'You mean he was a genuine dyed-in-the-wool gangster?'
Hardin shrugged. 'You could put it that way. But he made a mistake – he never took out US citizenship. So when he put a foot wrong he wasn't jailed; he was deported back to his country of origin as an undesirable alien. He arrived back in Antwerp in April, 1940.'
Stafford said, 'You've been busy, Ben. How did you discover all this?'
'A hunch. What I found out in Belgium made Hendrykxx a crook. He was supposed to have been killed in Jo'burg in 1922 but we know he wasn't, so I wondered where he'd go, and being a crook he'd likely have a record. I have some good buddies in the FBI dating back to my CIA days. They looked up the files. There's a hell of a dossier on Hendrykxx. When he came to the attention of the FBI they checked him very thoroughly. That's where the phone bill came in; I spent about six hours talking long distance to the States.'
The room waiter came in with lunch and set it on the table. Hardin waited until he had gone before continuing. 'I don't know whether it was good or bad for Hendrykxx that he arrived in Antwerp when he did. Probably good. The German offensive began on May loth, Holland and Belgium fell like ninepins and France soon after. Antwerp was in German hands about two weeks after Hendrykxx got there. His wartime history is misty but from what I've picked up he was well into the Belgian rackets, the black market and all that. Of course, in those days it was patriotic but I believe Hendrykxx wasn't above doing deals with the Germans.'
'A collaborator?'
Hardin bit into a club sandwich and said, with his mouth full, 'Never proved. But he came out of the war in better financial shape than he went into it. Then he started import export corporations and when the EEC was organized he went to town in his own way which, naturally, was the illegal way. There was a whole slew of EEC regulations which could be bent. Bargeloads of butter going up the Rhine from Holland to Germany found themselves relabelled and back in Holland with Hendrykxx creaming off the subsidy. He could do that several times with the same bargeload until the damn stuff went rancid on him. He was into a lot of rackets like that.'
'The bloody old crook,' said Stafford.
'On the way through the years there was also a couple of marriages, both bigamous because Anna was still alive back in South Africa. In 1974 he retired and went to live in Jersey, probably for tax reasons. By then he was pretty old. Last year he died, leaving close on a hundred million bucks, most of which went to the Ol Njorowa Foundation in Kenya. End of story.'
Stafford stared at Hardin. 'You must be kidding, Ben. Where's the Kenya connection?'
'There isn't one,' said Hardin airily.
'But there must be.'
'None that I could find.' He leaned forward. 'And I'll tell you something else. Hendrykxx never was all that big time and crooks like him are usually big spenders. I doubt if he made more than five million dollars in his whole life. Maybe ten. Of course, that's not bad but it doesn't make him into any kind of financial giant. So where did the rest of the dough come from?'
'Every time we find anything new this whole business gets crazier,' Stafford said disgustedly. . 'I checked a couple of other things,' said Hardin. 'I went to Jersey and saw Hendrykxx's death certificate in the Greffe -that's their Public Record Office. The old guy died of a heart attack. I talked to the doctor, a guy called Morton, and he confirmed it. He said Hendrykxx could have gone any time, but…' Hardin shook his head.
'But what?' asked Stafford.
'Nothing to put a finger on definitely, but I had the impression that Morton was uneasy about something.' Hardin refilled his glass. 'Back in London I checked on Mandeville, the lawyer who handled the London end of the legacy business. Very right wing. He's making a name for himself defending neo-Nazi groups, the guys who find themselves in court for race rioting. But I don't see that has anything to do with us.'
'No,' agreed Stafford. 'Did you talk to him?'
'I couldn't. He's vacationing in South Africa.' Hardin drank some beer. 'What's new with you?'
Stafford told him and by the time he had finished it was late afternoon and the undrunk coffee had gone cold. Hardin listened to it all thoughtfully. 'You've had quite a time,' he commented. 'Where's Corliss now?'
'Curtis saw him yesterday,' Stafford said. 'He was in a remote tented camp in the Masai Mara, but I wouldn't want to guarantee he's there now. What do you think of the line Gunnarsson pitched me?'
'Righteous anger isn't Gunnarsson's style,' said Hardin. 'He sure as hell wants Corliss back and if that's the way he's going about it you know what it means – Hendrix is dead.'
'I'd already got that far,' said Stafford.
'But there's more.' Hardin took out his wallet. 'I got this at paste restante in London. Jack Richardson sent it, and he got it from Charlie Wainwright in Los Angeles. Charlie remembered I'd been interested in Biggie.'
He took a newspaper clipping from the wallet and passed it to Stafford. It was a brief report from the Los Angeles Examiner to the effect that a disastrous fire had broken out IT. a house in Santa Monica and that all the occupants had died six of them. The fire was believed to have been caused by an over-heated pottery kiln which had exploded. The names of the dead were given. Five of them were unknown to Stafford but the sixth was Olaf Hamsun. Biggie.
He looked at Hardin and said slowly, 'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?'
'If you're thinking that Gunnarsson plays for keeps.
'Ben; you're a bloody lucky man. How did Gunnarsson miss you?'
'You've just said it – sheer goddamn luck. Jack Richardson sent a letter with that clipping; he told me that the rooming house I'd been living in had burned up. Maybe I'd slipped to London just in time.' Hardin rubbed his jaw. 'On the other hand it might not have been Gunnarsson at all. In the Bronx they have a habit of burning buildings for the insurance money. The whole damn place is falling apart.'
Stafford held up the clipping. 'Was this the whole of the commune?'
'Just about, I reckon.'
'Then that means that you are possibly the only person who definitely knows that the Hendrix who claimed the estate is a fake. What's more, it means that Gunnarsson, if he's going to make a big song and dance at the Embassy, is sure that you won't pop up to prove him wrong. If Gunnarsson thinks you're out of the game – and that's the way he's acting – then that gives us an edge.'
'What do I do? Dress in a white sheet and scare him to death?'
'We'll think of something. Let's get back to the main issue. Who would want Hendrix dead? Chip asked the question -who benefits? The answer to that is his cousin and sole relative, Dirk Hendriks. I argued that he couldn't have organized it because he was in England, but these days one can get around really fast.'
'He was in England,' said Hardin. 'I forgot to tell you. He was on the same plane that I came in on this morning.'
'Was he?' said Stafford.
'It's okay, Max; he's never met me. Besides, he travelled first class, and the guys up front don't mix with the hoi polloi in economy.'
Stafford said sarcastically, 'I'm mixing with a real egg-head crowd. First Chip with Latin, now you with Greek.'
Hardin scratched the angle of his jaw. 'You've had a funny feeling about Hendriks all along, haven't you? Mind me why?"
'I'm suspicious about everyone in this case,' Stafford said. 'The more I know about it the stranger it becomes.' He shrugged. 'As for Dirk I suppose it's a gut feeling. I've never really liked him even before you came along and blew the whistle on Gunnarsson.'
Hardin looked at him shrewdly. 'Something to do with his wife?'
'Good God, no! At least, not in the way you're thinking. Alix means nothing to me apart from the fact that we're friends. But you don't like to see friends get hurt. She's a wealthy woman and Dirk is battening on her, or was until this Hendrykxx thing blew up. He's too much the playboy type for my liking.' Stafford changed the subject. 'When you were with the CIA how long did you spend in Kenya?'
'A couple of years.'
'Would y
ou know your way around now?'
'Sure. It hasn't changed much.'
'Do you still have contacts?'
'A few, I guess. It depends on what you want.'
'What I want is to find out more about Pete Chipende and Nair Singh, particularly Chip. I've noticed that he tends to give the orders and Nair jumps.'
Hardin frowned. 'What's the point? They're helping plenty judging by your account.'
'That's just it,' said Stafford. 'They're helping too damn much, and they're too efficient. When we wanted Corliss taken off our hands Chip just pushed off into the bush in the middle of nowhere and turned up two of his friends very conveniently. And there are a few other things. One is that they know soldiering – they're no amateurs at that. In fact, they're thorough all-round professionals. There's also some-thing you said just before you went to England.'
'What was that?'
'You said there'd be others behind Chip and Nair. You said they might not show but they'd be there. I think you're right, and I also think there's an organization, a complex organization, and I want to know what it is before we get into this thing over our heads. Chip is helpful all right, but I'd like to be sure he doesn't help us right into a jail – or a coffin. I don't want to get into any political trouble here.'
Hardin pondered for a moment. 'I don't know who is on the CIA station here right now. I think I'll go along to the Embassy and see if there's anyone there I know."
'Will they talk to you?'
He shrugged. 'It depends. The CIA is no different than any other outfit; some are bastards, others are right guys.' He grimaced. 'But sometimes it's difficult to tell them apart. Gunnarsson turned out to be a bastard.'
'All right,' Stafford said. 'But don't go to the Embassy until we're sure that Gunnarsson isn't there. I'll see Chip about that.' He smiled. 'He can be helpful in that way as much as he likes. I'll have him check Gunnarsson and let you know."
Stafford went back to his room to find the telephone ringing. It was Chip. 'Where have you been?' he asked. 'You walked into the hotel and then disappeared off the face of the earth."
Stafford looked at his watch. Exchanging information with Hardin had taken most of the afternoon. 'I had things to do,' he said uninformatively.
If silence could be said to have surprise in it then that silence had. At last Chip said, 'Some items have come up. I'd like to see you.'
'Come up.'
When Chip came in he said, 'What have you got?"
'Brice,' said Chip. 'You wanted to know about Brice in Zimbabwe. But it was Rhodesia then. Harry and Mary Brice farmed near Umtali on the Sabi River. They had a son, Charles Brice. When UDI came and Rhodesia became independent Charles Brice had a quarrel with his parents and left the country. Later, when the guerillas became active, the farm was destroyed and Harry and Mary Brice were killed.'
Stafford said, 'That checks out with Brice's story.'
'Exactly,' said Chip.
'Where did you get it?'
'I told you. The brothers in Zimbabwe are co-operative You asked to have Brice checked there. He was checked.'
'And he comes out whiter than white.' Stafford did not spend much time thinking about that expression because he was thinking of this, yet another spectacular example of Chip's efficiency. He said, 'Chip, you must have quite an organization behind you. A while ago you needled; because you said I was withholding information. Now, just who the hell are you?'
'Some questions are better not asked,' Chip said.
'All the same, I'm asking.'
'And some questions are better not answered.'
'That's not good enough.'
'It's all you're going to get,' Chip said bluntly. 'Max, don": stir things up – don't muddy the water. It could cause trouble. Trouble for you, for everybody. Just let it slide and accept the help. We have helped, you know.'
'I know you've helped,' said Stafford. 'But I don't know why. I want to know why.'
'And I'm not going to tell you. Just study Kenyan history since the British left and draw your own conclusions.' He paused. 'I believe you brought up a certain subject with Nair and he told you to keep your mouth shut. It's advice I strongly advise you to follow. Now let's get on with it. Dirk Hendriks flew in from London this morning. He's staying at the New Stanley. Do you still want him watched?'
'Yes. How did you know he came in this morning?'
'As I once said, I have friends at the airport. We check the passenger list of every London flight – every European flight. come to that. That's how we know that your Mr Hardin came in this morning.'
Stafford sat up straight. 'Are you having us watched, too?'
Chip laughed. 'Simmer down. My friend at the airport relayed the information as a matter of course. Is that where you've been all afternoon; talking with Hardin? I ought to have guessed. Did he find out what you wanted to know?'
Two could play at withholding information. Stafford said, 'It was a cold trail, Chip. Hendrykxx was an old man. You can't unravel an eighty-year life all that quickly. Ben is an experienced investigator, I know, but he's not that bloody good.'
'A pity,' said Chip.
'Where is Corliss now?'
'Not far. If you want him we can produce him inside an hour.'
'But you're not going to tell me where he is.'
'Correct. You're learning, Max.' He looked at his watch. 'Gunnarsson will be here before sunset – back in the New Stanley. You know, it's going to be hard to pin him down.'
'What do you mean?'
'Neither he nor Corliss has committed a crime against Kenyan law. Hendrykxx's will was drawn up by a Jersey lawyer and presumably will come under Jersey law. If Gunnarsson puts Corliss in as a substitute for Hendrix that is no crime here; no Kenyan has been defrauded. We can't hold either of them on those grounds. So how are you going to go about it?'
'I don't know,' Stafford said glumly. 'All I know is that you're talking like a lawyer.'
'How do you know I'm not a lawyer?' said Chip.
'I don't. You're a bloody chameleon. If the Kenyan authorities can't hold Gunnarsson then there's nothing to stop him leaving. I don't think he will leave, not until he knows what's happened to Corliss, but he might. It would be nice if something were to stop him.'
'He could always lose his passport,' offered Chip. 'It wouldn't stop him, but it would delay him until he got papers from the American Embassy.'
'And how would he lose his passport?' Stafford asked.
Chip spread his hands. 'People do all the time. Strange, isn't it? It causes considerable work for the consular staffs.' He stood up. 'I must go; I have work to do, arrangements to make. Take it easy, Max; don't work up a sweat.' He turned to go, then dropped some newspapers on the table. 'I thought you might like to read the news.'
He went' and Stafford lay on the bed and lit a cigarette. If Chip was a member of the Kenya People's Union he certainly would not come right out and say so, and he had not. On the other hand, if he was not a member why would he imply that he was? Or had that been the implication? Had Stafford read too much into Chip's equivocations?
But there was more. Whether he was or was not a member of a banned political party why was he being so bloody helpful to Max Stafford to the point of kidnapping Corliss and stealing Gunnarsson's passport, both of which were criminal acts? Stafford was damned sure it was not at the behest of some Indian back in London who liked Curtis.
He picked up the newspapers and scanned the front pages. The kidnapping of the tour group and the disappearance of Hendrix had made headlines in both the Standard and the Nation. Perhaps, if it had not been for Hendrix, the story would have been played down; Stafford suspected that government pressure would suppress anything that made for a bad public image. But Hendrix made it different – no one had vanished before.
An editorial in the Standard called for an immediate and extremely strong note of protest to the Tanzanian government and demanded that Hendrix be returned, dead or alive. Someone from the Nation had tried to
interview the American Ambassador but he had not been available for comment. The inevitable unnamed spokesman said the American authorities regarded the matter in the most serious light and that steps were being taken. He did not say in which direction.
In neither newspaper was there a report of the interview Chip and Stafford had given to Eddy Ukiru, the reporter from the Standard, and his companion from the Nation. No mention of Stafford, of Chip, of Nair, of Curtis. No photographs. It was as though their part in this nine day wonder had never happened. Of course, they were pretty small beer compared to Hendrix but it seemed sloppy journalism to Stafford. He tossed the newspapers aside with the thought that perhaps Ukiru and his mate had not met their deadline. It was only when he was on the verge of sleep that night that he realized he had never told Chip at any time that Hendrykxx's will had been drawn up in Jersey. So how did Chip know?
Chapter 18
Dirk Hendriks drove down the winding road of the escarpment towards the Rift Valley and Naivasha and towards what he always held in his mind but never mentioned aloud – die Kenya Stasie. Not that it was fully operational yet but it would be once this business was over. Still, Frans Potgeiter had done a good job considering the slim funding that had been available. He was a good man.
He passed the church at the bottom of the hill which had been built by Italian prisoners during the war and turned towards Naivasha. His eyes flitted over the signpost that indicated the road to Narok and he smiled. Potgeiter had succeeded in the Masai Mara, too, after others had failed miserably. There had been too much bungling, too much interference. As the English proverb said: 'too many cooks spoil the broth'. But everything was coming right at last.
He turned off the main road short of Naivasha and took the road which ran back along the lake edge past the Lake Naivasha Hotel and on to Ol Njorowa. It was precisely midday when he pulled up outside the gatehouse and blew a blast on his horn. The gate keeper came running. 'Yes, sah?'
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