Flyaway / Windfall (37 page)

‘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 icebreaking 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 Kenyan 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.’

Stafford lifted his eyebrows. ‘What rumours?’

‘About the unexpected inflow of cash,’ said Hunt. He looked at Brice. ‘Is it true?’

‘Quite true,’ said Brice. ‘An unexpected windfall. Could be as much as six or seven million.’

‘Kenya shillings?’ queried Hunt.

Brice laughed. ‘Pounds sterling,’ he said, and Hunt gave a long whistle.

Stafford kept a poker face and wondered what had happened to the rest of the cash. There was a shortfall of about twenty-seven million.

Brice said, ‘Keep it under your hat, Alan, until I make the official announcement. I’m seeing the Trustees and a lawyer in the next few days.’

They had a few more moments of conversation and then Stafford and Hunt returned to their own table. Stafford was abstracted, mulling over what Brice had said, but presently he got talking to Judy, ‘If you’re coming to the College you must go ballooning with us,’ she said.

He stared at her. ‘Ballooning! You must be kidding.’

‘No, I’m not. Alan has a hot air balloon. He
says
he finds it useful in his work.’ She laughed, ‘I think that is just an excuse, though; it’s for the sport mostly. It’s great fun. A good way of spotting animals.’

‘Can you steer it?’

‘Not very well. You go where the wind listeth, like a thistledown. Alan talks learnedly about wind shear and other technicalities, and says he can go pretty much where he wants. But I don’t think he has all that much control.’

‘What happens if you blow over the lake?’

‘You don’t go up if the wind is in that direction; but if it changes you swim until the chase boat catches up, and you hope there aren’t any crocodiles about.’

Stafford said, ‘I call that living dangerously.’

‘It’s not really dangerous; we haven’t had as much as a sprained wrist yet. Alan caught the ballooning bug from another Alan—Alan Root. Have you heard of him?’

‘The wildlife man? Yes; I’ve seen him on television back home.’

‘He lives near here,’ said Judy. ‘He does a lot of filming from his balloon. And he went over Kilimanjaro. Ballooning is becoming popular here. Down at Keekorok in the Masai Mara they take tourists up and call it a balloon safari.’

It was pleasant sitting there chatting. Stafford learned a bit more about the Foundation, but not much, and was sorry when the Hunts departed at about eleven, their parting
words urging him to come back soon. When they had gone he, Hardin and Nair pooled their knowledge and found it wouldn’t fill an egg-cup.

Stafford said, ‘Ben, I’m sending you back to England to do something we should have done before. In any case you’re too conspicuous here; Nairobi is a small town and you could come face to face with Gunnarsson all too easily.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I suppose I am your hole card. What do I do in England?’

‘You study the life and times of Jan-Willem Hendrykxx. I could bear to know how he made his boodle and why he left it to the Ol Njorowa Foundation. Find the Kenya connection, Ben. And nose around Jersey while Farrar is away. The old man must have talked to
someone
in the seven years he was there.’

‘When do I leave?’

‘Tomorrow.’ Stafford turned to Nair. ‘And I’d like to know more about the Foundation. Can you dig out anything on it?’

He nodded. ‘That should be easy.’

‘Then we leave for Nairobi immediately after breakfast tomorrow.’

They got back to Nairobi just after eleven next morning and, as Nair parked the car outside the Norfolk, Stafford saw Curtis in the Delamere Bar sinking a beer. He said to Hardin, ‘Tell the Sergeant I’ll see him in my room now.’

‘Okay,’ said Hardin.

‘I’ll find Chip,’ said Nair.

Stafford nodded and got out of the car. He went into the bar to buy cigarettes and then went up to his room where Curtis and Hardin awaited him. He looked at Curtis and said, ‘Where’s Gunnarsson?’

‘At the Hilton,’ said Curtis. ‘Chip is covering him.’

‘Chip is covering him,’ Stafford repeated. ‘All right, Sergeant; exactly who are Chip and Nair?’

He wore an injured look, ‘I told you.’

‘Don’t come the old soldier with me,’ said Stafford. ‘I’ve had better men than you booked for dumb insolence. You’ve told me nothing. Now, out with it. I want to know if I can trust them. I want to know if they’ll sell me should Gunnarsson offer a higher price. How much are we paying them, anyway?’

‘Nothing,’ Curtis said. ‘It’s a favour.’

Stafford looked at him in silence for a while, then said, ‘That does it. Now you’ve
got
to tell me.’

‘I’m a mite interested, too,’ said Hardin.

Curtis sighed. ‘All right; but I don’t want anyone getting into trouble. No names, no pack drill; see? I told the Colonel I’d been in Kenya before, but that wasn’t the only time. I spent a leave here in 1973. The Colonel knows how it’s done.’

‘You talked to a Chief Petty Officer and came over as a supernumerary in one of Her Majesty’s ships. A free ride.’

He nodded. ‘She was one of the ships on the Beira patrol.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Hardin.

‘A blockade of Beira to try to stop oil getting into Rhodesia,’ said Stafford. ‘And bloody ineffectual it was. Carry on, Sergeant.’

Curtis said, ‘I went ashore at Mombasa, had a look around there, then came up here on the train. I’d been here three or four days when I went to have a look at that big building—the tall round one.’

‘The Kenyatta Conference Centre,’ said Hardin.

‘That’s it,’ said Curtis. ‘It wasn’t finished then. There was a lot of builder’s junk around; it was a mess. I’d left it a bit late in the day and before I knew it the twilight had come, and that doesn’t last long here. Anyway I heard a scuffle and when I turned a corner I saw four black Africans attacking an old Indian and a girl. They’d beat up the old man and he was lying on the ground, and now they were taking care of the girl. It was going to be a gang rape, I reckon. It didn’t happen.’ He held up his fists, ‘I’m pretty good with these.’

Stafford knew that; Curtis had been runner-up in the Marine Boxing Championships in his time. And a tough Marine Colour-Sergeant would be more than a match for four unskilled yobbos. ‘Go on.’

‘The girl was fifteen years old, and the man was her grandfather. The girl was unhurt if scared, but the old man had been badly beaten-up. Anyway the upshot of it
was that I took them home. They made quite a fuss of me then—gave me a meal. It was good curry,’ he said reminiscently.

‘We’ll leave your gourmet experiences until later,’ Stafford said. ‘What next?’

‘The Indians were in a bad way then. Kenyatta had declared that holders of British passports must turn them in for Kenyan passports.’

‘It was the Kenya for the Kenyans bit,’ remarked Hardin. ‘I was here then. The word for it was “localization”.’

‘The Indians didn’t want to give up their British passports but they knew that if they didn’t the government would deport them,’ Curtis said. ‘India wouldn’t have them and the only place they could go to was the UK. They didn’t mind that but they weren’t allowed to take any currency with them, and their baggage was searched for valuables before leaving.’

‘Yeah,’ said Hardin. ‘They were between the rock and a hard place.’ He shrugged. ‘But I don’t know that you could blame Kenyatta. He didn’t want a big foreign enclave in the country. It applied to the British, too, you know. Become Kenyans or leave.’

Curtis said, ‘They asked me to help them. I’d told them how I had come to Kenya and they wanted me to take something back to England.’

‘What was it?’ Stafford asked.

He sketched a small package in the air. ‘A small box sewn up in leather.’

‘What was in it?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t open it.’

‘What do you think was in it?’

Curtis hesitated, then said, ‘I reckon diamonds.’

Stafford said, ‘Sergeant, you were a damned fool. If you’d have been caught you’d have been jailed and lost your service pension. So you took it to England.’

‘Yes. Landed at Portsmouth and then went up to London to an address in the East End.’

‘What did you charge for your services?’

He looked surprised. ‘Nothing, sir.’ Stafford regarded him thoughtfully, and Curtis said, ‘They were good people. You see, they got to England and settled. And after that my Amy was a fearsome time in dying and I had a hard officer. I applied for compassionate leave and he wouldn’t let me have it. I got it at the end, though; I was there when she died. And I found those Indians had been looking after her—taking flowers and fruit and things to the hospital. Seeing she was eased.’ He was silent for a while, then repeated, ‘Good people.’

Stafford sighed and went to the refrigerator. He broke the paper seal and took out a bottle. ‘Have a beer, Sergeant.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

He gave another to Hardin and opened one for himself. ‘So when you knew we were coming to Kenya you went and asked for assistance. Is that it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What’s the name of this Indian family?’ Curtis held his silence, and Stafford said gently, ‘It’s safe with me, Sergeant.’

Reluctantly he said, ‘Pillay.’

A snort came from Hardin. ‘Every second Gujarati is called Pillay; those that aren’t are called Patel. It’s like meeting a Britisher called Smith or Jones.’

Stafford paused in the pouring of the beer. ‘Gujarati? This is where it stops making sense. Nair Singh is a Sikh, and since when have Sikhs and Gujaratis been chums? Not to mention Pete Chipende—he’s a black African and that’s a combination even less likely. And you say these two are helping us free of charge? Come
on
, Sergeant!’

‘Hold it a minute,’ said Hardin. ‘Max, you need a short course in Kenyan political history. I was working here, remember? The Company was very interested in political
activities in Kenya, and I was in it up to my neck so I know the score.’

‘Well?’

He held up a finger. ‘A one party state—the Kenya African National Union; that’s KANU. Kenyatta was President, and the vice-President was Oginga Odinga. But even in a one party state there are factions, and Odinga broke away and formed the Kenya People’s Union—the KPU. Kenyatta wasn’t having that. There was a power struggle and, in the end, the KPU was banned. Odinga spent quite a time in jail. That was back in 1969. Of course, being Africa the brawl was about tribal loyalties as much as anything else. Kenyatta was a Kikuyu and Odinga a Luo. I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground while I’ve been here, and even now KANU is losing ground among the Luos. Of course, there’s ideology involved, too.’

‘So what’s this got to do with anything?’

‘Odinga had to get his money from somewhere; he had to have a war chest. I know he got some from the Chinese and some from the Russians. Kenyatta wasn’t having anything to do with the Commies—he closed down their embassies—so they’d do anything to embarrass him. But there was a strong feeling that Odinga was getting funds from the expatriate Indian community in Britain. They’d been thrown out and they didn’t bear Kenyatta any love, either.’

‘So what’s your conclusion?’

‘My guess is that Chip and Nair are Odinga’s supporters, KPU men. The KPU is banned but it’s still going strong underground. If a source of UK funds should request a favour it wouldn’t be refused.’

‘Damn!’ said Stafford. ‘Bloody politics is the last thing I want to get mixed up in.’

‘You’re not mixing in politics,’ said Hardin. ‘You’re not attacking the government. Just accept the favour and keep
your mouth shut. Those guys could be useful. They
are
being useful.’

Curtis looked woebegone. Stafford smiled, and said, ‘Cheer up, Sergeant; the Good Samaritan nearly always gets the chop in this weary world. It’s really my fault. I told you back in England that I didn’t want to know what you were up to.’

Curtis drank some beer and Stafford could see him take heart. Hardin said, ‘You can bet there’ll be more than Chip and Nair. They may not show but they’ll be there.’

‘What tells you that?’

‘Past experience,’ he said, and drained his glass.

So that was that. Stafford had allies thrust upon him that he could very well do without. But Hardin was right—they could be useful. He determined to accept their help up to a point and to keep his mouth shut as Hardin advised. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. But trust them he would not.

Chip showed up early in the afternoon. It seemed that Gunnarsson was doing what Stafford had done—sleeping away his travel weariness. But he had not appeared for lunch and had a meal sent up to his room. ‘Who is keeping an eye on him now?’

Chip showed a mouthful of teeth. ‘Don’t worry. He’s being watched.’

So Hardin was right; Chip and Nair were not alone. Chip said, ‘Mr Farrar’s party is coming in from London on the morning flight.’

‘How do you know?’

Again the teeth. ‘My brother-in-law is an official at the airport.’

Nair turned up a few minutes later. He brought with him a thick envelope which he handed to Stafford. It proved to be a rundown on the Ol Njorowa Foundation. It was quite
detailed and he wondered how Nair had got hold of all this information at such short notice. Very efficient.

There were five Trustees; K. J. Patterjee, B. J. Peters, D. W. Ngotho, Col S. T. Lovejoy and the Rev A. T. Peacock. He said, ‘Who are these people?’

Chip lounged over and looked over his shoulder. ‘One Indian, a Parsee; three Brits and a black Kenyan.’

‘People of influence? Of standing in the community?’

Stafford heard a chuckle and looked up to see that Nair’s face was wreathed in a smile as well as a beard. Chip said, ‘We wouldn’t go as far as to say that; would we, Nair?’

Nair laughed outright, ‘I don’t think so.’

Chip’s hand came over Stafford’s shoulder and tapped on the paper. ‘Patterjee was jailed for trying to smuggle 12,000 kilogrammes of cloves from Mombasa. That’s highly illegal in this country. Peters was convicted of evading currency regulations and jailed. Ngotho was convicted of being a business prostitute; also jailed.’

‘What the hell is a business prostitute?’

Nair said, ‘Non-citizens cannot hold controlling interests in businesses in Kenya. There was a brisk trade in front men—Kenyans who would apparently own shares but who did not actually do so. Pure legal fakery. It was Mzee Kenyatta who coined the phrase, “business prostitute”, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ said Chip. ‘He made it illegal. Colonel Lovejoy is okay, though; he’s been in Kenya forever. An old man now. Peacock is a missionary.’

Stafford was baffled. It was a curious mixture. ‘How in hell did three crooks get made Trustees of the Ol Njorowa Foundation?’

‘It
is
odd,’ agreed Chip. ‘What is your interest in the Foundation, Max?’

‘I don’t know that I have any interest in the Foundation itself. The Foundation is peripheral to my investigation.’

‘I wonder…’ mused Nair.

Chip said, ‘You wonder what?’

‘If the Foundation is really peripheral to Max’s investigation.’

‘Since we don’t know what Max is investigating that’s hard to say,’ observed Chip judiciously.

Stafford sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘All right, boys; suppose we stop talking with forked tongues.’

Chip said, ‘Well, if we knew what we were doing it would help. Wouldn’t it, Nair?’

‘I should think so.’

Stafford said, ‘I’ll think about it. Meanwhile, if you crosstalk comedians will allow me, I’ll get on with this.’ He turned pages. There were plans of the College which appeared to be quite extensive, involving lecture rooms, laboratories, studies, a library and a residential area. There were sports facilities including a swimming pool, tennis courts and a football field. There was also a large area devoted to experimental plots, something like British garden allotments but more scientific.

Stafford flipped a few pages and found a list of the faculty and caught the name of Alan Hunt. He tapped the name at the top of the page. ‘This man, Brice, the Director. Your friend, Hunt, seems to think he’s a good man, good for the Foundation. Would you agree?’

‘Yes, I would. He’s built up the place since he’s been there. He works in well with the agronomists at the University, too.’ Nair shrugged, ‘I think the University—and the Government—are pleased that the Foundation can take up some of the financial load. Research is expensive.’

But Hunt had said that cash was tight. Stafford ignored that for the moment and flipped back the pages to the beginning—to the Trustees. ‘How long have these three jokers been on the Board of Trustees?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Chip. ‘But we can find out. Can’t we, Nair?’

‘I should think so,’ said Nair. ‘Not much difficulty there.’

The telephone rang and Stafford picked it up, then held it out to Chip. ‘For you.’

He listened, answering in monosyllables and not speaking English. Then he put down the phone, and said, ‘Gunnarsson is up and about. He’s at the New Stanley, having a coffee at the Thorn Tree.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll be about his business. Coming, Nair?’

‘Might as well. Nothing to do here except drink Max’s beer, and I can’t.’ He joined Chip at the door.

Chip turned, and said softly, ‘I hope you’ll make up your mind about telling us what this is about, Max. It would be better for all of us.’ The door closed behind them.

Stafford seriously doubted that. If Hardin was right and a proscribed political party was looking for loot to replenish its war chest there was too much of it about floating relatively loose for him to take chances. He spent the rest of the afternoon concocting a suitable story which would satisfy Chip and Nair, and then went to see Hardin who was in his room packing.