and followed Stafford down the stairs. On the ground floor they parted, Gunnarsson going back into the dining room and Stafford to the Nissan to deposit his suitcase. As he walked back to the entrance of the Admin Block he was well satisfied. The conversation he had had with Gunnarsson had been really aimed at Brice and Hendriks and he hoped the picture frame bug had been in working condition.

On his return to the dining room he saw Brice and Hen driks at their table talking to Gunnarsson. As he sat down Brice said, 'Mr Gunnarsson tells us you're leaving.'

'That's right. I'm here to say goodbye and to thank you for your hospitality.' Stafford looked at Hendriks. 'Sorry about your cousin, Dirk. Keep in touch and let me know what happens. I might be moving around when I get home but letters addressed to the office will find me.'

'I'll do that.'

Brice said, 'Did you and Mr Gunnarsson resolve your differences? I hope so.'

Stafford laughed. 'We have no differences – not here.' A waiter put down a cup before him and filled it with coffee. 'Those will begin in New York.' Gunnarsson snorted, and Stafford said evenly, 'That's why I told Dirk I'd be moving around.'

'You think you can muscle in while I'm away?' Gunnarsson chuckled. 'Not a chance, buster.'

Stafford drank his coffee, then turned to Brice and held out his hand. 'Nice to have known you, Mr Brice – Charles. I hope your plans for Ol Njorowa turn out well.' They shook' hands and Stafford got up and went around the table. He clapped Hendriks on the shoulder. 'When do you expect to be back in London, Dirk?'

'I don't know. I seem to have my hands full here.'

'You don't mind if I pop in to see Alix and my godson, do you?'

'Of course not. She'll be glad to see you.'

Stafford looked across the room. 'I'd better catch Alan Hunt before he leaves. Goodbye, and thanks for everything.'