Windfall ms-2

by Desmond Bagley

  'Oh! Where is he?'

  'I settled him in the living room with a highball.'

  Stafford looked at Curtis sharply. 'What the devil do you know about highballs?'

  'I have been drunk with the United States Navy on many occasions, sir,' said Curtis with a straight face. 'That was in my younger days.'

  'Well, 'I'll join Mr Hardin with my usual scotch.'

  Stafford found Hardin nursing a depleted drink and examining the book shelves. 'I thought you'd have gone by now.'

  'I almost made it, but I decided to stay.' Hardin straightened. 'Did Hank Hendrix arrive?'

  'Yes; I had a call from Dirk. They met the lawyer this afternoon. He seemed satisfied with their credentials, so Dirk says.'

  'The lawyer's name being Mandeville?'

  'Yes. How do you know that?'

  Stafford had thought Hardin had appeared strained but now he looked cheerful. 'I bumped into Gunnarsson this morning at Heathrow Airport. Well, not bumped exactly – I don't think he saw me. I decided not to leave right then because I wanted to follow him.'

  Curtis came in with a tray and Stafford reached for his whisky. 'Why?'

  'Because the young guy with him wasn't the Hank Hendrix I picked up in Los Angeles.'

  Stafford was so startled that he almost dropped the glass. 'Wasn't he, by God?'

  Hardin shook his head decidedly. 'No way. Same height, same colouring – a good lookalike but not Hank Hendrix.'

  Stafford thought of his conversation with Dirk. 'What was the colour of his jacket?'

  Hardin grinned crookedly. 'You couldn't mistake him for anyone but an American – Joseph's coat of many colours.'

  That did it. Curtis was about to leave the room and Stafford said abruptly, 'Stick around, Sergeant, and listen to this. It might save a lot of explanations later. But first get Mr Hardin another highball, and you might as well have one yourself. Mr Hardin; this is Colour-Sergeant Curtis, late of the Royal Marines.'

  Hardin gave Stafford a curious look then stood up and held out his hand. 'Glad to know you, Sergeant Curtis.'

  'Likewise, Mr Hardin.' They shook hands then Curtis turned to Stafford. 'If the Colonel doesn't mind I'd rather have a beer.'

  Stafford nodded and Curtis left to return two minutes later with the drinks. Stafford said, 'So you followed Gunnarsson?'

  'Yeah. Your London taxi drivers don't surprise worth a damn. I told mine that if he kept track of Gunnarsson's cab it was worth an extra tip. He said he could do better than that – they were on the same radio net. Five minutes later he said Gunnarsson was going to the Dorchester. I got there before him and had the cab wait. It ran up quite a tab on the meter.'

  'You'll get your expenses.'

  Hardin grinned. 'It's on the house, Mr Stafford. Because I'm feeling so good.'

  He sipped his replenished highball. 'Gunnarsson and the other guy registered at the desk and then went upstairs. They were up there nearly two hours while I was sitting in the lobby getting callouses on my butt and hoping that the house dick wouldn't latch on to me and throw me out. When they came down I followed them again and they took me to Lincoln's Inn Fields.'

  'Where Mandeville has his chambers. Right? That's where you got the name.'

  'Right. I still kept the cab and hung on for a while. Gunnarsson came out just as Mrs Hendriks went in with a guy. Would he be Dirk Hendriks?'

  'Big broad-shouldered man built like a tank?' Like a lot of South Africans Hendriks was designed to play rugby scrum half.

  'That's the guy.' Stafford nodded sharply, and Hardin said, 'They went into the same place. I followed Gunnarsson to the office of Peacemore, Willis and Franks. I didn't think I could do much more so I came here and paid off the taxi.' He looked up. 'I thought it was better I came here instead of your office.'

  Stafford nodded absently, mulling it over, then he said, 'All right; let's do a reconstruction. You found Henry Hendrix and took him to Gunnarsson in New York. Gunnarsson, who had been hoping for a gold mine, realised he'd found it. Hendrix had no family, he'd never been out of the States, and it wouldn't be too hard to drain him of information and put someone else in as a substitute here in London.'

  Curtis coughed. 'I don't really know what this is about yet, but where is the real Henry Hendrix?'

  Hardin gave him a sideways glance. 'I wouldn't care to guess.' There was a silence while they digested that, then he asked, 'So what do we do now?'

  'I suppose I should tell Farrar he's being taken,' Stafford said slowly. 'But I'm not going to.' Hardin brightened. 'If I do then Gunnarsson can slide right out from under.'

  'Yeah,' said Hardin. 'The young guy takes his lumps for being an impostor, and Gunnarsson spreads his hands and says he's been as deceived as anyone else. All injured innocence.'

  'And no one would believe you,' commented Stafford. 'He'd call you a liar; a disgruntled ex-employee who was fired for incompetence.'

  'That he would.' Hardin scratched his jaw. 'There's still Biggie and the commune. They'd know this guy isn't Hank.'

  'Christ, they're seven thousand miles away," said Stafford irritably. 'This man, whoever he is, has committed no crime in the States. He'd be tried here under British law or perhaps Jersey law, for all I know.'

  'What's the sentence for impersonation over here?'

  'It wouldn't be much. Maybe two years.'

  Hardin snorted, but Stafford ignored him. He was deep in thought and looked upon Hardin with new eyes. The man had proved to be right, after all, and here he had at hand an unemployed Intelligence agent and a man who hated Gunnarsson's guts. If Stafford was going against Gunnarsson it occurred to him that Hardin would be handy to have around. He knew Gunnarsson and how he operated, and the first rule of any kind of warfare is: 'Know your enemy'.

  He said, 'You told me you worked in Africa. Do you know Kenya?'

  'Sure.' Hardin shrugged. 'It will have changed since I was there, but I know Kenya.'

  'Are you persona grata?' 'I'm okay in Kenya.' He smiled. 'I wouldn't like to say what would happen if I stuck my nose into Tanzania.'

  Stafford said, 'You told me your salary at Gunnarsson Associates. I think we can match that, and maybe a bit more. How would you like to work for Stafford Security Consultants?'

  Hardin did not jump at it. 'Are you in the same business as Gunnarsson?'

  'Not exactly. We try to stop the bastards.'

  Hardin held out his hand. 'I'm your man. Thanks, Mr Stafford.'

  Stafford smiled. 'I'm Max, you are Ben, and the Sergeant is the Sergeant.'

  Hardin had given up his hotel room so Stafford told him he could use the spare bedroom until he got fixed up. 'You can pay your rent by briefing Sergeant Curtis on this thing.'

  'What's this with Kenya?'

  Stafford said, 'That's where I think the action will be.' He was thinking that an awful lot of money was going to the Ol Njorowa Foundation, a hell of a lot more than the six million dollars going to the fake Hendrix. The Foundation would be awash with cash – something like seventy million American dollars – and he was sure that Gunnarsson had got the heady scent of it in his nostrils.

  Chapter 8

  Stafford discussed the Gunnarsson affair with Jack Ellis who was the next biggest shareholder in Stafford Security after himself. He felt he could not run up costs on the firm without informing Ellis. He outlined the situation and Ellis said thoughtfully, 'Gunnarsson. He's the Peacemore mob, isn't he?'

  'That's right.'

  'We've been having trouble with that crowd. Remember Electronomics ?'

  'All too clearly,' said Stafford. 'Jack, our next logical expansion is into the States. We're going to come up slap hard against Gunnarsson sooner or later. I'd rather it was sooner, before we set up operations over there. I want to go after him now when he's not on his home ground."

  Ellis nodded. 'That should make it easier. Who knows about all this? I mean that Gunnarsson has run in a substitute for Hendrix.'

  'Just four; you, me, Hardin and the Sergeant.'
'Not Alix Hendriks?'

  Stafford shook his head. 'Nor Dirk. I want to keep this right.'

  'And why Kenya?'

  Stafford said, 'There was once an American bank robber called Willie Sutton. Someone asked him why he robbed banks. He looked a bit disgusted, and said, 'That's where the money is." There's a hell of a lot of money going into Kenya. Gunnarsson will go where the money is.' 'What do we know about this Foundation in Kenya?' 'Not a damned thing; but that can be cured.' 'And you want to handle this personally?'

  'With help." Stafford shrugged. 'I've been working damned hard in Europe, and I haven't had a holiday for three years. Let's call this paid leave of absence.'

  Ellis smiled wryly. 'I have an odd feeling of deja vu as though we've had this conversation before.'

  Stafford said, 'Make no mistake, Jack; this isn't a favour for Alix Hendriks. This is for the future benefit of Stafford Security.'

  Ellis agreed.

  Stafford sent Hardin to Kenya as a one man advance party. He did not want Hardin to meet either Gunnarsson or Hendrix by accident and, although there are eight million people in London, he was taking no chances. The West End covers a comparatively small area and it would be plain bad luck if they met face to face in, say, Jermyn Street. In Kenya Hardin was to arrange hotel accommodation and hire cars. He was also to do a preliminary check into the Ol Njorowa Foundation.

  Gunnarsson and the fake Hendrix were kept under discreet observation. Stafford arranged to get a look at them so that he would know them again when he saw them. Gunnarsson did nothing much; he frequented the offices of Peacemore, Willis and Franks, which was natural since he owned the place, and he gambled in casinos, winning often. His luck was uncanny. Hendrix, after looking around London, hired a car and went on a tour of the West Country.

  It was then that Stafford invited Alix and Dirk Hendriks to dinner; they were his spies behind the enemy lines. Over the aperitifs he said, 'How did you get on in Jersey?'

  Dirk laughed. 'I signed a lot of papers and got writer's cramp. The old man had a fantastic head for business. His investments are widespread.'

  'Did you know your grandfather?'

  Dirk shook his head, and Alix said, 'You've never mentioned him, Dirk.'

  'I thought he was killed in the Red Revolt of 1922,' said Dirk. 'There was a revolution on the Rand, a real civil war which Smuts put down with artillery and bombers. That's when he disappeared, or so I was told. It's a bit spooky to know that he really died only a few months ago.'

  'And your grandmother – did you know her?' asked Stafford.

  'I have vague recollections,' said Dirk, frowning. 'She used to tell me stories. It must have been she who told me about my grandfather. She died when I was a kid. They all did.'

  'All?' said Alix questioningly.

  'Both my parents, my sister and my grandmother were killed in a car crash. The only reason I wasn't in the car was because I was in hospital. Scarlet fever, I believe. I was six years old.' He put on a mock lugubrious expression. 'I'm a lone orphan.'

  Alix put her hand over his. 'My poor darling. I didn't know.'

  Stafford thought it odd that Dirk had not told Alix this before but made no comment. Instead he said, 'What's this Foundation in Kenya?'

  'Ol Njorowa?' Dirk shook his head. 'I don't know much about it other than what I've already told you. We're going out next Wednesday to inspect it. Since I have to spend a month a year there I'd better learn about it. The Director is a man called Brice. Mandeville thinks a lot of him.'

  'How does Mandeville come into it? He's a Q.C., isn't he? I thought Farrar was the executor.' Stafford held up a finger to a passing waiter.

  'He did a lot of legal work for my grandfather. Apparently they were on terms of friendship because he said he used to stay at my grandfather's house whenever he went to Jersey.'

  'Is he going to Kenya with you?'

  Dirk laughed. 'Lord, no I He's a bigwig; he doesn't go to people – they go to him. But Farrar is coming along; he has business to discuss with Brice.'

  Stafford turned to Alix. 'Are you going, too?'

  She smiled ruefully. 'I'd like to, but I couldn't take young Max. Perhaps we'll go next time.'

  'And Henry Hendrix is going, of course. Where is he, by the way? I thought you'd be together.'

  'He's sightseeing in the country,' said Dirk, and added tartly, 'We're not going to live in each other's pockets. It's only now that I appreciate the saying, "You can choose your friends but not your relatives".'

  'Don't you like him?'

  'He's not my type,' said Dirk briefly. 'I think we'll choose different months to stay at Ol Njorowa. But, yes; he will be going with Farrar and me.'

  'I might bump into you in Nairobi," said Stafford casually. 'I'm taking a holiday out there. My flight is on Tuesday.'

  'Oh?' Dirk looked at him intently. 'When did you decide that?'

  'I booked the trip a couple of weeks ago – at least, my secretary did.'

  The waiter came up, and Alix said, 'I won't have another drink, Max.'

  'Then we'll go in to dine,' he said, and rose, satisfied with his probing.

  Next day he learned that Gunnarsson had visited a travel agent and a discreet enquiry elicited his destination – Nairobi Stafford had Curtis book two seats on the Tuesday flight and cabled Hardin, advising him to he low. Curtis said, 'Am I going, sir?'

  'Yes; I might want someone to hang my trousers. What kind of natty gent's clothing would be suitable for Kenya?'

  'The Colonel doesn't want to trouble his head about that. Any of the Indian stores will make him up a suit within twenty-four hours. Cheap too, and good for the climate.'

  'You're a mine of information, Sergeant. Where did you pick up that bit?'

  'I've been there,' Curtis said unexpectedly. I was in Mombasa a few years ago during the Mau-Mau business. I go: a bit of travel up-country to Nairobi and beyond.' He paused L

  "What kind of trouble is the Colonel expecting – fisticuffs or guns?' Stafford regarded him thoughtfully, and Curtis said, "It's just that I'd like to know what preparations to make.'

  Stafford said, 'You know as much as I do. Make what preparations you think advisable.' The first thing any green lieutenant learns is when to say "Carry on, Sergeant". The son-commissioned officers of any service run the nuts and bolts of the outfit and the wise officer knows it.

  Curtis said, 'Then have I the Colonel's permission to take the afternoon off? I have things to do.'

  'Yes; but don't tell me what they are. I don't want to know.'

  The only matter of consequence that happened before they vent to Kenya was that Hendrix crashed his car when careering down a steep hill in Cornwall near Tintagel. He came out with a few scratches but the car was a total write-off.

  They flew to Nairobi first class on the night flight. Curtis was i big man and Stafford no midget and he saw no reason to be cramped in economy class where the seats are tailored for the inhabitants of Munchkinland. If all went well Gunnarsson would be paying ultimately. Stafford resisted the attempts of the cabin staff to anaesthetize him with alcohol so he would be jess trouble but, since he found it difficult to sleep on aircraft, at 3 a.m. he went to the upstairs lounge where he read a thriller over a long, cold beer while intermittently watching the chief steward jiggle the accounts. The thriller had a hero who always knew when he was being followed by a prickling at the nape of his neck; this handy accomplishment helped the plot along on no fewer than four occasions.

  Curtis slept like a baby.

  They landed just after eight in the morning and, even at that early hour, the sun was like a hammer. Stafford sniffed and caught the faintly spicy, dusty smell he had first encountered in Algeria – the smell of Africa. They went through Immigration and Customs and found Hardin waiting.' 'Lo, Max; 'lo, Sergeant. Have a good flight?'

  'Not bad.' Stafford felt the bristles on his jaw. 'A day flight would have been better.'

  'The pilots don't like that,' said Hardin. 'This airport is nearl
y six thousand feet high and the midday air is hot and thin. They reckon it's a bit risky landing at noon.'

  Stafford's eyes felt gritty. 'You're as bad as the Sergeant, here, for unexpected nuggets of information.'

  'I have wheels outside. Let me help with your bags. Don't let these porters get their hands on them; they want an arm and a leg for a tip.'

  They followed Hardin and Stafford stared unbelievingly at the vehicle to which he was led. It was a Nissan van, an eight-seater with an opening roof, and it was dazzlingly painted in zebra stripes barely veiled in a thin film of dust. He said, 'For Christ's sake, Ben! We're trying to be inconspicuous and you get us a circus van. That thing shouts at you from a bloody mile away.'

  'Don't worry,' Hardin said reassuringly. 'These safari trucks are as common as fleas on a dog out here, and they'll go anywhere. We're disguised as tourists. You'll see.'

  Hardin drove, Stafford sat next to him, and Curtis got in the back. There was an unexpectedly good divided highway. Stafford said, 'How far is the city?'

  'About seven miles.' Hardin jerked his thumb. 'See that fence? On the other side is the Nairobi National Game Park. Lots of animals back there.' He laughed. 'It's goddamn funny to see giraffes roaming free with skyscrapers in the background.'

  'I didn't send you here to look at animals.'

  'Hell, it was Sunday morning. My way of going to church. Don't be a grouch, Max.'

  Hardin had a point. 'Sorry, Ben. I suppose it's the lack of sleep.'

  'That's okay.' Hardin was silent for a while, then he said, 'I was talking to one of the local inhabitants in the bar of the Hilton. He lives at Langata, that's a suburb of Nairobi. He said all hell had broken loose early that morning because a lion bad taken a horse from the riding stables next door. Even in Manhattan we don't live that dangerously.'

  Stafford thought Hardin had turned into the perfect goggling tourist. He was not there to hear small talk about lions. He said, 'What about the Foundation?'