Windfall

'Yes,' said Pasternak meditatively. 'I read they'd come into money but I didn't know about Hendrix.' He thought for a moment, then said, 'How long are you staying in Kenya, Mr Gunnarsson?'

Gunnarsson shrugged. 'For a while, I guess. I'll stick around to see if Hank comes back. And I want to goose the Ambassador. An American citizen has disappeared, Pasternak, and no one seems to be doing much about it. I tell you, I'm going to raise hell.'

Pasternak made no comment. He drew the notepad towards him, and said, 'If you'll give me the name of your hotel here, and your home address, I think that's about all.'

'What do you want my home address for?'

'I doubt if you'll be staying in Kenya indefinitely,' said Pasternak reasonably. 'We might want to talk to you again, even back in the States. And if you intend moving about in Kenya we'd like to know your itinerary in advance.'

'Why?'

'We might want to get hold of you in a hurry. For identification purposes, for instance.' Again it was a reasonable request. Pasternak wrote down the addresses, then pushed a button and stood up. 'That's all, Mr Gunnarsson. Thanks for coming in.' He held out his hand. 'We'll do our best to find what happened to Mr Hendrix.'

'You'd better find him,' said Gunnarsson. 'There's a lot riding on Hank.'

A man entered the room. Pasternak said, 'The messenger will escort you downstairs.' He smiled. 'If you're in the security business you'll realize why we don't like people wandering around the building.'

Gunnarsson grunted and left without saying another word. Pasternak opened the drawer and stopped the recorder, then rewound it. He played it, skipping back and forth, and listened to one part several times. Would a gun nut know a Kalashnikov when he saw one? There were precious few of those floating about loose back home. True, an enthusiast might study illustrations in books. And Gunnarsson was in something known amorphously as 'security' which could be a euphemism for something more dangerous. A couple of loose ends which needed tidying up. He played the tape yet again and frowned when he noted that both he and Gunnarsson had consistently referred to Hendrix in the past tense.

Pasternak turned to the typewriter and wrote a request for any known information on John Gunnarsson, giving the address in New York. He took it to the code room himself.

The telex was addressed to Langley, Virginia.

An hour later Pasternak was interrupted again. The telephone rang and Gleeson said 'Mr Hardin is asking for you.'

Pasternak frowned, hunting in his mind for a connection, then his brow cleared. 'Not Ben Hardin?'

There was a pause and a few mumbled words, then Gleeson said, 'Yes; Ben Hardin.'

'Have him brought up.' Pasternak depressed the telephone cradle and dialled. 'Send in some more coffee.' When Hardin entered the room he stood up and smiled. 'Well, hello, Ben. It's been a long time. What are you doing in Kenya?'

They shook hands and Hardin sat down. 'A sort of working vacation,' he said. 'I haven't been here in years. Nairobi has changed some but the country hasn't. I thought I'd drop in to see if there was anyone I knew from the old days.'

'And you found me.' Pasternak smiled. 'It's certainly been a long time. What are you doing these days?'

'Working for a British outfit.' Hardin shrugged. 'A guy has to earn a living.'

'I'd stick in Kenya,' advised Pasternak. 'I wouldn't go into Tanzania. You'll still be on a list after what you did in Dares-Salaam. I know it was years ago but those guys have long memories.'

'I'm not going anywhere near Tanzania,' said Hardin. 'Not even to the border. I hear it's not safe even for tourists.'

'You heard about that?'

'It made the London papers,' said Hardin. 'I read about it over there.'

'It will have made the New York papers, too,' agreed Pasternak gloomily. 'If it hasn't yet, it will. One of the guys who was kidnapped has just been in here bending my ear. The other American, the one who came back. Gunnarsson has been threatening to raise Gain.'

'Gunnarsson!' Hardin showed surprise. 'Of Gunnarsson Associates in New York?' Pasternak nodded. 'Well, I'll be a son of a bitch!'

'Do you know him?'

'I used to work for him after I left the Company. He's ex-Company, too.'

'I didn't know that,' said Pasternak. He poured a couple of cups of coffee while he thought. That would explain the recognition of the Kalashnikovs, but it did hot explain why Gunnarsson had lied about how he knew unless he did not want to advertise his one-time connection with the CIA. A lot of the guys were sensitive about it. But Gunnarsson had not looked the sensitive type. 'What sort of a guy is he?'

'A 22-carat bastard,' said Hardin, and hesitated. 'Look, Mike, I'd just as soon Gunnarsson doesn't know I'm around. We parted on bad terms and now I'm working for the competition. He won't like that.'

Pasternak shrugged. 'No reason for me to tell him, Ben. Who are you working for?'

'Stafford Security Consultants of London. I joined them when Gunnarsson fired me.'