Flyaway / Windfall (43 page)

Stafford held up his hands placatingly. ‘Not another word shall pass my lips.’ Nair nodded gravely.

It was two and a half hours before Chip came back and he brought with him two men whom he introduced as Daniel Wekesa and Osano Gichure. ‘Good friends,’ he said.

‘Just good friends?’ Stafford said sardonically. ‘Not brothers-in-law?’

Chip ignored that. ‘They’ll look after Corliss and get him out of the Mara.’

‘Where will they take him?’

‘We’ll come to that later. The tourists haven’t come back yet, and the border is alive with police on the Kenyan side.’ He stroked his chin. ‘The tour group is probably still in Tanzania. Bare European feet make for slow going. Still, they should come in some time this morning if I know Adam.’

‘Which you do.’

‘Yes. I want to talk to him. I want to know exactly how the Tanzanians picked him up. I also want breakfast, so let’s go.’

Chip talked to Corliss, told him he’d be looked after if he behaved himself, and then they went, again heading north.
They left the rifles and the Uzi with Chip’s good friends and he made Stafford empty his pockets of ammunition. ‘If the police find so much as a single round you’re in trouble,’ he said.

On the way he said he had seen the police. ‘Just stick to the story we arranged and we’ll be fine.’

Chip proved to be right. They walked for an hour and then saw a vehicle coming towards them, bumping through the bush. It contained a police lieutenant and a constable, both armed. They spun their yarn and the lieutenant shook his head. ‘It was very unwise to follow those men; it could have been dangerous. I am glad that Mr Chipende had the sense to stop you crossing the border.’

Stafford scowled at Chip who was now a virtuous citizen. The lieutenant smiled. ‘I hope this has not spoiled your holiday, Mr Stafford. I assure you that these incidents are rare. Certain wild elements in our neighbouring country get out of control.’

‘Is there news of the tour group?’ asked Nair.

The lieutenant looked bleak. ‘Not yet. They will be given a warm welcome when they arrive. Jump in; I’ll take you back to Keekorok in time for a late breakfast.’

So they rode back to the Lodge at Keekorok and got there inside half an hour; not long but long enough for Stafford to wonder if it was habitual for Kenyan police officers to administer a mild slap on the wrist for transgressions such as theirs. He had expected a real rocket and here was the lieutenant actually apologizing for a spoiled holiday. Perhaps it was his view that it was normal for a European tourist to be an idiot.

Their arrival was the occasion for a minor brouhaha. Although the manager met them and tried to ease them into their rooms quietly they were spotted and mobbed by a crowd eagerly asking questions in assorted accents. It was known they had been out all night and that there was
another party still missing and, from the look on the manager’s face as they briefly answered queries, it was definitely a case of bad public relations.

And Curtis was there, his face set in a wide, relieved smile. He put his broad shoulders between Stafford and a particularly importunate American, and said, ‘I hope the Colonel is all right.’

‘Tired and a bit travel-worn, that’s all, Sergeant. Just point me towards breakfast and a bed.’

‘The manager’s arranged for you to have breakfast in your room, sir. He thought it would be better.’

‘Better for whom?’ Stafford said acidly. His guess was that the manager was wishing they would vanish instantly so as not to infect the other guests with the virus of bad news. And it would get worse when the others came back; having tourists kidnapped was not good for the image of Keekorok Lodge. It would get still worse when one tourist didn’t come back at all, and even worse than that when the tourist was identified as an American millionaire. The manager wouldn’t know what had hit him.

Over breakfast Stafford said, ‘I took your advice, Sergeant,’ and brought him up to date. ‘We separated Hendrix from Gunnarsson.’

Curtis was normally an imperturbable and phlegmatic man but the story made his thick, black eyebrows crawl up his scalp like a couple of hairy caterpillars until they threatened to eliminate his bald patch. When Stafford finished he thought in silence then remembered to close his mouth. ‘So we’ve got Hendrix—I mean Corliss. Where?’

Stafford buttered some toast. ‘I don’t know. Chip whistled a couple of characters out of nowhere and they went off with him.’ He took a bite and said indistinctly, ‘Sergeant, I think I’ll have to rechristen you Aladdin; you’ve rubbed a lamp and conjured up a genie. My slightest wish is Chip’s command and I don’t know how the hell he does it. Sheer magic.’

Curtis said, ‘Something’s just come to me.’

‘What?’

‘You remember when we came to the Masai Mara and stopped at the gate. Chip got us in. You have to pay to get into a Reserve—any Reserve.’

Stafford nodded. ‘He said we were his guests.’

‘But he didn’t pay,’ said Curtis. ‘No money passed. He showed a card and signed a book.’

Stafford was tired and looking longingly at the bed. ‘Maybe a season ticket,’ he mumbled, but a season ticket for four wasn’t likely.

Curtis woke Stafford. ‘I’m sure the Colonel would like to know that the other group has come in.’

He came wide awake. ‘You’re damned right. What time is it?’

‘Just after two.’ Stafford blinked disorientedly at the closed curtains and Curtis added gently, in the afternoon, sir.’

Stafford dressed in shirt and shorts with swimming trunks beneath and thrust his feet into sandals. Curtis said, ‘I’m going with Nair to see Corliss if the Colonel doesn’t mind.’

‘Why?’

‘Chip said they’re short of food so we’re taking it.’ He paused. ‘It would be good for us to know where he is, sir.’

Stafford nodded. ‘Carry on, Sergeant.’

The lobby was a hubbub of noise and crammed with a welcoming committee of the curious—those guests who had not gone game spotting. There were a lot of them. Stafford suspected that game spotting in the Masai Mara would be a depreciating part of the tourist industry until this storm had blown itself out. Game spotting was one thing and the risk of being kidnapped was another.

He joined Chip who was leaning against a wall. ‘How are they?’

‘I haven’t seen them yet, and we won’t be able to talk to them for a while. There’s a heavy police escort.’

The rescued tourists came in, spearheaded by a phalanx of police. Six of them—the Roches, Gunnarsson, Kosters and Adam Muliro. They did not walk well, but their feet had been bandaged and clothing had been issued, ill-fitting and incongruous but necessary. The crowd pressed around, shouting questions, and the police kept them back, linking arms.

A senior police officer held up his hands in one of which he held a swagger stick. ‘Quiet please! These people are not well. They need urgent medical attention. Now, make way, please.’

There was a brief hush, then someone called, ‘There are only six. Who’s missing?’

‘Mr Hendrix has not yet appeared. We are still looking for him.’

As photo-flashes began to pop Stafford watched Gunnarsson. He had a baffled, almost defeated, expression on his face. So that’s how a man looks when he’s been cheated of six million dollars. It must have been how many a man looked in New York in the crash of 1929 just before jumping out of the skyscraper window—an expression of unfocused anger at the unfairness of things. Not that Gunnarsson would commit suicide. He was not the type and, anyway, he had not lost the money because he had never had it. Still, it was a hard blow.

Stafford lost sight of him as the party was led away. Chip made a motion of his hand as Adam Muliro went past and Adam nodded almost imperceptibly. Chip said, ‘We won’t see them for a while. Let’s have a swim.’

It was a good idea, so after waiting for the crowd to thin they walked towards the pool. Halfway there someone ran after them. ‘Mr Stafford?’ He turned and saw the man who had asked who was missing. ‘Eddy Ukiru—the
Standard.
Can I have a word with you?’

Behind Ukiru a man was unlimbering what was obviously a press camera. Stafford glanced at Chip who said, ‘Why not?’

And so Stafford gave a press interview. Midway through Ukiru was joined, to his displeasure, by another reporter from a rival newspaper,
Nation,
and Stafford had to repeat some of the details but essentially he stuck to the prepared story which Chip corroborated. Ukiru showed minor signs of disbelief. ‘So you turned back at the border,’ he said. ‘How did you
know
it was the border? There is no fence, no mark.’

Stafford shrugged. ‘You will have to ask Mr Chipende about that.’

So he did, and Chip switched into fast Swahili. Eventually Ukiru shrugged his acceptance, the photographers took their pictures, and they all went away. Stafford said, ‘They got here damned quickly. How?’

‘The manager will have telephoned his head office who will have notified the police in Nairobi. Plenty of room for leaks to the press there. They’ll have chartered aircraft. There’s an airstrip here.’

‘Yes, I’ve seen the airstrip,’ said Stafford. ‘But I didn’t know about the telephone. I’ve seen no wires.’

Chip smiled. ‘It’s a radio-phone in the manager’s office. And we can’t have wires because the elephants knock down the telegraph poles. Let’s have that swim.’

Stafford wanted to put himself next to Gunnarsson and found the opportunity during the pre-dinner cocktail hours. All the rescued tour group was there in the bar with the exception of Adam Muliro and they were being quizzed about their experience by the other guests. There was an air of euphoria about them; much laughter from the Roches and Kosters. Now saved, their adventure verged somewhat on unreality and would be something to dine out on for years to come. Adventure is discomfort recollected in tranquillity.

Stafford talked with Kosters and Michele Roche and got their account with no great difficulty, then said with an air
of puzzlement, ‘But what about Hendrix? What happened to him?’

The euphoric gaiety disappeared fast. ‘I don’t know,’ said Kosters soberly. ‘They took him away and there was shooting.’

‘You think he’s dead?’

Michele’s voice was sombre. ‘He hasn’t come back. We didn’t see him again.’

Stafford looked across at Gunnarsson. There was no euphoria about him. He sat with his legs stretched out, gloomily regarding his bandaged feet. Someone had found him a pair of carpet slippers which had been slashed to accommodate the bandages. Stafford took his drink and walked over to Gunnarsson. ‘You’ve had a nasty experience. Oh; my name is Stafford.’

Gunnarsson squinted up at him. ‘Stafford? You the guy who tried to come after us?’

‘We didn’t get very far,’ Stafford said ruefully. ‘We just got lost and made bloody fools of ourselves.’

‘Let me top up your drink.’ Stafford sat down. ‘I’m John Gunnarsson.’ He turned and looked at Stafford, then shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t have done any good, Mr Stafford—those guys were a walking arsenal—but thanks for trying. What will you have?’

‘Gin and tonic.’

Gunnarsson beckoned to a waiter and gave the order, then sighed. ‘Christ, what an experience. I’ve been in some tough spots in my time but that was one of the toughest.’

‘They tell me it’s happened before,’ Stafford said casually.

‘Yeah. These damned half-ass Kenyans ought to beef up their border force. You know what was the worst? There’s nothing takes the steam out of a guy faster than to strip him bollock naked.’ He gave a small snort. ‘Well, not quite; they let us keep our underpants.’ He brooded. ‘It was bad coming
back what with the sun and the thorns. My feet feel the size of footballs. And there was the goddamn hyena…’

‘A hyena?’

‘A big son of a bitch. It trotted parallel with us about a hundred yards off, I guess. Waiting for someone to lag or drop out. If it wasn’t for the nig…the black guy, Adam Somebody, I don’t think we’d have made it. He was good.’

‘I hear somebody didn’t make it,’ Stafford said.

‘Oh, Jesus!’ Gunnarsson’s neck swelled.

‘What happened to him? Enderby, wasn’t it?’

‘Hendrix.’ Gunnarsson glowered. ‘There were six of us, six of them, and Adam, the driver. Trouble was, they were armed. Kalashnikovs. Know what they are?’

Stafford shook his head. ‘Things like that don’t come my way.’

‘You’re lucky. They’re Russian-made automatic rifles. We couldn’t do a goddamn thing. Helpless.’ He made a fist in his frustration. ‘Then a couple of them took Hendrix away and later there was firing and the four black guys with us burst out laughing. Imagine that.’

‘I can’t,’ Stafford said soberly. ‘Were these men in uniform?’

‘Yeah. Camouflage gear. A real military set-up. Jesus, but there’s going to be trouble when I get back to Nairobi. Nobody’s going to get away with doing this to an American citizen.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Stafford asked interestedly.

‘Do! I’m going to raise hell with the American Ambassador, that’s what I’m going to do. Hendrix was a real nice young guy and I want him found, dead or alive. And if he’s dead I want blood if I have to take it all the way to the United Nations.’

Stafford contemplated that statement. If Gunnarsson was prepared to raise a stink at that level it meant that the real Hendrix was not around to object. Terminated with extreme
prejudice, as Chip had said. The killing of a newly made American millionaire was certain to find its way into New York newspapers if Gunnarsson was prepared to push it so far, which meant that Gunnarsson thought he was safe.

‘Had you known him long? Hendrix, I mean.’

‘A while—not long,’ said Gunnarsson. ‘But that’s not the point, Mr Stafford. The point is they can’t get away with doing this to an American citizen and I’m going to scream that loud and clear.’

Yes, it was his only chance if Hendrix/Corliss was still alive and in the hands of the Tanzanians. Only strong diplomatic pressure put on Tanzania by Kenya and the United States could get back Gunnarsson’s walking treasure chest. It would take nerve but Gunnarsson had that in plenty.

‘I wish you well,’ Stafford said. ‘Let me buy you a drink.’

So he bought Gunnarsson a drink and presently took his leave. As he walked by the back of Gunnarsson’s chair he said, ‘Good luck,’ and clapped him on the shoulder. Gunnarsson jumped a foot in the air, let out a scream and banged both feet on the floor, whereupon he emitted another piercing yell. Stafford apologized, professing to have forgotten his sunburn, and made a quick getaway.