Windfall

'Hello, Dirk; so. I've tracked you down at last,' said Stafford, and Hendriks nearly dropped the phone. 'Max here. I thought I'd phone Ol Njorowa on the off chance you'd be there. How are you doing?'

'Fine,' said Dirk. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and said in a low voice, 'It's Stafford.'

'Have you been ballooning yet?" asked Stafford. 'What?' said Dirk stupidly.

'Ballooning with the Hunts. They've extended an invitation for me to go ballooning with them tomorrow. I've just been talking to Alan. I'll be staying at the Lake Naivasha Hotel. We must have dinner.'

'Yes, we must,' said Dirk mechanically. 'Hang on a minute.' Again he covered the mouthpiece. 'He's coming here. Some crazy talk about ballooning with someone called Hunt. He'll be at the hotel.'

Brice began to smile. 'Give me the phone.' He took -it, and said, 'Hello, Mr Stafford; Charles Brice here. I hear Alan Hunt is taking you up tomorrow. Now, there's no question of your staying at the hotel, we can put you up here. Apart from anything else it will be more convenient for Alan. Yes, I insist. What time shall we expect you? All right, we'll see you then.'

His smile broadened as he cradled the telephone. 'I'd just as soon have him here where I can keep an eye on him. "'Walk into my parlour,' said the spider to the fly".'

Chapter 22

Gunnarsson lay on the bed in his room at the New Stanley reading a paperback novel in which he had no interest. Several times he had lost the drift of the plot and had to turn back several pages and he was bored and irritable. True, being on his back helped his feet which were still sore, and the doctor had recommended bed rest, but what he was really doing was waiting for a telephone call from London.

The telephone rang and he reached for it. 'Gunnarsson.'

'Mr Gunnarsson, this is George Barbour of Peacemore, Willis and Franks in London. I understand that you want to know the present location of Max Stafford of Stafford Security Consultants.'

'Yeah.'

'To the best of our knowledge Mr Stafford is now in Kenya on holiday. He left London on the eighteenth.'

So the bastard had been waiting in Nairobi, thought Gunnarsson. He said, 'You didn't tip off Stafford Security, I hope.'

Barbour was hurt. 'We know how to make discreet enquiries, Mr Gunnarsson.'

'Okay. Well, thanks.'

He rang off and pulled the telephone directory towards him and began to ring the Nairobi hotels. He struck lucky on his fifth try which was the Norfolk. Yes, Mr Stafford was staying at the Norfolk. No, he was not in the hotel at the moment. It was believed that Mr Stafford was away on safari, although he had retained his room. No, the whereabouts of Mr Stafford were not known. Did the gentleman wish to leave a message?

Gunnarsson did not wish to leave a message so he hung up abruptly and lay back on the bed and tried to sort out his thoughts. He had never met Stafford but had heard much of him from Peacemore, Willis and Franks. There was no Peacemore, nor Willis, nor Franks; the three-barrelled name having been invented by Gunnarsson as having a cosy ring to it suitable for the City of London. The outfit was ram-rodded by Terence Ferney who had been vitriolic on the subject of Stafford Security Consultants from time to time. 'Stafford's halo is getting tight the way his head is swelling,' he once said. 'But he's a good operator, there's no doubt about that. He keeps his security tight and he's recruited good men – Jack Ellis for one.'

Gunnarsson had seen Ferney in London and Ferney had been crowing about how they had got past Stafford Security's guard at Electronomics during the Electronomics takeover and Gunnarsson had cut him short curdy. 'You've won one and lost five. Your record's not good, Terry. Get on the ball.'

So it was Stafford who had followed him in the Masai Mara. What sort of coincidence was that? The boss of one of America's biggest private security organizations is kidnapped and the boss of one of Europe's largest security organizations is conveniently at hand. Nuts!

But how had Stafford got on to him? And had he anything to do with the disappearance of Corliss? Did he know about Corliss – that he was a ringer for Hank Hendrix? And why was he horning in anyway? Gunnarsson picked up the telephone again and dialled. 'I'd like to put in a call to New York.'

***

Hardin was also lying down, but on a lounger by the swimming pool at the Norfolk Hotel and acquiring a tan. He lay on his stomach, intently watching the bubbles rise in a glass of Premium beer, and reflected that he could not be said to be earning his pay. Stafford and Curtis had gone to Ol Njorowa, Chip and his myrmidons were keeping an eye on Gunnarsson, and there was nothing left for Hardin to do. He felt dissatisfied and vaguely guilty.