Windfall

Stafford looked across at Gunnarsson. There was no euphoria about him. He sat with his legs stretched out, gloomily regarding his bandaged feet. Someone had found him a pair of carpet slippers which had been slashed to accommodate the bandages. Stafford took his drink and walked over to Gunnarsson. 'You've had a nasty experience. Oh; my name is Stafford.'

Gunnarsson squinted up at him. 'Stafford? You the guy who tried to come after us?'

'We didn't get very far,' Stafford said ruefully. 'We just got lost and made bloody fools of ourselves.'

'Let me top up your drink.' Stafford sat down. 'I'm John Gunnarsson.' He turned and looked at Stafford, then shook his head. 'You wouldn't have done any good, Mr Stafford -those guys were a walking arsenal – but thanks for trying. What will you have?'

'Gin and tonic.'

Gunnarsson beckoned to a waiter and gave the order, then sighed. 'Christ, what an experience. I've been in some tough spots in my time but that was one of the toughest.'

'They tell me it's happened before,' Stafford said casually.

'Yeah. These damned half-ass Kenyans ought to beef up their border force. You know what was the worst? There's nothing takes the steam out of a guy faster than to strip him ballock naked.' He gave a small snort. 'Well, not quite; they let us keep our underpants.' He brooded. 'It was bad coming back what with the sun and the thorns. My feet feel the size of footballs. And there was the goddamn hyena…'

'A hyena?'

'A big son of a bitch. It trotted parallel with us about a hundred yards off, I guess. Waiting for someone to lag or drop out. If it wasn't for the nig… the black guy, Adam Somebody, I don't think we'd have made it. He was good.'

'I hear somebody didn't make it,' Stafford said.

'Oh, Jesus!' Gunnarsson's neck swelled.

'What happened to him? Enderby, wasn't it?'

'Hendrix.' Gunnarsson glowered. 'There were six of us, six of them, and Adam, the driver. Trouble was, they were armed. Kalashnikovs. Know what they are?'

Stafford shook his head. 'Things like that don't come my way.'

'You're lucky. They're Russian-made automatic rifles. We couldn't do a goddamn thing. Helpless.' He made a fist in his frustration. 'Then a couple of them took Hendrix away and later there was firing and the four black guys with us burst out laughing. Imagine that.'

'I can't,' Stafford said soberly. 'Were these men in uniform?'

'Yeah. Camouflage gear. A real military set-up. Jesus, but there's going to be trouble when I get back to Nairobi. Nobody's going to get away with doing this to an American citizen.'

'What are you going to do?' Stafford asked interestedly.

'Do! I'm going to raise hell with the American Ambassador, that's what I'm going to do. Hendrix was a real nice young guy and I want him found, dead or alive. And if he's dead I want blood if I have to take it all the way to the United Nations.'

Stafford contemplated that statement. If Gunnarsson was prepared to raise a stink at that level it meant that the real Hendrix was not around to object. Terminated with extreme prejudice, as Chip had said. The killing of a newly made American millionaire was certain to find its way into New York newspapers if Gunnarsson was prepared to push it so far, which meant that Gunnarsson thought he was safe.

'Had you known him long? Hendrix, I mean.'

'A while – not long.' said Gunnarsson. 'But that's not the point, Mr Stafford. The point is they can't get away with doing this to an American citizen and I'm going to scream that loud and clear.'

Yes, it was his only chance if Hendrix/Corliss was still alive and in the hands of the Tanzanians. Only strong diplomatic pressure put on Tanzania by Kenya and the United States could get back Gunnarsson's walking treasure chest. It would take nerve but Gunnarsson had that in plenty.

'I wish you well,' Stafford said. 'Let me buy you a drink.' So he bought Gunnarsson a drink and presently took his leave. As he walked by the back of Gunnarsson's chair he said, 'Good luck,' and clapped him on the shoulder. Gunnarsson jumped a foot in the air, let out a scream and banged both feet on the floor, whereupon he emitted another piercing yell. Stafford apologized, professing to have forgotten his sunburn, and made a quick getaway.

Chapter 17

They left for Nairobi next morning and so did a lot of others but for different reasons. After seeing the condition in which the tour group had come back from their unwanted, brief sojourn in Tanzania the front desk was busy as the fearful paid their bills. The manager was gloomy but resigned.

Again they drove that spine-jolting, back-breaking road to Narok and then sat back with relief as they hit the asphalt which led all the way to Nairobi, and pulled into a parking slot in front of the Norfolk Hotel in comfortable time for lunch. There Stafford received a surprise. On opening the door of his room he found an envelope on the floor just inside. It contained the briefest of messages: 'I'm back. Come see me. Room 14. Ben.'