Chip came back and they started off again and well within the hour the beer was hissing in the Sergeant's throat.
Chapter 13
Keekorok was 105 miles south of the Equator and at an altitude of 5,258 feet; there was a sign at the front of the Lodge which said so. It was a pleasant sprawling place with an unbuttoned air about it, a place to relax and be comfortable. There was a patio with a bar overlooking a wide lawn and that evening Stafford and Chip sat over drinks chatting desultorily while watching vervet monkeys scamper about in the fading light of sunset.
'We might as well do the tourist bit tomorrow,' said Chip. 'We'll go and look at animals. I'll be courier – I know the Mara well.'
Stafford said, 'I want to be here when Gunnarsson and Hendrix arrive.'
'They won't be here until six in the evening.'
'How do you know?'
'Because that's what the courier has been told,' said Chip patiently.
Stafford sat up straight. 'What do you mean by that?'
'I mean that Adam Muliro, the driver, has been told when to deliver the party. I told him.' Chip paused and added with a grin, 'He's my brother-in-law.'
'Another?' said Stafford sceptically.
'You know us Third World people – we believe in the extended family. Now take it easy, Max.' He spread out a map on the table. 'I'll show you hippo here, at Mara New Bridge.' He tapped his finger on the map.
The River Mara ran a twisting course north to south and the place where it was bridged was close to the Tanzanian border. If the scale of the map was anything to go by the road ran within three hundred yards of the border. Stafford thought of the different political philosophies of the two countries; the Marxist state of Tanzania and Kenya with its mixed economy. He had heard there was no love lost between them. 'Does Kenya have problems with Tanzania?'
Chip shrugged. 'The border is closed from time to time. There's a bit of friction; nothing much. Some poaching. There's an anti-poaching post here at Ngiro Are.' He spoke of the collapse of the East African Federation; the attempt of the three ex-British African nations to work in unison. 'It couldn't work – the ideas were too different. Tanzania went socialist -. a totally different political philosophy from ours. As for Uganda…' He made a dismissive gesture. 'With Amin in power it was impossible.' He tapped the map again. 'You see the problem?'
Stafford frowned. 'Not really.'
'I have my finger on it,' Chip said. 'South of the border is Tanzania. Until 1918 it was German East Africa, then it was British Tanganyika, and now Tanzania. But look at the border – a line drawn straight with a ruler by nineteenth-century European bureaucrats. The country is the same on both sides and so are the people. Here they are Masai.' His finger moved south to Tanzania. 'And there they are Masai. A people separated by nineteenth- century politics.' He sounded bitter. 'That's why we have the Shifta trouble in the north.'
'What's the Shifta trouble?'
'The same thing. A line drawn with a ruler. On one side the Somali Republic, on the other side, Kenya; on both sides, Somalis. There's been a civil war running up there ever since I can remember. Nobody talks about it much. It's referred to in the press as Shifta trouble – banditry. Cattle raids and so forth. What it is really is an attempt to get a United Somalia.' Chip smiled grimly. 'Tourists aren't welcome on the North East Frontier.'
There was a diversion. In the fading light a bull elephant' had come up from the river and was now strolling on the lawn, making its way purposefully towards the swimming pool. There were cries of alarm and then white-coated staff erupted from the kitchen, clattering spoons on saucepans.
The elephant stopped uncertainly and then backed away, its ears flapping. Ponderously it turned and lumbered away back to the river.
Stafford said, 'That's one problem we don't have in English gardens.' He realized that the elephant had crossed the path he would have to walk to go to his room that night. 'Are those things dangerous ?'
'Not if you don't get too close. But you're quite safe.' Chip jerked his head. 'Look.'
Stafford turned and saw a man in uniform standing on the edge of the patio who was holding a rifle unobtrusively, and thought that if Stafford Security Consultants were to move into Africa they would have to learn new tricks and techniques.
So next day they went to look at animals and saw them in profusion; wildebeest, impala, gazelle, topi, zebra. Also lion, elephant and giraffe. Stafford was astonished to realize that what he saw was but a fraction of the vast herds which roamed the plains in the nineteenth-century. Although he was not in Kenya as a sightseer he found that he really enjoyed the day, and Chip, whatever he might be otherwise, knew his stuff as a guide.
They returned to Keekorok at five in the afternoon and, after cleaning away the travel stains, Stafford settled down to wait for Gunnarsson and Hendrix while settling the dust in his throat with the inevitable and welcome cold beer. They arrived on time in a party of six travelling in the usual zebra-striped Nissan, booked in at the desk and then went to the room they shared. Stafford marked it.
Later they appeared on the patio for drinks and he was able to assess them close at hand for the first time. Gunnarsson looked to be in his mid-fifties and his hair was turning iron-grey. He was a hard-looking man with a flat belly and appeared to be in good physical condition. His height was an even six feet and what there was on his bones was muscle and not fat. His eyes were pale blue and watchful, constantly on the move. He looked formidable.
The fake Hendrix was in his late twenties, a gangling and loose-jointed young man with a fresh face and innocent expression, and stood about five feet, nine inches. He was blond with a fair complexion and if he missed shaving one day no one would notice, unlike Gunnarsson who had a blue chin.
Chip joined Stafford at his table. 'So they're here. Now what?'
Stafford sighed. 'I don't know.'
'Max, for God's sake!' he said exasperatedly. 'I'm doing my best to help but what can I do if you don't trust me? Nair is becoming really annoyed. He thinks you're wasting our time and we should quit. I'm beginning to agree with him.'
During the past couple of days Stafford had come to like Chip; his style was easy and his conversation intelligent. He didn't want Chip to leave because he suspected he would need someone who really knew his way about Kenya. That was the role he had planned for Hardin but Hardin wasn't around.
He said, 'All right; I'll tell you. That young man has just come into a fortune – three million pounds sterling from the Hendrykxx estate.'
Chip whistled. 'And you want to take it from him?'
'Don't be a damned fool,' Stafford said without heat.
Chip grinned. 'Sorry. I really didn't put you down as a crook.'
'The whole point is that he isn't Hendrix. He's a fake rung in by Gunnarsson.' He told Chip the story.
'But why didn't you just tell the police in London?' asked Chip.
'Because Gunnarsson would have slid out from under, all injured innocence, and I want Gunnarsson. He's a cheap, unethical bastard who has got in my way before, and I want his hide. The trouble is I can't find a way of doing it. I've been beating my brains silly.'
'I'll have to think about this,' said Chip. 'This is a big one.'
Stafford watched Hendrix. He was chatting up a girl who was in his party. 'Who is she? Do you know?'
'Her name is Michele Roche. She's doing the tour with her parents. They're French. Her father's a retired businessman from Bordeaux; he was in the wine trade until six months ago.'
'You don't miss much,' Stafford said.
Chip grinned widely. 'I told Adam Muliro to find out as much as he could. The other member of the tour group is a young Dutchman called Kosters, Frederik Kosters. He and Hendrix don't like each other. They're both trying to get
