Flyaway / Windfall (54 page)

‘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 of 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.

Time hung heavily on his hands and he sought for something to do. He was normally a mentally and physically active man and not for him the lounging on the beach at Clifton or Durban broiling his brains under the sun. His thoughts went back to his grandmother whom he dimly remembered—and to his grandfather who was thought to have been killed in the Red Revolt of Johannesburg in 1922. But there had been no body and Hendriks wondered. Using the techniques he had been taught and the authority he had acquired he began an investigation, an intelligence man’s way of passing the time and searching the family tree. It paid off. He found from old port records that Jan-Willem Hendrykxx had sailed from Cape Town for San Francisco on March 25, 1922, a week after the revolt had been crushed by General Smuts. And that was as far as he got by the end of his leave.

He did not go back to Rhodesia but, instead, was posted to England. ‘Go to the Embassy once,’ he was told. ‘You’d be expected to do that. But don’t go near it again. They’ll give you instructions on cut-outs and so on.’

So Hendriks went to London where his main task was to keep track of the movements of those exiled members of the African National Congress then living in England, and to record whom they met and talked with. He also kept a check on certain members of the staffs of other Embassies in London as and when he was told.

Intelligence outfits have their own way of doing things. The governments of two countries may be publicly cold towards each other while their respective intelligence agencies can be quite fraternal. So it was with South Africa and the United States—BOSS and the CIA. One day Hendriks passed a message through his cut-out; Could someone, as a favour, find out what happened to Jan-Willem Hendrykxx who had arrived in San Francisco in 1922? A personal matter, so no hurry.

Two months later he had an answer which surprised him. Apparently his grandfather could out-grandfather the Mafia. He had been deported from the United States in 1940. Hendriks, out of curiosity, took a week’s holiday which he spent in Brussels. Discreet enquiries found his grandfather hale and well. Hendriks went nowhere near the old man, but he did go to the South African Embassy in Brussels where he had a chat with a man. Three months later he wrote a very detailed report which he sent to Pretoria and was promptly pulled back to South Africa.

Hendriks’s immediate superior was a Colonel Malan, a heavily built Afrikaner with a square face and cold eyes. He opened a file on his desk and took out Hendriks’s report. ‘This is an odd suggestion you’ve come up with.’ The report plopped on the desk. ‘How good is your evidence on this Belgian, Hendrykxx?’

‘Solid. He’s the head of a heroin-smuggling ring operating from Antwerp, and we have enough on him to send him to jail for the rest of his life. On the other hand, if he comes in with us he lives the rest of his life in luxury.’ Hendriks smiled. ‘What would you do, sir?’

‘I’m not your grandfather,’ growled Malan. He leafed through the report. ‘You come from an interesting family. Now, you want us to give the old man a hell of a lot of money tied up in a way he can’t touch it, and he makes out a will so that the money goes where we want it when he dies. Is that it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where would you send the money?’

‘Kenya,’ said Hendriks unhesitatingly. ‘We need strengthening in East Africa.’

‘Yes,’ said Malan reflectively. ‘Kenyatta has been crucifying us in the United Nations lately.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘And we have an interesting proposition put to us by
Frans Potgeiter but we’re running into trouble on the funding. Do you know Potgeiter?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Could you work with him?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Malan leaned forward and tapped the report. ‘Your grandfather is old, but not dead old. He could live another twenty years and we can’t have that.’

‘I doubt if he will.’ Hendriks took an envelope from his breast pocket and pushed it across the desk. ‘Hendrykxx’s medical report. I got hold of it the day before I left London. He has a bad heart.’

‘And how did you get hold of it?’

Hendriks smiled, ‘It seems that someone burgled the offices of Hendrykxx’s doctor. Looking for drugs, the Belgian police say. They did a lot of vandalism; you know how burglars are when they’re hopped up, sir.’

Malan grunted, his head down as he scanned the medical documents. He tossed them aside. ‘Looks all right, but I’ll have a doctor go over them. The Brussels Embassy wasn’t involved, I hope.’

‘No, sir.’

‘This will have to be gone into carefully, Hendriks. The Department of Finance will have to come into it, of course. And the will—that must be carefully drawn. We have a barrister in London who can help us there. I rather think I’d like to move Hendrykxx out of reach of his friends and where we can keep an eye on him. That is, if this goes through. I can’t authorize it, so it will have to go upstairs.’ He smiled genially. ‘You’re a
slim kerel,
Hendriks,’ he said approvingly.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Hendriks hesitated. ‘If Hendrykxx doesn’t die in time he could always…er…be helped.’

Malan’s eyes went flinty. ‘What kind of a man are you?’ he whispered. ‘What kind of man would suggest the killing
of his own grandfather? We’ll have no more of that kind of talk.’

The operation was approved at top level and that was in the days when the South African intelligence and propaganda agencies were riding high. There was money available, and more if needed. Hendrykxx had his arm duly twisted and caved in when offered the choice. He was removed from Belgium and installed in a house in Jersey under the supervision of Mr and Mrs Adams, his warders in a most luxurious jail. Jersey had been chosen because of its lack of death duties and the general low tax rate; not that much tax was paid—when a government goes into the tax avoidance business it takes the advice of the real experts. £15M was injected into the scheme which, at the time of Hendrykxx’s death, had magically turned into £40M. It is surprising what compound interest can do to a sum which has proper management and is left to increase and multiply.

Frans Potgeiter went under cover and surfaced as Brice, the liberal Rhodesian, the real Brice having conveniently been killed in a motor accident while trying to do the Johannesburg-Durban run in under five hours. He went to England to establish a reputation, and then moved to Kenya to manage the Ol Njorowa Foundation. Hendriks returned to his undercover post in London.

All was going well when came the débâcle of Muldergate in 1978 and gone were the days of unlimited funds. One by one the stories leaked out; the setting up of the newspaper,
The Citizen,
with government funds, the attempted purchase of an American newspaper, the bribery of American politicians, the activities of the Group of Ten. All the peccadilloes were revealed.

In 1979 Connie Mulder, the Minister of Information, was forced to resign from the Cabinet, then from Parliament, then from the party itself. Dr Eschel Rhoodie, the Information
Secretary, took refuge in Switzerland, and appeared on television threatening to blow the gaff. Mulder did blow the gaff—he named Vorster, once Prime Minister and then President of the Republic of South Africa, as being privy to the illegal shenanigans. Vorster denied it.

The Erasmus Judicial Commission of Enquiry sat, considered the evidence, and issued its report. It condemned Vorster as ‘having full knowledge of the irregularities.’ John Balthazar Vorster resigned from the State Presidency. It was a mess.

Hendriks, in London, read the daily newspaper reports with horrified eyes, expecting any day that the Hendrykxx affair and the Ol Njorowa Foundation would be blown. But someone in Pretoria must have done some fast and fancy footwork, scurrying to seal the leaks. It was not Colonel Malan because he was swept away in the general torrent of accusations and resigned his commission.

Hendriks had worried about his uncle Adrian whom, of course, he had never met, and his particular worry revolved about the possibility of Adrian fathering legitimate offspring. An inquiry was put in motion and thus he discovered Henry Hendrix, then in his last year in high school. Hendriks wanted, as he put it, ‘to do something about it,’ a euphemism which Malan burked at. ‘No,’ Malan had argued. ‘I won’t have it. We’ll do it some other way when the need arises.’

But after Muldergate, when Malan was gone and Hendriks wanted to ‘do something’, Henry Hendrix had dropped out of sight, an indistinguishable speck of dross in the melting pot of 220 million Americans. From London Hendriks had tried to rouse Pretoria to action but the recent brouhaha of Muldergate had had a chilling effect on the feet and nothing was done.

It was only when Alix became pregnant and it was necessary that Hendrykxx should go that Pretoria took action,
half-heartedly and too late. Hendrykxx had left £20,000 in his will to his jailers, Mr and Mrs Adams. Mandeville had insisted upon that, saying that the will had to look good. They responded by killing him, a not too difficult task considering he was senile and expected to die any moment, even though he was inconsiderately hanging on to life tenaciously.

Pretoria bungled in Los Angeles and Hendrix got away. He had survived the car crash in Cornwall, too, by something of a miracle, but now Potgeiter had finally solved the problem in a somewhat clumsy way. Or had he?

Hendriks was roused from his reverie by the ringing of the telephone next to his bed. It was Potgeiter. ‘Get down here. Gunnarsson has gone on the run. I’ve sent Patterson after him.’