Windfall

In Nairobi Gunnarsson was angry. His feet hurt and his back was sore but that was not the reason for his anger. What riled him was that he was being given the runaround in the American Embassy. 'Damn it!' he said. 'I've been kidnapped and my friend is still missing. If I can't see the Ambassador who the hell can I see? And don't fob me off on any third clerk. I want action.'

The clerk behind the counter sighed. 'I'll see what I can do.' He moved away and picked up a telephone. 'Is Mr Pasternak there?'

'Speaking.'

'There's a guy here called Gunnarsson wanting to see the Ambassador. He has some crazy story about being kidnapped by Tanzanians and says his friend is still missing. I think he's a nut, but I can't get rid of him.'

An incredulous silence bored into his ear, then Pasternak said, 'Gleeson; don't you read the papers? Watch TV? Listen to the radio?'

'I've been on safari for two weeks,' said Gleeson. 'Just got back this morning from my vacation. Why? Something happened?'

'Yeah; something happened,' said Pasternak ironically. 'Don't let that guy get away; I'll be right down. And catch up on the goddamn news for God's sake.' He hung up, opened his desk drawer to check that his recorder had a tape ready to go, then went downstairs to meet Gunnarsson.

Gunnarsson was still simmering so Pasternak applied the old oil. 'Sorry you've been kept waiting, Mr Gunnarsson, and sorrier that you've been inconvenienced by idiocy.

Won't you come this way?' He slowed his pace to Gunnarsson's hobble as he led the way to the elevator. 'I guess you had a tough time.'

Gunnarsson grunted. 'You guessed right. What's your position here?'

'Nothing much,' admitted Pasternak. 'Third Secretary. You'll realize we're all busy on this thing, especially the Ambassador. He's talking with the Kenyan Foreign Minister right now, trying to get some action. And the rest of our work has to carry on – guys losing their credit cards and traveller's checks and so on.'

'This is more important,' said Gunnarsson acidly. 'You've lost an American citizen.'

Pasternak said, 'We're doing all we can, Mr Gunnarsson; and we're sure you can help.' They left the elevator, walked along a corridor, and he opened the door of his office. 'In here. Would you like coffee?'

'Thanks.' Gunnarsson sat before the desk, thankfully taking the weight off his feet, as Pasternak picked up the telephone and ordered a jug of coffee.

Pasternak sat down, opened his desk drawer and unobtrusively switched on the recorder before taking out a notepad and laying it on the desk. He picked up a pen. 'I've read the newspaper reports,' he said. 'But you know what newspapers are. I'll be glad to hear a first-hand report. If you hadn't come to us, Mr Gunnarsson, we'd have been camping on your doorstep. Now, I'd like you to tell it as it happened. Don't leave anything out even though you might think it irrelevant.'

So Gunnarsson told his story while Pasternak made largely unnecessary notes and dropped in a question from time to time. 'You say these men were in uniform. Can you describe it?' Then again: 'You say the rifles were Kalashnikovs; how do you know?'

'I'm a gun buff back home. I know a Kalashnikov when I see one.'

He got to the end when he said, 'And then we got back to '

Keekorok and that was that. But Hank Hendrix didn't come back.'

'I see.' Pasternak laid down his pen. 'More coffee?'

'Thanks. All this talk is thirsty work.'

Pasternak poured the coffee. 'What's your relationship with Hendrix?'

'We're business associates,' said Gunnarsson. 'And friends, too.'

Pasternak nodded understandingly. 'Yes, you'd naturally be disturbed about this affair. What business are you in, Mr Gunnarsson ?'

'I run Gunnarsson Associates; we're a security outfit based in New York. We run security for corporations and do some investigative work. Not much of that, though.'

'Investigative work,' repeated Pasternak thoughtfully. 'You're licensed for that in the state of New York?'

'In most states of the Union,' said Gunnarsson. 'We're a pretty big outfit.'

'And what were you doing in Kenya?'

'Well, Hank had some business here. He'd inherited a hunk of dough. I came along for the ride; taking a vacation, you know.' Gunnarsson looked at Pasternak over the rim of his coffee cup. 'The shit's going to hit the fan on this one, Pasternak, because Hank had just inherited six million bucks. The papers will make hay of it back home.'

Pasternak raised his eyebrows. 'The State Department does not run its affairs on the basis of newspaper reports, Mr Gunnarsson. But you interest me. You say Henry Hendrix had inherited six million dollars from Kenya?'

Gunnarsson shook his head. 'I didn't say that. He inherited from his grandfather, but the will said that a condition of inheritance was that Hank was to spend at least one month a year at some charitable foundation here; helping out, I guess.'

'Which foundation?'

'Ol Njorowa,' said Gunnarsson, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. 'It's near Naivasha.'