Desmond Bagley - Windfall

'Why not here?' said Nair. 'Here on Crescent Island. It's close to Ol Njorowa and it's quiet. We can bring a tent and sleeping bags and anything else you might need.'

'We'll need a boat,' said Stafford.

Curtis leaned forward and said in a low voice, 'The Colonel might like to know there's someone coming.'

'Where?'

'Up the slope from the water and moving quietly.'

Chip had caught it. He signalled to Nair and they both headed down the slope, angling in different directions. They disappeared and, for a while, nothing happened. Then they came back, strolling casually, and Chip was tearing open an envelope. 'It's all right; just someone bringing me a message.' He took a sheet of paper from the envelope and scanned it. 'The man who was asking for Gunnarsson at the New Stanley. He's been traced back to Ol Njorowa; his name is Patterson.'

Stafford wrinkled his brow. 'That name rings a faint bell.'

Hunt said, 'He's one of the animal migration team. I suppose that does it.'

'Wasn't he the man with Brice when I met him for the first time at the Lake Naivasha Hotel?'

'Yes,' said Judy. 'Alan, I think Max has proved his point.' She looked directly at Stafford. 'What do you want us to do?'

'Chip's the boss,' said Stafford.

'Not really,' said Chip, and nodded his head towards the grey-haired Kenyan who was knocking out his pipe on the rock he sat on. Stafford had glanced at him from time to time during the conference. His face had remained blandly blank but he had obviously listened to every word. Chip said, 'I'll have to have a private talk first.' He walked to one side and the elderly man put away his pipe and followed him.

Curtis said to Nair, 'If we're staying on this island we'll need essential supplies. Beer.'

Stafford smiled, and Hardin said, 'What do I do?'

'That depends upon what Chip wants to do, and that depends upon the decision of Mr Anonymous over there. Or he could be General Anonymous, since this seems to be an army operation. We'll have to wait and see.'

'You know,' said Hunt. 'I can't believe this is happening.'

'You don't know the whole story yet,' said Stafford. 'You'd find that even more incredible.' He turned to Hardin. 'It seems that Gunnarsson is not involved with Brice or Hendriks. He had a ploy of his own which he'd probably call a scam.'

'Ripping off the Hendrykxx estate with Corliss,' agreed Hardin.

Stafford laughed. 'You started all this, Ben. Did you imagine, back in Los Angeles, that you would uncover an international espionage plot in the middle of Africa? It's only because we were suspicious of Gunnarsson that we got wind of it. You know, it puzzled me a long time. I was trying to fit pieces into a jig-saw and only now have I realized there were two jig-saw puzzles – one around Gunnarsson and the other around Ol Njorowa.'

Judy said, 'So what happens now?'

'I suspect we fall into the hands of politicians,' said Stafford. He jerked his head. 'That pair over there are, I think, simple-minded military men. If they have their way they'll climb in to Ol Njorowa and disinfect it. The direct way. The politicians might have other ideas.'

Hunt said, 'Curtis refers to you as the Colonel. Are you still active, and in what capacity?'

'God, no! I got out ten years ago.' Stafford sat up. 'I was in Military Intelligence and I became tired of my work being either ignored or being buggered about by politicos who don't know which end is up. So I quit and started my own civilian and commercial organization. I resigned from Weltpolitik.' He paused. 'Until now.'

Hardin lifted his head. 'Chip's coming back.'

Stafford heard the crunch of Chip's footsteps. He raised his head and said, 'What's the verdict?' His eyes slid sideways and he watched the grey-haired Mr Anonymous walk down the slope and out of sight among the trees.

Chip said, 'We wait awhile.'

'I might have guessed it,' said Stafford. He shrugged elaborately as though to make his point with Alan Hunt.

Hunt said, 'What about us?' He indicated his sister.

'You just carry on normally,' said Chip. 'If we need you we'll get word to you. But until then you don't, by any action or quiver of a muscle, give any indication that anything is out of the ordinary.'

Hardin said, 'And me? What do I do?'

Chip blew out his cheeks. 'I suppose you come under Mr Stafford. I recommend that you stay here – on Crescent Island.'

Hardin nudged Nair. 'That means more beer.'

Stafford said, a little bitterly, 'Chip, you've talked to that mate of yours. I suppose he was a high-ranking officer. Am I to take it that he's going for instructions?'

Chip shook his head sadly. 'You know how it is, Max. Wheels within wheels. Everyone has someone on his neck. Any action on this has to be taken on instruction from the top. We're talking about international stuff now – a clash of nations.'

Stafford sighed. He leaned back so that he lay flat, and put his hands over his eyes to shade them from the sun. 'Then get on with your bloody clash of nations.'

Brice stood looking out of his window over the grounds of Ol Njorowa. His brow was furrowed as he swung to face Hendriks. 'First Stafford, and now Gunnarsson. You heard them. They're on to us.'

'Not Max,' said Hendriks. 'He's going home.'

' All right. But Gunnarsson suspects something. Who is he?'

'You know as much as I do,' said Hendriks. 'He's boss of the American agency which found Henry Hendrix in California. You heard what he said to Stafford. He tried to cut himself a slice but he failed when he lost Hendrix. He's a bloody crook if you ask me.'

'I don't need to ask you,' said Brice acidly. 'It's self-evident.'

Hendriks held up a finger. 'One thing seems clear,' he said. 'Cousin Henry really must be dead. Stafford certainly thinks so.'

'That doesn't do us much good if there's no body.' Brice sat behind his desk. 'And you heard Gunnarsson. He says he's staying around to investigate.'

'So what is there to investigate?' asked Hendriks. 'He's not interested in us. All he wants is to find Henry – which he won't. After a while he'll get tired of it and go home like Max. There's nothing for him to find, not now.'

'Perhaps, but we'll keep an eye on him.'

'Do that,' said Hendriks. He stood up and walked to the door. 'If you want me I'll be in my room.'

He left Brice and went upstairs. In his room he lay on the bed and lit a cigarette, and his thoughts went back over the years to the time it had all started.

He supposed it began when he was recruited to the National Intelligence Service. Of course in those days it was called the Bureau for State Security. Joel Mervis, the then editor of the Johannesburg Sunday Times, had consistently replaced 'for' with 'of' which resulted in the acronym BOSS. A cheap trick but it worked and was adopted by newspapers all over the world. Hendriks reflected how oddly insensitive his fellow countrymen were in matters of this nature. It took them a long time to get the point and then the name was changed to the Department of National Security which made the acronym DONS. Even that was received with some hilarity and another change was made

to the National Intelligence Service. Nothing much could be made of NIS.

He was thoroughly trained and began his fieldwork, working mostly in Rhodesia at that time. South Africa was desperately trying to buttress the Smith government but, of course, that came to nothing in the end. The death of Salazar in faraway Portugal sent a whole row of dominoes toppling. An anti-colonial regime in Portugal meant the loss at Angola and then Mozambique; the enemy was on the frontier and Rhodesia could not be saved. Now the Cubans were in Angola and South West Africa was threatened. It was a bleak outlook.

But that was now. In the days when it seemed that Rhodesia could be saved for white civilization Hendriks had enjoyed his work until he stopped a bullet fired not by a black guerilla but, ironically, by a trigger-happy white farmer. He was pulled back to South Africa, hospitalized, and then given a month's leave.