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?'
'Mr Hendriks to see Mr Brice. I'm expected.'
'Sah.' The gate keeper went back and the gates opened. As Hendriks drove through, the gate keeper shouted warningly 'Pole pole!' Hendriks did not know what that meant until he hit the first sleeping policeman at a speed which jarred his teeth. He slowed the car and reflected that he had better learn Swahili. It would be useful in the future.
He parked outside the Administration Block and went inside. In the cool hall he approached the reception desk behind which sat a muscular young black who was dressed neatly in white shirt and shorts. Another young Kenyan was sitting at a side desk hammering a typewriter. 'Mr Hendriks to see Mr Brice,' Hendriks repeated.
'Yes, sir; he's expecting you. Come this way.' Hendriks followed, passing through a wicket gate and along a corridor towards Brice's office. He nodded approvingly. Potgeiter had it organized well; no one was going to wander about the place unobserved.
Brice was sitting behind his desk and looked up with a smile as Hendriks came in. The Kenyan left, closing the door behind him, and Hendriks said, 'Goeie middag, meneer Potgeiter; hoe gaan dit?' The smile abruptly left Brice's face. 'No Afrikaans,' he said sharply. 'And my name is Brice – always Brice. Remember that!'
Hendriks smiled and dropped into a chair. 'Think the place is bugged?'
'I know it isn't.' Brice tapped on the desk for emphasis. 'But don't get into bad habits.'
'I'm a South African,' said Hendriks. 'I'm supposed to know Afrikaans.'
'And I'm not,' snapped Brice. 'So stick to English – always English.'
'English it will be' agreed Hendriks. 'Even when we're conspiring.'
Brice nodded – a gesture which closed the subject. 'How did you get on in London?'
'All right. That old fool, Farrar, is making the distribution next week.' Hendriks laughed. 'He gave me a cheque for a hundred thousand pounds on account as soon as we got back. Your coffers should be filling up soon.'
'And about time,' said Brice. 'I'm tired of working on a shoestring.' He shook his head. 'The way it was set up in Europe was too complicated. We ought to have had direct control. Farrar asked some sticky questions when he was here.'
'It had to be set up in Jersey,' said Hendriks. 'Do you think we wanted to pay the British Treasury death duties on forty million pounds? This operation wasn't set up to give money to the Brits. As for Farrar, Mandeville kept a tight rein on him. Farrar is a legal snob; he likes working with an eminent British barrister. And Mandeville is a good man. The best.' Hendriks smiled thinly. 'He ought to be considering what we pay him.'
Brice made a dismissive gesture. 'I never understood the European end of this and I didn't want to. I had my own troubles.'
You had troubles! thought Hendriks bitterly, but said nothing. His mind went back to the moment when Alix happily announced that she was pregnant. That had come as a shock because if the child was born before Hendrykxx died it would automatically become one of his heirs and that could not be allowed. The kid would inherit two million of their precious pounds and it would bring Alix right into the middle of the operation.
He had thought of having the will changed and had talked it over with Mandeville but Mandeville had said they would not get it past Farrar. Hendrykxx was then senile and not in his right mind, and Farrar was rectitude itself. So Hendrykxx had to go before the baby was born. It had been risky -murder always was – but it had been done. And all that was on top of the trouble caused by Henry Hendrix who had dropped out of sight in America. Still, that problem had been solved – or had it?
Brice said, 'Your cousin Henry was one of your problems you wished on me. Why the hell was he allowed to come to Africa?'
'We lost him,' said Hendriks. 'And Pretoria was asleep. By the time they woke up back home to the fact that Henry was important because the old man was dead Farrar had employed an American agency and was looking for him himself. The agency man got to Henry about ten minutes before we did.' He snorted. 'Ten minutes and three
