Flyaway / Windfall (48 page)

Abercrombie-Smith was apoplectic. He gobbled for a moment then said breathily, ‘This is outrageous. I’ve never been spoken to like that before; not by anyone.’

‘A pity,’ Stafford said, and stood up as the hall porter came into the lounge. ‘You might have made a half-way decent man if someone had taken you in hand earlier.’ He held up his hand. ‘Don’t get up. I’ll find my own way back.’

By the time the taxi deposited him in front of the Norfolk he had cooled down somewhat. As he paid off the driver he wondered if he had made a rod for his own back. Stafford had always deemed it a virtue not to make unnecessary enemies and he had been hard on Abercrombie-Smith. Still, the man had been nauseating with his casual assumption that he had but to crook a finger and Stafford would come to heel. Stafford reflected that he had better look to his defences.

He picked up his key at the desk and found a message from Hardin saying he was at the hotel pool. He walked through the courtyard, past the aviaries with their twittering and chirping birds, and through the archway to the
pool. There he found Hardin who said, ‘Where have you been? Pasternak rang again, and said he’d have to make it earlier. He’ll be here any minute.’

‘I’ve been having my brains washed,’ Stafford said sourly. ‘Pasternak wouldn’t be boss of the Kenya CIA station by any chance?’

‘He might be,’ said Hardin with a grin. ‘But he’s not saying.’

‘Tell me more,’ Stafford said.

‘I didn’t know Pasternak when I was here but I knew him from Langley. We weren’t really buddy-buddy in those days but we had a drink together from time to time. It’s useful that he’s here.’

‘Where’s Curtis?’

‘He went downtown.’ Hardin looked over Stafford’s shoulder. ‘Here’s Pasternak now.’

Pasternak was a lean, rangy man with a closed look about his face. As they shook hands he said, ‘Mike Pasternak. Good of you to see me, Mr Stafford.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know that I can tell you much. I’m a security man and it’s my job to keep secrets. Care for a drink?’

‘I’ll get them,’ said Hardin. ‘Beer, Mike?’

Pasternak nodded and Hardin went to the poolside bar. Pasternak said, ‘Ben tells me you’re interested in Pete Chipende.’

That’s right.’ Stafford gestured. ‘Let’s sit.’

They sat face to face across a table and Pasternak looked at Stafford thoughtfully. ‘I’d give a whole lot to know
why
you’re running with Pete Chipende.’

‘Didn’t Ben tell you?’

‘Yeah.’ Pasternak smiled wryly. ‘I didn’t believe him. I’m hoping you’ll tell me.’

‘I’m afraid it’s my business, Mr Pasternak,’ said Stafford.

‘I thought you’d take that attitude. I’m sorry. I hope you know what you’re getting into.’ Pasternak lit a cigarette.
‘Ben tells me you’re in the same line as Gunnarsson, but in Europe. He also told me you were in British army intelligence at one time.’

‘That’s correct. It’s a matter of record. And you are CIA but you won’t admit it outright.’

Pasternak smiled. ‘Would you expect me to?’ The smile faded. ‘Now, here’s a funny thing. Hendrix, a newly hatched millionaire, and Gunnarsson, ex-CIA, are in a party kidnapped into Tanzania. Along comes Stafford, again an ex-intelligence guy, and he chases after the kidnappers together with Chipende and Nair Singh. Then I see Ben, also ex-CIA. Don’t you think it’s strange, Mr Stafford?’

Stafford said, ‘Do you know a man called Abercrombie—Smith from the British High Commission?’

Pasternak straightened. ‘Don’t tell me he’s in on this? Whatever it is.’

‘I had lunch with him. And now you are here. Perhaps we’d better hire the Kenyatta Conference Centre for a secret service congress,’ Stafford said dryly. ‘But what’s
your
interest in Chipende?’

Pasternak gave Stafford a strange look. ‘Are you kidding?’

‘I never kid about serious matters, Mr Pasternak. I really would like to know.’

‘It seems as though I’m wasting my time after all,’ he said. ‘And probably wasting yours. Here’s Ben with the beer. Let me put it on my expense account.’

‘Don’t bother,’ Stafford said. ‘Just tell me about Chipende. Abercrombie-Smith wants to know, too. He tried to twist my arm this afternoon.’

‘Successfully?’

‘He got a flea in his ear.’

‘I don’t want to get the same treatment, Mr Stafford,’ said Pasternak. ‘So just let’s concentrate on the beer.’

Hardin came up with a tray which he placed on the table. They drank beer and chatted about inconsequential subjects such as the necessity for adjusting the carburettor of a car when driving from Mombasa at sea level to Eldoret which is at an altitude of nearly 10,000 feet. Hardin was baffled, as Stafford could see by the odd looks he received.

Pasternak drained his glass. ‘I must be going,’ he said, and stood up. ‘Nice to have met you, Mr Stafford.’

‘Come again,’ said Stafford ironically.

He walked with Pasternak through the courtyard. Pasternak stopped by one of the aviaries and said, ‘Have you noticed that there are no songbirds in Africa? They cheep and chirp but don’t sing.’ He paused. ‘Do you mind if I give you some advice?’

Stafford smiled. ‘Not at all. The great thing about advice is that you needn’t follow it.’

‘Watch Gunnarsson. I got a report on him this morning. That guy is bad news.’

‘That’s the most superfluous advice I’ve ever been given,’ said Stafford chuckling. ‘But thanks, anyway.’ They shook hands and Pasternak went on his way.

Stafford turned to go to his room and met Hardin who said, ‘Were you two talking in code or something? That meeting was supposed to be about Chip.’

‘Ben, I know where I am now.’ Stafford clapped him on the back. ‘Bismarck was reputed to be silent in seven languages, but I’ll bet his silence told more than his speeches. It was what Pasternak didn’t say that interested me.’

‘Nuts!’ said Hardin disgustedly.

Next morning after breakfast Stafford said to Hardin, ‘Ben, I’m tired of this pussyfooting around; we’re going to do some pushing.’

‘Who are you going to push?’

‘We’ll start with Chip. Sergeant?’

Curtis stiffened. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’ve been liaising with Chip. I want him in my room by ten o’clock.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Curtis pushed back his chair from the breakfast table and left the room.

Hardin said, ‘Why Chip? He’s on our side.’

‘Is he?’ Stafford shook his head. ‘Pete Chipende is on no side other than his own. What’s more, he has Corliss hidden somewhere and that gives him leverage should he want to use it. You uncovered Corliss but Chip has got him and I don’t like that one little bit.’

‘You have a point,’ acknowledged Hardin. ‘But I don’t think he’ll push easy.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Stafford.

At nine-thirty Curtis reported back. ‘Chip will see the Colonel at ten as requested. He asked what the Colonel wanted. I said I wasn’t in the Colonel’s confidence.’

‘You are now,’ said Stafford, and told Curtis what he wanted him to do.

Hardin said, ‘Max; are you sure about this?’

‘Yes, Pasternak told me.’

‘I didn’t hear him.’

‘He didn’t say anything,’ said Stafford, leaving Hardin baffled.

He spent the next half hour guarding his back.

He wrote a letter to Jack Ellis in London asking that the resources of Stafford Security Consultants be put to investigating thoroughly one Anthony Abercrombie-Smith from the time of his birth to the present day; his schools, clubs, work, friends if any, investments and anything else that might occur to him.

As he put the sheet of notepaper into an envelope Stafford reflected on Cardinal Richelieu who had said, ‘If you give me six lines written by the most honest man, I will find something in them to hang him.’ That surely would apply to Abercrombie-Smith should he have to be leaned on.

He had just sealed the envelope when Chip arrived. ‘You want me?’

Stafford glanced at Hardin and Curtis. ‘Yes. Where’s Corliss?’

‘He’s quite safe,’ assured Chip.

‘No doubt. But where is he?’

Chip sat down. ‘Don’t worry, Max. If you want Corliss at any time he can be produced within half an hour.’

Stafford smiled gently. ‘You keep telling me not to worry and that worries the hell out of me.’ He apparently changed the subject. ‘By the way, Abercrombie-Smith sends his regards.’

Chip paused in the act of lighting a cigarette, just a minute hesitation. He continued the action and blew out a plume of smoke. ‘When did you see him?’

‘We had lunch in the Muthaiga Club yesterday.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Ostensibly he wanted to know why I hadn’t reported in to the High Commissioner’s office after the kidnapping. He really wanted to know about you.’

Chip’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Did he? What did you tell him?’

‘What could I tell him? I know nothing about you.’

Hardin stirred. ‘True enough.’

Chip said, ‘Do you know who he is?’

Stafford smiled. ‘He’ll be listed as a trade advisor or something like that, but really he’s the MI6 man in Nairobi, serving the same function that Mike Pasternak does for the CIA.’

Chip sat on the bed. ‘You’ve been getting around. Have you talked to him, too?’

‘We had a chat over a beer. Nothing important.’

‘For a stranger in the country you get to know the most interesting people.’

‘I didn’t go out of my way to find them,’ said Stafford. ‘I attracted them as wasps to a honeypot. We seem to be stirring up some interest, Chip. When can we expect the KGB?’

‘It’s not a matter for joking,’ he said soberly. ‘I don’t know that I like this.’

‘Oh, come
on
,’ said Stafford. ‘It’s not that bad. They approached me openly enough. Hardin knew Pasternak years ago so Pasternak couldn’t deny he’s a CIA man. As for Abercrombie-Smith, he’s a bad joke.’

‘Don’t be fooled by Abercrombie-Smith,’ warned Chip. ‘You may think all that “dear boy” stuff is funny but underneath he’s as cold as ice. Max, why should you attract the attention of the foreign intelligence services of two countries?’

‘I don’t know that I have,’ said Stafford. ‘They didn’t seem to be all that interested in me. I think
you
are attracting the attention. They both wanted to know what you are doing.’

Chip smiled sourly. ‘And all I’m doing is what you tell me to do. Did you tell them that?’

‘I forgot to,’ said Stafford apologetically. ‘It slipped my mind.’

‘Very funny.’

‘I’m noted for my sense of humour,’ agreed Stafford. ‘Here’s another sample. Which branch of Kenyan Intelligence are you in, Chip?’

Chip stared at him. ‘Are you joking?’

‘Not two intelligence services, Chip—three. And maybe another to make four.’

Hardin said, ‘You’re losing me fast, Max.’

Chip said, ‘He’s already lost me.’ He laughed.

Stafford ticked off points on his fingers. ‘One; you could get us rooms at the drop of a hat in any hotel or game lodge I might suggest at the height of the tourist season. That takes pull. Two; you got the information on Brice from Zimbabwe too fast. Three; you could put Adam Muliro into Corliss’s party as courier and driver at short notice. Four; in the Masai Mara you could whistle up support to take Corliss into custody at equally short notice. Five; you’re too well aware of the identities of foreign agents operating in Kenya to be any ordinary man. Six; when I was talking to Pasternak he rattled off a string of names, all in intelligence, and your name and Nair’s were included. I made a crack that we hold a secret service congress and Pasternak didn’t disagree. Seven; we were interviewed and photographed by journalists but nothing appeared in the press, and that takes pull too. I’m not surprised you didn’t want your picture in the paper—the well-known secret service agent is a contradiction in terms. Eight…’ Stafford broke off. ‘Chip, as you said in the Mara—a man can run out of fingers this way.’

‘I didn’t say I had no organization,’ said Chip. ‘The Kenya People’s Union…’ He stopped. ‘But I’m not going to talk about that.’

‘You’d better not,’ said Stafford grimly. ‘Because you’d be telling me a pack of lies. I’m saving the best until last. Eight;
when we entered the Masai Mara you didn’t pay; a little bit of economy which was a dead giveaway. You showed some kind of identification which you probably have on you now. Sergeant!’

Before Chip knew it Curtis had stepped from behind and pinioned him and, although he struggled, he was no match for Curtis who had mastered many an obstreperous sailor in his day. ‘Okay, Ben,’ said Stafford. ‘Search him.’

Hardin swiftly went through Chip’s pockets, tossing the contents on to the bed where Stafford checked them. He searched Chip’s wallet and found nothing, nor did he find any form of identification, except for a driving licence, among the scattering of items on the bed. ‘Damn!’ he said. ‘Try again, Ben.’

Hardin found it in a hidden pocket in Chip’s trousers—a plastic card which might have been mistaken for any credit card except that it had Chip’s photograph on it. ‘All right, Sergeant,’ he said mildly. ‘You can let him go.’

Curtis released Chip who brushed himself down, straightening his safari suit. Stafford clicked his finger nail against the card and said, ‘A colonel, no less,’ then added dryly, ‘I probably have seniority. Military Intelligence?’

‘Yes,’ said Chip. ‘You shouldn’t have done that. I could get you tossed out of the country.’

‘You could,’ agreed Stafford. ‘But you won’t. You still need us.’ He frowned. ‘What puzzles me is why you were interested in us in the first place. Why did you latch on to us?’

Chip shrugged. ‘There
was
a KPU connection. The address Curtis got in London was a KPU safe house. It wasn’t as safe as all that because we’d infiltrated and we intercepted Curtis. Naturally we were most interested in why you, a one-time British intelligence agent, were investigating something with the help of the Kenya People’s Union. At least you seemed to think you were working with
the KPU. As time went on it became even more interesting. Complicated, too.’

Hardin snorted. ‘Complicated, he says! Nothing makes any goddamn sense.’

‘Tell me,’ said Stafford, ‘who were those two men you conjured up in the Masai Mara to take care of Corliss?’

Chip smiled slightly. ‘I borrowed a couple of men from the Police Post on the Mara and put them into civilian clothes.’

‘And where is Corliss now?’

‘About two hundred yards from here,’ said Chip calmly. ‘In a cell in police headquarters on the corner of Harry Thuku Road. I told you he was quite safe.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘All right, Max; where do we go from here?’

‘Where do you want to go?’

‘I’m quite prepared to go on as before.’

‘With me picking your chestnuts out of the fire,’ said Stafford sarcastically. ‘Not as before, Chip. There’ll be no secrets and we share information. I’m tired of being blindfolded. You know, there’s more to this than Gunnarsson trying to push in with a fake Hendrix. There’s a hell of a lot at stake.’

‘And what is at stake?’ asked Chip.

Stafford stared at him. ‘You’re not stupid. Suppose you tell me.’

‘About twenty-seven million pounds,’ he said easily. ‘The money Brice didn’t declare from the Hendrykxx estate.’

‘Balls!’ snapped Stafford. ‘It’s not the money and you know it. But how did you get on to that?’

‘Because you were inquisitive about the Ol Njorowa Foundation so was I,’ said Chip. ‘I rang the Kenya High Commission in London and had someone look at the will. Quite simple, really. But tell me more.’

Stafford said, ‘I could kick myself. It’s been staring me in the face ever since Ben, here, came back from investigating
old Hendrykxx and said there was no Kenya connection. That really stumped me. But then I saw it.’

‘Saw what?’

‘The bloody South African connection,’ said Stafford.

‘Bull’s eye!’ said Chip softly. ‘But tell me more.’

‘Everywhere I’ve looked in the case the South African connection has popped up. Old Hendrykxx lived there. Dirk Hendriks is a South African. Mandeville, the English QC, is a right-winger who takes holidays in South Africa. He’s there now. I think Farrar, the Jersey lawyer, is a cat’s paw and I’ll bet it was Mandeville who drew up the will.’ Stafford drew a deep breath. ‘Brice made a mistake in underestimating the size of the Hendrykxx estate—he was greedy. Are you sure he’s in the clear, Chip? Because I’m betting he’s another South African.’

For the next hour they hammered at the problem trying to fit the bits and pieces of their knowledge together without a great deal of success. At last Chip said, ‘All right; we’ve got a consensus of opinion; we think that Dirk Hendriks might be a South African intelligence agent, and the same could apply to Brice. What we can’t see is where Gunnarsson fits in and who has been trying to kill Corliss.’

‘Not Corliss,’ said Hardin suddenly. ‘Hank Hendrix. Someone took a shot at Hank in Los Angeles and that was before Gunnarsson made the substitution.’

‘So you think whoever is trying to kill him is unaware that Gunnarsson made the switch?’ queried Stafford. ‘It could be.’ He looked at Chip. ‘That business on the Tanzanian border seemed authentic in the sense that such kidnappings have happened before. What do you think, Chip? How easy is it to lay hands on Tanzanian uniforms and Kalashnikovs?’

Chip smiled thinly. ‘Given enough money you can buy
anything
on the Tanzanian border. As for Kalashnikovs,
Kenya is surrounded by the damn things—Tanzania, Somalia, Ethiopia, Uganda. There’d be no problem there. You think the kidnapping was a put-up job to lay the blame on the Tanzanians?’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘That could very well be.’

‘Then Brice would have organized it,’ said Hardin. ‘Dirk Hendriks was in England at that time.’

‘But all this is supposition,’ said Stafford. ‘We’re not sure of a damned thing. What move will you make now, Chip? It’s your country, after all.’

‘We can’t move openly against the Foundation,’ said Chip. ‘That would make waves. Newspaper stories and too much publicity. I’ll have to take this to my superior officer.’ He held up his hand. ‘And don’t ask who he is.’

Curtis stirred. ‘Would the Colonel mind a suggestion?’

‘Trot it out, Sergeant,’ said Stafford. ‘We could do with some good ideas.’

‘Give Corliss back to Gunnarsson. Then stand back and see what happens.’

‘You’ve got a nasty mind,’ said Hardin. ‘That would be like setting him up in a shooting gallery.’

‘But we’d stand a chance of seeing who’s doing the shooting.’ Stafford looked at Chip. ‘What do you think? He’d need a good cover story.’

‘No cover story would stand up,’ said Chip. ‘We’ve had him too long. In any case he’s a bad liar; we’d be blowing our own cover.’ He thought for a moment. ‘No; we’ve got to get someone inside Ol Njorowa to have a look around.’

‘And maybe not find anything,’ said Hardin morosely.

‘I think there’s something to be found.’ Chip stubbed out a cigarette. ‘Since you drew my attention to Ol Njorowa I’ve been looking at it carefully. The security precautions are far beyond what’s needed for an agricultural college.’

‘The Hunts explained that away,’ said Stafford. ‘Judy said things were being stolen; she said mostly small agricultural
tools which didn’t matter very much, but when it came to experimental seed it was different. And Alan Hunt came up with a story of a leopard.’ He thought about the Hunts. ‘Chip, the whole damned staff can’t be in South African intelligence. The Hunts are white Kenyans and Dr Odhiambo is an unlikely agent.’

‘There’s probably just a cell,’ agreed Chip. ‘Coming back to Hendriks—how long has he lived in England?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Stafford. ‘He came into my life two years ago when he married Alix.’

‘If he is in South African intelligence he’d be a sleeper planted in England and the Brits wouldn’t like that. I think some liaison with London is indicated; and on a high level.’ Chip stood up. ‘And I’ll see if I can get a man into Ol Njorowa.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Stafford. ‘Dirk knows I’m in Kenya—I told him I’d be taking a holiday here and that I might see him. I think I’ll invite myself to Ol Njorowa. Besides, I have an invitation from the Hunts to go ballooning.’