be tired and not want to use the dining room.' They ascended stairs and he opened a door. 'Here you are.'
A waiter was stooping over a loaded tray which he had just set down. He straightened and said, with a wide grin. 'Breakfast, sah; guaranteed finest English breakfast.'
Hardin tipped him and he left. 'The refrigerator is full of booze.'
Stafford shuddered. 'Too early in the morning.'
'Tell me something,' said Hardin. 'What's with you and the Sergeant? I thought you had the class system in England. It doesn't show with you two.'
'I don't happen to believe in the class system,' said Stafford, uncovering a dish to reveal bacon and eggs. He picked up a glass of orange juice and sipped it, noting appreciatively that it was freshly squeezed. 'Have you anything more to tell me before I demolish this lot and fall on that bed?'
'Yeah. The name of the Foundation. Ol Njorowa is the name of a place near Naivasha. It's Masai. I don't know what the translation into English would be but the British settlers call it Hell's Gate. When do you want to be wakened?'
'Twelve-thirty.'
Stafford had breakfast and went to bed thinking of Hell's Gate. It was a hell of a name to give to a charitable foundation.
Chapter 9
Hardin woke Stafford on time. He felt hot and sticky but a shower washed away the sweat. As he came out of the bathroom Hardin said, 'The Sergeant is back – with friends.'
'What friends?'
'You'll see them in the Delamere Bar.'
Stafford dressed and they went downstairs. As they crossed the courtyard in the midday sun Stafford felt the sweat break out again, and made a note to ask Curtis about his tailor.
The Delamere Bar was a large patio at the front of the hotel scattered with tables, each individually shaded, from which one could survey the passing throng. It was crowded, but the Sergeant had secured a table. He stood up as they approached. 'I would like the Colonel to meet Pete Chipende and Nair Singh.'
They shook hands. Chipende was a black African who offered a grin full of white teeth. 'Call me Chip; everyone does.' His English was almost accentless; just a hint of East African sing-song. Nair Singh was a turbanned Sikh with a ferocious black beard and a gentle smile.
As Stafford sat down Hardin said, 'The beer's not bad; cold and not too alcoholic.'
'Okay, a beer.' Stafford noted that it was probably too alcoholic for the Sikh who sat in front of a soft drink. He looked at Curtis and raised his eyebrows.
Curtis said, 'Back in London I thought we might need friends who know the territory and the language, so I made a few enquiries and got an address.'
'Our address,' said Chip. 'We work well; turn our hands to anything.'
Stafford kept his eye on Curtis. 'Where did you get the address?'
He shrugged. 'Friends, and friends of friends,' he said carelessly.
'You have useful friends.' Curtis was playing the old soldier, and Stafford knew he would get nothing more out of him -not then. He turned to the others. 'Do you know the score?'
Nair said, 'You want people watched.'
'Unobtrusively,' added Chip. He paused. 'And maybe you'll want more.'
'Maybe.' A waiter put down glasses and beer bottles. 'All right. A man arrives tomorrow from London. Gunnarsson, an American. I want to know where he goes and what he does.'
Chip poured himself some beer. 'Can be done.'
'There'll be two others; Hendrix, another American; and Farrar, an Englishman. Hendrix is important – Farrar less so. And there'll be another man – also Hendriks, but spelled differently.' He explained the difference.
Hardin said, 'You want Dirk tailed?' His voice held mild surprise.
'Why not?' Stafford poured beer, tasted it and found it refreshingly cold. 'Does anyone know anything about the Ol Njorowa Foundation?'
'Ol Njorowa?' said Chip. The name slipped more smoothly off his tongue than it had off Stafford's. 'That's near Naivasha.'
'An agricultural college,' said Nair. 'Doing good work, so I hear. I know someone there; a scientist called Hunt.'
That interested Stafford. 'How well do you know him?'
'We were at university together.' Nair pointed. 'Across the road there. We drank too much beer in this place.' He smiled. 'That was before I returned to my religion. I see him from time to time.'
'Could you introduce me? In an unobtrusive way?'
Nair thought for a moment. 'It's possible. When?'
'Today, if you can. I'd like to find out more about the Foundation before Gunnarsson arrives.'
'It will have to be at Naivasha. Who will be going apart from you?'
'Ben will be along. The Sergeant and Chip will stay to look after Gunnarsson tomorrow morning.'
Nair nodded and stood up. 'I'll make the arrangements. Be back soon.'
Stafford took a bigger sample of beer. 'Sergeant; I need suitable clothing or 'I'll melt away.'
He said, 'I'll see that the Colonel is fitted out.'
'You want a safari suit like this,' said Chip, fingering his own jacket. He smiled. 'You'd better go with Nair after lunch. You look too much the tourist. He'll get you a better price.'
Hardin handed Stafford a menu. 'Talking about lunch…'
They ordered lunch and another beer each all round – a soft drink for Nair. When he came back he said, 'Everything fixed. We'll have dinner with Alan Hunt and his sister at the Lake Naivasha Hotel. It's part of the same chain as the Norfolk so I booked rooms for tonight. Is that all right?'
'That's fine.'
Lunch arrived and they got down to it.
That afternoon Stafford was fitted out with a safari suit in less than an hour in one of the Indian shops near the market. Nair did the chaffering and brought the price down to a remarkably low level. Stafford ordered two more suits, then they set out for Naivasha, Nair driving and Hardin sitting in the back of the Nissan.
Outside town the road deteriorated, becoming pot-holed with badly repaired patches. When Stafford commented on this Nair said ruefully, 'It is not good. You would not think that this is an arterial highway – the main road to Uganda. The government should repair it properly and stop the big trucks.'
'Yeah,' said Hardin. 'The main liquids in this country seem to be beer and gasoline.'
Stafford found what he meant when they passed Limuru and started the descent of the escarpment into the Rift Valley.
The drop was precipitous and the road wound tortuously round hairpin bends. They were stuck behind a petrol tanker and in front of that was a big truck and trailer loaded with Tusker beer. The Nissan ground down in low gear, unable to overtake in safety, until Nair made a sound of exasperation and pulled off the road.
'We'll let them get ahead,' he said. 'This low gear work makes the engine overheat.' He opened the door of the car. 'I will show you something spectacular.'
Stafford and Hardin followed him through trees to the edge of a cuff. He waved. 'The Rift!'
It was a tremendous gash in the earth's surface as though a giant had struck with a cleaver. Stafford estimated a width of twenty miles or more. In the distance the waters of a lake glinted. Nair pointed to the hills on the other side. 'The Mau Escarpment – and that is Lake Naivasha. The mountain there is Longonot, a volcano, and the Ol Njorowa College is just the other side. You can't see the buildings from this angle.'
'How far does the Rift stretch?' asked Hardin.
Nair laughed. 'A long way. Four thousand miles, from the Lebanon to Mozambique. It's the biggest geological scar on the face of the earth. Gregory, the first white man to identify it, said it would be visible from the moon. Neil Armstrong proved it. Here, at this place, Africa is being torn in two.' He caught Stafford eyeing him speculatively. 'I
