Windfall

Stafford dressed in shirt and shorts with swimming trunks beneath and thrust his feet into sandals. Curtis said, 'I'm going with Nair to see Corliss if the Colonel doesn't mind.'

'Why?'

'Chip said they're short of food so we're taking it.' He paused. 'It would be good for us to know where he is, sir.'

Stafford nodded. 'Carry on, Sergeant.'

The lobby was a hubbub of noise and crammed with a welcoming committee of the curious – those guests who had not gone game spotting. There were a lot of them. Stafford suspected that game spotting in the Masai Mara would be a depreciating part of the tourist industry until this storm had blown itself out. Game spotting was one thing and the risk of being kidnapped was another.

He joined Chip who was leaning against a wall. 'How are they?'

'I haven't seen them yet, and we won't be able to talk to them for a while. There's a heavy police escort.'

The rescued tourists came in, spearheaded by a phalanx of police. Six of them – the Roches, Gunnarsson, Kosters and Adam Muliro. They did not walk well, but their feet had been bandaged and clothing had been issued, ill-fitting and incongruous but necessary. The crowd pressed around, shouting questions, and the police kept them back, linking arms.

A senior police officer held up his hands in one of which he held a swagger stick. 'Quiet please! These people are not well. They need urgent medical attention. Now, make way, please.'

There was a brief hush, then someone called, 'There are only six. Who's missing?'

'Mr Hendrix has not yet appeared. We are still looking, for him.'

As photo-flashes began to pop Stafford watched Gunnarsson. He had a baffled almost defeated, expression on his face. So that's how a man looks when he's been cheated of six million dollars. It must have been how many a man looked in New York in the crash of 1929 just before jumping out of the skyscraper window – an expression of unfocused anger at the unfairness of things. Not that Gunnarsson would commit suicide. He was not the type and, anyway, he had not lost the money because he had never had it. Still, it was a hard blow.

Stafford lost sight of him as the party was led away. Chip made a motion of his hand as Adam Muliro went past and Adam nodded almost imperceptibly. Chip said, 'We won't see them for a while. Let's have a swim.'

It was a good idea, so after waiting for the crowd to thin they walked towards the pool. Halfway there someone ran after them. 'Mr Stafford?' He turned and saw the man who had asked who was missing. 'Eddy Ukiru – the Standard. Can I have a word with you?'

Behind Ukiru a man was unlimbering what was obviously a press camera. Stafford glanced at Chip who said, 'Why not?'

And so Stafford. gave a press interview. Midway through Ukiru was joined, to his displeasure, by another reporter from the rival newspaper, Nation, and Stafford had to repeat some of the details but essentially he stuck to the prepared story which Chip corroborated. Ukiru showed minor signs of disbelief. 'So you turned back at the border,' he said. 'How did you know it was the border? There is no fence, no mark.'

Stafford shrugged. 'You will have to ask Mr Chipende about that."

So he did, and Chip switched into fast Swahili. Eventually Ukiru shrugged his acceptance, the photographers took their pictures, and they all went away. Stafford said, 'They got here damned quickly. How?'

'The manager will have telephoned his head office who will have notified the police in Nairobi. Plenty of room for leaks to the press there. They'll have chartered aircraft. There's an airstrip here.'

'Yes, I've seen the airstrip,' said Stafford. 'But I didn't know about the telephone. I've seen no wires.'

Chip smiled. 'It's a radio-phone in the manager's office. And we can't have wires because the elephants knock down the telegraph poles. Let's have that swim.'

Stafford wanted to put himself next to Gunnarsson and found the opportunity during the pre-dinner cocktail hours. All the rescued tour group was there in the bar with the exception of Adam Muliro and they were being quizzed about their experience by the other guests. There was an air of euphoria about them; much laughter from the Roches and Kosters. Now saved, their adventure verged somewhat on unreality and would be something to dine out on for years to come. Adventure is discomfort recollected in tranquillity.

Stafford talked with Kosters and Michele Roche and got their account with no great difficulty, then said with an air of puzzlement. 'But what about Hendrix? What happened to him?'

The euphoric gaiety disappeared fast. 'I don't know,' said Kosters soberly. 'They took him away and there was shooting.'

'You think he's dead?'

Michele's voice was sombre. 'He hasn't come back. We didn't see him again.'