Windfall

'So the Foundation must have had money. Where else could Brice have got it for his revitalizing programme? Now, take three vultures called Patterjee, Peters and Ngotho who realize there's a fat pigeon to be picked over. Somehow, I don't know how, they get themselves elected on to the Board of Trustees. They appoint as Director a non-Kenyan, a stranger called Brice, a man who doesn't know the country or its customs and they think they can pull the wool over his eyes.'

'While they milk the Foundation?' said Chip. He nodded. 'It would fit. But what about Lovejoy and Peacock?'

'I've done a little check on that pair,' said Stafford. 'Colonel Lovejoy is, as you say, an old man. He's eighty-two and senile, and no longer takes any active role in any business. Peacock, the missionary, used to be active in the Naivasha area but he moved to Uganda when Amin was kicked out. Now he's doing famine relief work there up in Karamoja. I don't think they'd be any problem to our thieves. But Brice is too sharp. He's no figurehead; he's proved that while he's been Director. Our trio have hardly got their hands into the cash register before he's really taken charge. He's got his hands on the accounts and they can't do a damned thing about it.'

'And they couldn't fire him,' said Chip. He laughed. 'If he caught them at it he'd have them by the short and curlies. And if he was sharp enough he'd keep them on as Trustees. That would put him in as top dog in the Foundation. He wouldn't want a stronger Board – it might get in his way.'

'Maybe he'd sweeten them by letting them take a healthy honorarium this side of larceny. That's what I'd do,' said Stafford. 'Just to keep them really quiet.'

Chip said, 'Max, you have a devious mind. You could just be right about this.'

'And what it means is that Brice is an honest man. The take could have been split four ways instead of three, but he really built up the Foundation into a going concern. I'd like to see this man; I have a standing invitation from Alan Hunt.' Stafford looked at his watch. 'I'll ring him now.'

'I'll drive you to Naivasha,' Chip offered.

'No, 'I'll go alone. But stay in touch. And keep a careful eye on Gunnarsson and Hendrix. If they move I want to know.'

Chapter 11

Ol Njorowa College was about twelve kilometres from the Lake Naivasha Hotel. Stafford showered to wash away the travel stains and then drove there, first along the all-weather road that skirted the lake, and then along the rough track which would, no doubt, be dicey in wet weather. He found the College under the slopes of brooding Longonot.

There was a heavy meshed high fence and a gatehouse with closed gates, which surprised him. A toot on the horn brought a man running, and he wound the window right down as the man approached. He stooped and brought a gnarled, lined face to Stafford's level. 'Yes, sah?'

Max Stafford to see Mr Hunt.'

'Dr Hunt? Yes, sah.' The lines of suspicion smoothed from the face. 'You're expected.' He straightened, issued a piercing whistle, then bent again. 'Straight through, sah, and follow the arrows. You can't miss it.'

The gates were opening so Stafford let out the clutch and drove through the gateway. The road inside the College grounds was asphalted and in good condition. There were 'sleeping policemen' every fifty yards, humps right across the road to cut down the speed of cars. They did, and as Stafford bumped over the first he checked the rear view mirror; the gates were closing behind and there was no evidence of anyone pushing them. Most of the buildings were long, low structures but there was a two-storey building ahead. The grounds were kept in good condition with mown lawns, and flowering trees were everywhere, bougainvillea and jacaranda.

Outside the big building he put the car into a slot between neatly painted white lines. When he got out he felt the hammer blow of the sun striking vertically on to his head. Because the elevation cut the heat one tended to forget that this was equatorial Africa, with the Equator not very far away. Hunt was waiting in the shade under the portico at the entrance and came forward.

They shook hands. 'Glad you could come.'

'Glad to be here.' Stafford looked around. 'Nice place you have.'

Hunt nodded. 'We like to think so. 'I'll give you the Grand Tour. Would you like it before or after a beer?'

'Lead me to your beer,' Stafford said fervently, and Hunt chuckled.

As they went inside he said, 'This block is mostly for administration, offices and so on. Plus those laboratories that need special facilities such as refrigeration. We have our own diesel-electric generators at the back.'

'Then you're not on mains power? That surprises me. I saw a lot of high tension pylons as I drove around the lake. Big ones.'

'Those are the new ones from the geothermal electric plant at Ol Karia. It's not on line yet. The power lines are being erected by the Japanese, and the geothermal project has advisors from Iceland and New Zealand. Those boys know about geothermal stuff. Have you been out there yet?'

'It's next on my list.'

'When we get mains power we'll still keep our own generators for standby in case of a power cut.' He opened a door. 'This way.'

He led Stafford into a recreation room. There was a half-size billiards table, a ping-pong table, several card tables scattered about, and comfortable armchairs. At the far end there was a bar behind which stood a black Kenyan in a white coat polishing a glass. Hunt walked forward and flopped into a chair. 'Billy,' he called. 'Two beers.'

'Yes, sah; two beers coming. Premium?'

'Hapana; White Cap.' Hunt gave Stafford a half smile. 'Premium is a bit too strong if we're going to walk in the midday sun.'

'Mad dogs and Englishmen,' Stafford suggested.

'Something like that.' Hunt laughed. 'You know, the Victorians had entirely the wrong idea, what with their pith helmets and flannel spinal pads. They were more likely to get heatstroke indoors than outdoors in their day; their roofs were of corrugated iron and they cooked on wood-burning stoves. The rooms must have been like ovens.'

Stafford looked at Hunt's sun-bleached hair. 'So you're not worried about sunstroke?'

'You're all right once you're acclimatized and as long as you don't overdo it.' The bartender put a tray on the table. 'Put it on my chit,' said Hunt. He poured his beer. 'Cheers!'

Stafford waited until he had swallowed the first stinging, cold freshness before he said, 'Tell me something. Isn't a place like this eligible for a government grant?'

Hunt stretched his legs and absently rubbed a red scratch on his thigh. 'Oh, we get a grant but it doesn't go far enough. They never do. But things are changing. You heard what Brice said the other day. He still hasn't made the official announcement, though.'

Hunt said, 'Anyway, it was enough to bring the Trustees out of the woodwork. They came this week and it's the first time I've seen them here, and that's been two years.'

Stafford said, 'I'd have thought, if money was tight, they'd have been in your hair seeing there wasn't any wastage.'

'Oh, Brice keeps them informed.' There was a slight hesitation as though he had meant to say something else, and Stafford guessed it was that Brice kept the Trustees in line. 'I wouldn't say he's machiavellian about it, but it suits me if I never see the Trustees. I have enough to bother about.' He looked up and waved. 'Here's Judy and Jim Odhiambo.'

Stafford stood up but Judy waved him back into the chair. 'Sit down, Max. I'd give my soul for an ice-cold tonic.'

He was introduced. Odhiambo was a short and stocky black with muscular arms. Hunt said, 'Dr Odhiambo is our resident expert on cereals-maize, millet, wheat-you name it.'

'Dr Hunt exaggerates,' said Odhiambo deprecatingly.

He ordered a beer for himself and a tonic for Judy. Hunt said, 'I've got something for you, Jim. I came across a paper in the Abstracts about primitive, ancestral forms of maize in Peru and I remembered what you said about