Windfall

The two men shook hands and Hunt said, 'Your grandfather's largesse has come just at the right time for me. I want a fraction of that seven million quid for a gas chromatograph.'

Dirk laughed. 'I wouldn't know what that is.'

'Seven million!' said Stafford in simulated surprise. It's more than that, surely.'

'Per annum," said Dirk easily. 'That's Charles Brice's estimate of the annual return when the capital is invested. I think he's too optimistic. It's before tax, of course, but he's having talks with the government with a view to getting it tax free. The Foundation is a non-profit organization, after all.'

All very specious. 'I must have misunderstood Brice,' Stafford said.

Hunt whistled. 'I certainly misunderstood him, and so did the pressmen. How much did your grandfather leave us?'

'At the time of his death it would have been about thirty-four million, but probate and proving the will has taken some time during which the original sum has been earning more cash. Say about thirty-seven million.'

Hunt gave a sharp crack of laughter. 'Now I know I'll get my gas chromatograph. Let's drink to it.'

He ordered a round of drinks and then Stafford said curiously, 'You said you are taking photographs for Dr Odhiambo. I don't see the point. I mean he can see the crops on the ground, can't he?'

'Ah,' said Hunt. 'But this is quicker. We use infra-red film to shoot his experimental plots. Plants that are ailing or sick show up very well on infra-red if you know what to look for. It saves Jim many a weary mile of walking.'

'The wonders of science,' said Hendriks.

'They use the same system in satellites,' said Hunt. 'But they can cover greater areas than I can.'

Stafford sampled his beer. 'Talking about satellites, who owns the satellite your animal movement people use? They couldn't have put it up themselves.'

Hunt laughed. 'Not likely. It's an American job. The migration study boys asked to put their scientific package into it. It's not very big and it takes very little power so the Yanks didn't mind. But the satellite does a lot more than monitor the movement of wildebeest.' He pointed to the ceiling. 'It sits up there, 22,000 miles high, and watches the clouds over most of Africa and the Indian Ocean; a long term study of the monsoons.'

'A geostationary orbit,' said Stafford.

'That's right. It's on the Equator. Here we're about one degree south. It's fairly steady, too; there's a bit of liberation but not enough to worry about.'

'You've lost me,' said Hendriks. 'I understand about one word in three.' He shook his head and said wryly, 'My grandfather wanted me to work here part of the year but I don't see what I can do. I haven't had the right training. I was in liberal arts at university.'

'No doubt Brice will have you working with him on the administrative side,' observed Hunt, and drank some beer.

No doubt he would, thought Stafford, and said aloud, 'Which university, Dirk?'

'Potch. That's Potchefstroom in the Transvaal.'

Stafford filed that information away in his mind; it would be a useful benchmark if Hendriks had to be investigated in depth at a later date.

Hunt said, 'Max, if you're coming with us tomorrow it'll be early – before breakfast. The air is more stable in the early morning. I'll give you a ring at six-thirty.' Stafford nodded and Hunt looked at Dirk. 'Would you like to come? There's room for one more.'

Hendriks shook his head. 'Brice wants to see me early tomorrow morning. Some other time, perhaps.'

Stafford was relieved; he had his own reasons for wanting to overfly Ol Njorowa and he did not want Hendriks watching him when it happened. He did not think the Hunts were mixed up in any undercover activity at the College. They were Kenya born and it was unlikely they would have been suborned by South African intelligence. He thought they were part of the innocent protective camouflage behind which Brice hid, like most of the scientific staff. He had his own ideas about where the worm in this rosy apple lay.

Hunt announced he had work to do, finished his beer and went off. Stafford and Hendriks continued to chat, a curious conversation in which both probed but neither wanted to give anything away. A duel with words ending at honours even.

As Gunnarsson drove to Naivasha he began to put the pieces together and the conclusion he arrived at was frightening. He was a tough-minded man and did not scare easily but now he was worried because the package he had put together in New York was coming apart; the string unravelling, the cover torn and, worse, the contents missing.

Corliss was missing, damn him!