The basket made contact with the ground and he twisted his head to see Hunt yanking on a line. Above him the whole top of the envelope seemed to tear apart and he could see blue sky. Then the basket tipped on to its side and he was thrown on to his back alongside Judy. Everything was still and they had stopped moving.
‘End of ride,’ she said, and crawled out.
Stafford rolled out and stood up. Behind were the lava flows and steam clouds; ahead was the balloon envelope, looking very much as it had when he had first seen it, inert and dead upon the ground. In the distance the Land-Rover was driving towards them over the grass. Hunt was standing by the basket. He grinned and said, ‘What does it feel like to be a hero of the sky?’
Stafford said slowly, ‘I think that was the best damned experience I’ve had in my life.’
‘You’ve not finished yet,’ Hunt said. ‘There’s more to come. But first help me get the gas cylinders out.’
They took out the cylinders and rolled them aside. The Land-Rover drove up and Lucas and the other Kenyans got out. Lucas came over carrying a hamper. ‘Breakfast!’ said Judy with satisfaction. She opened the hamper and took out plastic boxes. ‘Cold chicken; boiled eggs, fruit. I hope I put the salt in—I can’t remember.’
‘You’re forgetting the most important thing,’ said Hunt, and stooped to pick up a large flask. ‘It’s an old ballooning tradition that anyone making a first flight ends up drinking champagne.’ He opened the flask and took out a bottle. ‘Nicely chilled,’ he commented, and smiled. ‘That’s why we like to take up first-time passengers; that way we get to drink champagne, too.’
They sat on the empty cylinders eating breakfast and drinking champagne while Lucas and his friend packed up the balloon. It folded into a cube with dimensions of under four feet a side. After breakfast they climbed over the lava flows and had a look at the place where the steam was issuing. There was a strong smell of sulphur and the ground was hot underfoot.
Hunt pointed. ‘Ol Karia is about two kilometres that way. They’re drilling for steam there; gone down over five and a half thousand feet.’
Stafford looked at the steam issuing all around him. ‘I don’t see the point. Why drill that far down? There’s plenty here.’
‘Not this flabby stuff; you need high pressure steam to drive a turbine.’
Stafford shook his head. ‘I don’t think I’d like to live in a volcanic area. I prefer my
terra
to be
firma.
‘
‘Oh, it’s fairly stable around here,’ said Hunt. ‘There was a quake in the Valley about four years ago but it didn’t hurt much apart from taking out a piece of the road coming down the escarpment from Nairobi.’
Stafford turned and look across at Longonot. The crater showed quite clearly. ‘Is that an active volcano?’
‘Not so as you’d notice. A few fumaroles, that’s all. I’d call it quiescent. I’ve climbed into the crater. There are caves, some quite large, where gases have blown out. There are active volcanoes further south of here in Tanzania, notably Ol Doinyo Lengai.’
They turned to walk back to the Land-Rover and Stafford saw a taxi drawn up next to it and, much to his surprise, Hardin and Nair standing by. Hunt said in surprise, ‘Now what are they doing here?’
Nair stepped forward and held the Hunts in conversation leaving Hardin to talk privately with Stafford. ‘Things began happening yesterday,’ Hardin said. ‘We didn’t know how to
contact you but Nair had the bright idea of following the balloon. You gave us quite a chase.’
He related the facts about Gunnarsson, and Stafford looked at the taxi with its array of antennas. ‘You were a damn fool to try a trick like that on an old pro like Gunnarsson. Now he’s alerted.’
‘It was Nair—not me,’ protested Hardin.
‘Look, we must have a conference; you, me, Nair, Curtis and Chip, if he’s around.’ Stafford took the camera from his pocket and extracted the film cassette. ‘We’ll hold the conference as soon as you get this developed and prints made.’
‘How can we let you know?’
‘I can see the fence from my bedroom,’ said Stafford. ‘There’s a place on the other side of the fence about a hundred yards long where the grass has been burned over. Curtis will know where it is; he’s been scouting the perimeter of Ol Njorowa. In the middle of the burned area there’s an acacia. When you’re ready have someone take a fairly big sheet of newspaper and stick it on one of the thorns as though it’s been blown there. That will be the signal. Where are you staying?’
‘I couldn’t stay at the Lake Naivasha Hotel,’ said Hardin. ‘Gunnarsson is there. I booked into a place called Safariland.’ He told Stafford where it was.
‘Then that’s where we’ll talk.’
‘What about?’ said Hardin.
‘About using you to spook Gunnarsson and drive him towards the wolves.’ Stafford smiled. ‘The wolves being at present located at Ol Njorowa.’
Stafford spent the rest of the morning wandering over the grounds of Ol Njorowa, at first with Hunt and then with Dirk Hendriks. He was shown the propagation sheds, the soil testing laboratory, the fertilizer testing laboratory, the this laboratory and the that laboratory, and the scientific terms were pumped remorselessly into one ear only to escape from the other. However, he managed to keep his end up by showing a halfway intelligent interest while keeping his eyes open.
He came to a few conclusions, the first of which was that Hunt was probably not in Brice’s pocket. All the time he was in Hunt’s company he noted that they were under discreet surveillance by three men, two blacks and a white, who apparently had nothing better to do than potter about in the middle distance. When Hunt excused himself to go about his business they vanished, too, and Hendriks took over the guided tour. The conclusion was that Hunt was not trusted to steer Stafford away from dangerous areas but that Hendriks was.
A second conclusion was that he was being conned and, had it not been for the bugged picture frame in his bedroom, he might have fallen for it. It was being demonstrated to him with some assiduity that Ol Njorowa was an open book in which he might read from any scientific page.
The trouble was that science was a foreign language to him and he could have done with a translator.
At last Dirk looked at his watch. ‘Well, that’s about it, Max. It’s nearly lunchtime. I think you’ve seen about everything.’ He laughed. ‘Not that I’m qualified to show you. I don’t know all that much about the place myself. Brice was going to give you the tour himself but something came up.’
‘Yes,’ said Stafford. ‘He must be a busy man.’ He looked around. ‘How big is this place?’
‘About six hundred hectares.’ Hendriks paused to figure it out. ‘A little over two square miles.’
Stafford smiled. ‘I couldn’t have worked it out so quickly.’
‘We have the metric system in South Africa now. It makes you bilingual in mathematics.’
As they strolled in the direction of the Admin Block which was about a quarter of a mile away Stafford thought glumly that one could hide a hell of a lot in two square miles. But could one? Assuming that Ol Njorowa was a going concern as a genuine agricultural college then most of the staff would be genuine agricultural specialists. They would be wandering all over the place and could quite easily stumble across something illicit and wonder what it was. No, thought Stafford; hiding something at Ol Njorowa would not be as easy as all that.
They went into the dining room and threaded their way among the tables to where Brice sat. Judy Hunt was sitting with her brother and waved to him as he passed. He waved back as Dr Odhiambo caught his arm. ‘Are you enjoying yourself, Mr Stafford?’
‘Very much so,’ Stafford assured him.
They sat at Brice’s table and Stafford looked around the room which was noisy with animated conversation. Brice said, ‘Did you enjoy your flight with Hunt?’
‘It was great.’ Stafford tasted the soup which was placed before him. ‘Alan says hot air ballooning is becoming popular in England. I might take it up when I get back.’
Brice grimaced. ‘I don’t think I’d like a sport where every landing is a crash landing. And when are you going back to England?’
‘Any day now. As it is I’ve been away too long. I have a business to take care of, you know.’
‘Yes.’ Brice buttered a slice of bread. ‘Dirk has been telling me something of what you do. It must be interesting and adventurous.’
‘You mean cloak and dagger?’ Stafford laughed. ‘Not much adventure behind a City desk, Mr Brice.’
‘Oh, please call me Charles.’ Brice looked up as a waiter came to the table and gave a card to Hendriks who glanced at it and passed it to Brice. They had a brief conversation in murmurs and Hendriks excused himself and left the table. ‘An…er…acquaintance of yours has just arrived,’ said Brice casually. ‘Perhaps he’ll join us for lunch.’
‘Oh?’ Stafford raised his eyebrows. ‘Who can that be? I know few people in Kenya.’
‘I believe you met him in the Masai Mara at Keekorok. An American called Gunnarsson. I wonder what he wants. Never mind; no doubt we’ll find out. And what do you think of Ol Njorowa after your morning’s exploration?’
Stafford managed to convey a spoonful of soup to his mouth without spilling a drop. ‘A truly remarkable place,’ he said. ‘You’re doing good work here.’ As he pushed away his soup plate he thought that the next few minutes would probably prove interesting.
‘We’ll be able to really push it now we have the Hendrykxx inheritance. It’s been a hard slog up to now.’ Brice looked up as Hendriks and Gunnarsson came into the dining room. ‘Would that be Mr Gunnarsson?’
‘Yes.’ Stafford watched Gunnarsson’s face intently and caught the instant change of expression as Gunnarsson saw him sitting next to Brice; from blankness it changed to apprehension and then suspicion.
He and Brice stood up and Hendriks introduced them. ‘This is Mr Brice, the Director of the Foundation, and Max Stafford I think you already know.’
‘I sure do,’ said Gunnarsson as Brice ordered another place set at the table. ‘We met at Keekorok.’ There was something of a baffled look in his eyes as he stared at Stafford.
‘That’s right,’ said Stafford. ‘How are your feet, Mr Gunnarsson?’
Gunnarsson grunted as he sat down. ‘Better.’ He looked around the table: at Hendriks who was finishing his soup; at Brice who, with bottle poised, was asking blandly if he would like wine; at Stafford who was leaning back to allow a plate to be put before him. Here they all were and what the hell was going on?
Hendriks said, ‘I went to the American Embassy and did no better than you, Mr Gunnarsson; a complete blank wall. Have you heard any further news of my cousin?’
‘No,’ said Gunnarsson briefly. He started on his soup. ‘What are you doing in Kenya, Mr Stafford?’
‘I’m on holiday,’ said Stafford easily.
Gunnarsson grunted, ‘If you’re like me you don’t take vacations.’ He looked at Dirk. ‘Do you know who he is?’
Hendriks looked surprised. ‘Yes; he’s Max Stafford.’ ‘But do you know what he does?’
‘We were discussing it before you came in,’ said Brice. He sipped his wine. ‘Must be very interesting work.’
‘Mr Gunnarsson is in the same line of business,’ observed Stafford. ‘But in the United States. You might say that we’re competitors, in a way. Or will be.’ He smiled at Gunnarsson. ‘I’m thinking of expanding my operations.’
‘Thinking of moving into the States?’ asked Gunnarsson. His smile had no humour in it. ‘It’s tough going.’
‘It can’t be worse than Europe,’ said Stafford equably.
‘Or Kenya.’ Gunnarsson finished his soup. ‘Funny things happen here, apart from people going missing. The latest is that my car was bugged. A bumper beeper.’
Stafford raised his eyebrows. ‘Now who’d do that?’
Gunnarsson shrugged. ‘You have the know-how.’
Stafford put down his knife and fork. ‘Now look here. I told you I was in Kenya on holiday. Apart from that I’m a friend of the Hendriks family. You would say that, wouldn’t you, Dirk?’
‘Of course.’ Hendriks smiled. ‘Especially since my wife named our son after you.’ His tone was a fraction sour.
Brice said coolly, ‘We know all about Mr Stafford. What we don’t know is why
you
are in Kenya, Mr Gunnarsson. You found Henry Hendrix in Los Angeles and delivered him to London. Why should you then accompany him to Kenya where he mysteriously disappears?’ He tented his fingers. ‘It would appear that you have to make the explanations rather than Max Stafford.’
Gunnarsson looked at him. ‘I don’t know that I’m required to give an explanation, Mr Brice, but, since you ask, Hendrix wanted me to come with him.’ He smiled. ‘He’s a nice, young guy and we got on well together when I found him. You might say we became friends and I came with him to Kenya at his request.’
Brice shrugged and turned to Stafford. ‘Will you really take up ballooning, Max?’ He was obviously changing the subject.
‘I might. It seems a great sport.’
The conversation became general with Brice holding forth enthusiastically on the future of the Ol Njorowa Foundation now that it was in funds. Gunnarsson made the odd comment from time to time but his main attention
seemed to be on his plate. He was aware of an interplay of tensions about the table but was unable to identify the cause. However, it was enough for him to make up his mind that there was something odd about Ol Njorowa. As he put it to himself, it was ‘something phoney’. It was not what was said that drew his attention—it was what was not said. For instance, Brice and Hendriks had not said much about the disappearance of Hank Hendrix.
As Stafford sipped his coffee he had a sudden thought. He could put the picture frame bug to some use—a use that Brice could not have foreseen. He put down his cup, and said, ‘Mr Gunnarsson; I’d like to have a few words with you.’
‘What about?’
‘Well, you know that Stafford Security is broadening its activities. I’d like to discuss a few…er…ground rules with you.’
Gunnarsson snorted. ‘Ground rules!’ He smiled grimly. ‘I’m willing to talk, sure.’
‘After lunch, in my room?’ suggested Stafford.
Gunnarsson drained his coffee cup. ‘After lunch is now.’
Stafford said to Brice, ‘I hope you’ll excuse us. It’s not my usual policy to talk business in these circumstances, but since Mr Gunnarsson is here and I have the unexpected opportunity…’ His voice tailed off.
‘Of course,’ said Brice. ‘One must always take opportunity by the forelock.’
Stafford rose and left the table followed by Gunnarsson. There was a moment’s silence before Brice said, ‘I’d like to hear that conversation. Let’s go.’ They both stood up.
At the door Stafford cast a glance backwards. He saw Gunnarsson following and, beyond, Hendriks and Brice were just rising from the table. He smiled slightly as he went up the stairs two at a time towards his room. He went in and stood aside to let Gunnarsson enter, then he closed the
door. Gunnarsson swung around. ‘Stafford; what are you trying to pull?’
‘Sit down,’ said Stafford. ‘Take the weight off your feet.’ He looked thoughtfully at the Shepherd print on the wall and thought he had better give Hendriks and Brice time to get settled in their listening post so he took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Smoke?’
Gunnarsson took a cigarette and Stafford snapped on his lighter. He lit the cigarettes, taking his time, blew out a plume of smoke, and said, ‘Is it true what Brice said? That you delivered Henry Hendrix from the States to London?’
Gunnarsson glowered. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Not a damn thing. But if it is true then you have some explaining to do.’ He held up his hand. ‘Not to me, but questions will certainly be asked. Dirk Hendriks will probably go to the police and they’ll be asking the questions. They’ll want to know why you came to Kenya after delivering the heir. You’d better have some good answers. I don’t believe the yarn you spun to Brice.’
‘I’m not here to talk about me,’ said Gunnarsson. ‘What about you? What are you doing in Kenya? You were in the Masai Mara when Hank was kidnapped, and now you’re here. It’s too goddamn coincidental.’
‘You heard about that downstairs,’ said Stafford tiredly. ‘I’m a family friend of the Hendriks’s.’ He paused. ‘Well, not really. I’m more of a friend of Alix Hendriks. I might have married her at one time, and Dirk knows it. I don’t think he likes me much.’
‘Is it true his wife named the baby after you?’ When Stafford nodded Gunnarsson said, ‘Yeah, I guess he could be sore about that.’ He pulled on his cigarette. ‘But you were at Keekorok at the right time and pulling heroics. And now someone is trailing me.’
‘When did you discover that?’
‘Yesterday—about midday at the Lake Naivasha Hotel.’
Stafford spread his hands. ‘Then it wasn’t me. I was already here talking to Alan Hunt about a balloon trip. You can go down and ask him; he’s in the dining room.’ He flicked ash into the ashtray. ‘I have no interest in you, Gunnarsson. But you must have been doing something for someone to take notice of you, and it’s my guess that it’s connected with your coming to Kenya with young Hendrix.’
‘Aw, hell!’ said Gunnarsson. ‘It’s like this. Here’s this young guy still wet behind the ears who’s just inherited six million bucks. He talked to me about it. He was worried, see? Hank wasn’t exactly stupid; just inexperienced. He talked me into coming along as protection.’
‘As a bodyguard?’
‘Yeah; something like that.’
Stafford laughed. ‘Gunnarsson, this is Max Stafford you’re talking to. Better men than you have tried to con me. The boss of Gunnarsson Associates wouldn’t take on that job himself; you’d assign it to one of your goons. Now let’s have the real story.’
Gunnarsson sighed. ‘Okay, why not? The truth is that I was standing right next to six million bucks and I was trying to figure a way to cut me a slice. I talked Hank into letting me come along with him to Kenya.’
‘You were going to con him into something,’ said Stafford flatly.
‘I guess I was. I just didn’t know exactly how. I was trying to work out a scam when he was kidnapped and maybe killed. How do you like that?’
Stafford got up and walked to the window. Gunnarsson sounded properly aggrieved and his story was cleverly near the truth. All that Gunnarsson had left out was that he had substituted Corliss for Hendrix in the United States. Stafford hoped that Brice and Hendriks were absorbing all this.
He looked out over the grounds of Ol Njorowa and stiffened when he saw the sheet of newspaper caught against the acacia on the other side of the fence. Nair had wasted no time in getting the prints developed and that meant they were ready to hold the conference.
He turned and said, ‘Well, all this has nothing to do with me.’ He picked up his suitcase, put it on the bed, and opened it. He took his toilet kit and began to put away his shaving tackle.
Gunnarsson said, ‘What are you doing?’
Stafford zipped the leather case closed and dropped it into his suitcase. ‘What does it look as though I’m doing? I’m packing. I came here for the sole reason of having a balloon flight with Alan Hunt. I had the balloon flight this morning so that’s it. When I’ve got this suitcase packed I’ll be going down to say goodbye to Brice, Dirk and the Hunts. Then I’m going back to Nairobi. If you want a lift you’re welcome.’