Windfall

'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.