Flyaway / Windfall (46 page)

In Nairobi Gunnarsson was angry. His feet hurt and his back was sore but that was not the reason for his anger. What riled him was that he was being given the runaround in the American Embassy. ‘Damn it!’ he said. ‘I’ve been kidnapped and my friend is still missing. If I can’t see the Ambassador who the hell can I see? And don’t fob me off on any third clerk. I want action.’

The clerk behind the counter sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He moved away and picked up a telephone. ‘Is Mr Pasternak there?’

‘Speaking.’

‘There’s a guy here called Gunnarsson wanting to see the Ambassador. He has some crazy story about being kidnapped by Tanzanians and says his friend is still missing. I think he’s a nut, but I can’t get rid of him.’

An incredulous silence bored into his ear, then Pasternak said, ‘Gleeson; don’t you read the papers? Watch TV? Listen to the radio?’

‘I’ve been on safari for two weeks,’ said Gleeson. ‘Just got back this morning from my vacation. Why? Something happened?’

‘Yeah; something happened,’ said Pasternak ironically. ‘Don’t let that guy get away; I’ll be right down. And catch up on the goddamn news for God’s sake.’ He hung
up, opened his desk drawer to check that his recorder had a tape ready to go, then went downstairs to meet Gunnarsson.

Gunnarsson was still simmering so Pasternak applied the old oil. ‘Sorry you’ve been kept waiting, Mr Gunnarsson, and sorrier that you’ve been inconvenienced by idiocy. Won’t you come this way?’ He slowed his pace to Gunnarsson’s hobble as he led the way to the elevator. ‘I guess you had a tough time.’

Gunnarsson grunted. ‘You guessed right. What’s your position here?’

‘Nothing much,’ admitted Pasternak. ‘Third Secretary. You’ll realize we’re all busy on this thing, especially the Ambassador. He’s talking with the Kenyan Foreign Minister right now, trying to get some action. And the rest of our work has to carry on—guys losing their credit cards and traveller’s checks and so on.’

‘This is more important,’ said Gunnarsson acidly. ‘You’ve lost an American citizen.’

Pasternak said, ‘We’re doing all we can, Mr Gunnarsson; and we’re sure you can help.’ They left the elevator, walked along a corridor, and he opened the door of his office. ‘In here. Would you like coffee?’

‘Thanks.’ Gunnarsson sat before the desk, thankfully taking the weight off his feet, as Pasternak picked up the telephone and ordered a jug of coffee.

Pasternak sat down, opened his desk drawer and unobtrusively switched on the recorder before taking out a notepad and laying it on the desk. He picked up a pen. ‘I’ve read the newspaper reports,’ he said. ‘But you know what newspapers are. I’ll be glad to hear a first-hand report. If you hadn’t come to us, Mr Gunnarsson, we’d have been camping on your doorstep. Now, I’d like you to tell it as it happened. Don’t leave anything out even though you might think it irrelevant.’

So Gunnarsson told his story while Pasternak made largely unnecessary notes and dropped in a question from time to time. ‘You say these men were in uniform. Can you describe it?’ Then again: ‘You say the rifles were Kalashnikovs; how do you know?’

‘I’m a gun buff back home. I know a Kalashnikov when I see one.’

He got to the end when he said, ‘And then we got back to Keekorok and that was that. But Hank Hendrix didn’t come back.’

‘I see.’ Pasternak laid down his pen. ‘More coffee?’

‘Thanks. All this talk is thirsty work.’

Pasternak poured the coffee. ‘What’s your relationship with Hendrix?’

‘We’re business associates,’ said Gunnarsson. ‘And friends, too.’

Pasternak nodded understandingly. ‘Yes, you’d naturally be disturbed about this affair. What business are you in, Mr Gunnarsson?’

‘I run Gunnarsson Associates; we’re a security outfit based in New York. We run security for corporations and do some investigative work. Not much of that, though.’

‘Investigative work,’ repeated Pasternak, thoughtfully. ‘You’re licensed for that in the state of New York?’

‘In most states of the Union,’ said Gunnarsson. ‘We’re a pretty big outfit.’

‘And what were you doing in Kenya?’

‘Well, Hank had some business here. He’d inherited a hunk of dough. I came along for the ride; taking a vacation, you know.’ Gunnarsson looked at Pasternak over the rim of his coffee cup. ‘The shit’s going to hit the fan on this one, Pasternak, because Hank had just inherited six million bucks. The papers will make hay of it back home.’

Pasternak raised his eyebrows. ‘The State Department does not run its affairs on the basis of newspaper reports,
Mr Gunnarsson. But you interest me. You say Henry Hendrix had inherited six million dollars from Kenya?’

Gunnarsson shook his head. ‘I didn’t say that. He inherited from his grandfather, but the will said that a condition of inheritance was that Hank was to spend at least one month a year at some charitable foundation here; helping out, I guess.’

‘Which foundation?’

‘Ol Njorowa,’ said Gunnarsson, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. ‘It’s near Naivasha.’

‘Yes,’ said Pasternak meditatively. ‘I read they’d come into money but I didn’t know about Hendrix.’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘How long are you staying in Kenya, Mr Gunnarsson?’

Gunnarsson shrugged. ‘For a while, I guess. I’ll stick around to see if Hank comes back. And I want to goose the Ambassador. An American citizen has disappeared, Pasternak, and no one seems to be doing much about it. I tell you, I’m going to raise hell.’

Pasternak made no comment. He drew the notepad towards him, and said, ‘If you’ll give me the name of your hotel here, and your home address, I think that’s about all.’

‘What do you want my home address for?’

‘I doubt if you’ll be staying in Kenya indefinitely,’ said Pasternak reasonably. ‘We might want to talk to you again, even back in the States. And if you intend moving about in Kenya we’d like to know your itinerary in advance.’

‘Why?’

‘We might want to get hold of you in a hurry. For identification purposes, for instance.’ Again it was a reasonable request. Pasternak wrote down the addresses, then pushed a button and stood up. ‘That’s all, Mr Gunnarsson. Thanks for coming in.’ He held out his hand. ‘We’ll do our best to find what happened to Mr Hendrix.’

‘You’d better find him,’ said Gunnarsson. ‘There’s a lot riding on Hank.’

A man entered the room. Pasternak said, ‘The messenger will escort you downstairs.’ He smiled. ‘If you’re in the security business you’ll realize why we don’t like people wandering around the building.’

Gunnarsson grunted and left without saying another word. Pasternak opened the drawer and stopped the recorder, then rewound it. He played it, skipping back and forth, and listened to one part several times. Would a gun nut know a Kalashnikov when he saw one? There were precious few of those floating about loose back home. True, an enthusiast might study illustrations in books. And Gunnarsson was in something known amorphously as ‘security’ which could be a euphemism for something more dangerous. A couple of loose ends which needed tidying up. He played the tape yet again and frowned when he noted that both he and Gunnarsson had consistently referred to Hendrix in the past tense.

Pasternak turned to the typewriter and wrote a request for any known information on John Gunnarsson, giving the address in New York. He took it to the code room himself.

The telex was addressed to Langley, Virginia.

An hour later Pasternak was interrupted again. The telephone rang and Gleeson said, ‘Mr Hardin is asking for you.’

Pasternak frowned, hunting in his mind for a connection, then his brow cleared. ‘Not Ben Hardin?’

There was a pause and a few mumbled words, then Gleeson said, ‘Yes; Ben Hardin.’

‘Have him brought up.’ Pasternak depressed the telephone cradle and dialled. ‘Send in some more coffee.’ When Hardin entered the room he stood up and smiled. ‘Well, hello, Ben. It’s been a long time. What are you doing in Kenya?’

They shook hands and Hardin sat down. ‘A sort of working vacation,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been here in years. Nairobi has changed some but the country hasn’t. I thought I’d drop in to see if there was anyone I knew from the old days.’

‘And you found me.’ Pasternak smiled. ‘It’s certainly been a long time. What are you doing these days?’

‘Working for a British outfit.’ Hardin shrugged. ‘A guy has to earn a living.’

‘I’d stick in Kenya,’ advised Pasternak. ‘I wouldn’t go into Tanzania. You’ll still be on a list after what you did in Dar-es-Salaam. I know it was years ago but those guys have long memories.’

‘I’m not going anywhere near Tanzania,’ said Hardin. ‘Not even to the border. I hear it’s not safe even for tourists.’

‘You heard about that?’

‘It made the London papers, ’ said Hardin. ‘I read about it over there.’

‘It will have made the New York papers, too,’ agreed Pasternak gloomily. ‘If it hasn’t yet, it will. One of the guys who was kidnapped has just been in here bending my ear. The other American, the one who came back. Gunnarsson has been threatening to raise Cain.’

‘Gunnarsson!’ Hardin showed surprise. ‘Of Gunnarsson Associates in New York?’ Pasternak nodded. ‘Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch!’

‘Do you know him?’

‘I used to work for him after I left the Company. He’s ex-Company, too.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Pasternak. He poured a couple of cups of coffee while he thought. That would explain the recognition of the Kalashnikovs, but it did not explain why Gunnarsson had lied about how he knew unless he did not want to advertise his one-time connection with the CIA. A lot of guys were sensitive about it. But Gunnarsson had not looked the sensitive type. ‘What sort of a guy is he?’

‘A 22-carat bastard,’ said Hardin, and hesitated. ‘Look, Mike, I’d just as soon Gunnarsson doesn’t know I’m around. We parted on bad terms and now I’m working for the competition. He won’t like that.’

Pasternak shrugged. ‘No reason for me to tell him, Ben. Who are you working for?’

‘Stafford Security Consultants of London. I joined them when Gunnarsson fired me.’

The facts in Pasternak’s mind rearranged themselves into a different pattern. Another security crowd! ‘You said “a working vacation.” How much is work and how much vacation?’

‘About fifty-fifty,’ said Hardin. ‘Max Stafford, my boss, is in Nairobi, too. We’re giving Kenya the once-over to see if it’s ripe for us to move in.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Damn it; I’ll bet that’s why Gunnarsson is here. I’ll tell Stafford.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘Getting any action around here?’

Pasternak smiled genially. ‘You know better than to ask that, Ben. You’re not in the Company any more and, even if you were, I wouldn’t tell you a damned thing and you know it.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’ve got the idea you aren’t here just to talk about old times, so why don’t you spill it?’

‘You always were sharp,’ said Hardin with a grin. ‘It’s like this. Stafford has Europe pretty much tied up. Our clients are the multinational corporations and a couple of them aren’t happy about their security out here, so they want Stafford to set up shop in Kenya. Well, he’s not going to do it blind, and he’ll need more than two clients to make it profitable, so he’s here to see for himself. Follow me so far?’

‘You’re doing fine,’ said Pasternak dryly. ‘Come to the point.’

‘We ran across a couple of guys who seem to be the cat’s whiskers in our line, very smooth and efficient. Trouble is
that Stafford thinks they’re connected with the Kenya People’s Union and that’s bad. If Stafford is thinking of setting up a permanent office here he can’t afford to be mixed up with a banned political party.’

‘It would be the kiss of death if it came out,’ agreed Pasternak soberly. He reached for a pen. ‘Who are these guys?’

‘A black Kenyan called Pete Chipende and a Sikh, Nair Singh. Know them?’

Pasternak was so taken by surprise that his pen made a scrawled line on the pad. He controlled himself and wrote down the names. ‘No, but I guess I can find out, given time.’ His mind was busy with the implications of what he had just heard. ‘What kind of a guy is Stafford?’

‘Not bad—so far,’ said Hardin judiciously. ‘He hasn’t cut any corners yet, not that I know of.’

‘Maybe I’ll meet him sometime,’ said Pasternak. ‘What about a drink together?’

‘Why not? We’re staying at the Norfolk.’

‘I’m busy today, but maybe I’ll give you a ring tomorrow. Okay?’

‘That’s fine. Stafford’s an interesting guy; he was in British army intelligence—a colonel.’

‘Was he? I look forward to meeting him.’

Hardin took his leave and Pasternak seated himself before the typewriter again and composed another request for information. This time the subject was Max Stafford and the telex was to be sent, after coding, to the American Embassy in London. After a moment’s thought he wrote another request for information on Hardin and addressed it to Langley.

Kenya was becoming livelier, thought Pasternak.

Gunnarsson was in the Thorn Tree café at the New Stanley Hotel having drinks with Dirk Hendriks. As he had been leaving the American Embassy he had heard a man saying
to the marine guard, ‘My name is Dirk Hendriks. Where do I go to find out about Henry Hendrix, the man who was kidnapped into Tanzania?’

The marine pointed. ‘Ask at the desk, sir.’

Gunnarsson touched Hendriks on the arm. ‘Are you Hank Hendrix’s cousin?’

Hendriks turned and looked at Gunnarsson in surprise. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘I’m John Gunnarsson. I was there.’

‘You were where?’

‘With your cousin when he was kidnapped.’ Gunnarsson jerked his thumb towards the inquiry desk. ‘You’d better talk with me before you butt your head against that brick wall.’

Dirk looked at him interestedly. ‘You mean you were kidnapped, too?’

‘Yeah. That’s why I’m not too sharp on my feet. They made us walk out and I was stuck full of thorns.’

‘I’ve got my car here,’ said Hendriks. ‘No need to walk. Where shall we go?’

‘I’m staying at the New Stanley,’ said Gunnarsson. ‘We can have a drink at the Thorn Tree.’

The Thorn Tree was a Nairobi institution, being an open air café serving light refreshments. In the centre grew a large acacia, tall and spreading wide to give pleasant shade and which gave the Thorn Tree its name. The peculiarity which made the Thorn Tree different was the notice board which surrounded the trunk of the tree. Here it was the custom to leave messages for friends and it was a commonplace to say, ‘If you want to find out where I am I’ll leave a message on the thorn tree.’ A local beer company even provided message pads, and it certainly did no harm to the profits of the café.