'How do you know?'

Again the teeth. 'My brother-in-law is an official at the airport.'

Nair turned up a few minutes later. He brought with him a thick envelope which he handed to Stafford. It proved to be a rundown on the Ol Njorowa Foundation. It was quite detailed and he wondered how Nair had got hold of all this information at such short notice. Very efficient.

There were five Trustees; K. J. Patterjee, B. J. Peters, D. W. Ngotho, Col. S. T. Lovejoy and the Rev. A. T. Peacock. He said, 'Who are these people?'

Chip lounged over and looked over his shoulder. 'One Indian, a Parsee; three Brits and a black Kenyan.'

'People of influence? Of standing in the community?' ".

Stafford heard a chuckle and looked up to see that Nair's face was wreathed in a smile as well as a beard. Chip said, 'We wouldn't go as far as to say that; would we, Nair?'

Nair laughed outright. 'I don't think so.'

Chip's hand came over Stafford's shoulder and tapped on the paper. 'Patterjee was jailed for trying to smuggle 12,000 kilogrammes of cloves from Mombasa. That's highly illegal in this country. Peters was convicted of evading currency regulations and jailed. Ngotho was convicted of being a business prostitute; also jailed.'

'What the hell is a business prostitute?'

Nair said, 'Non-citizens cannot hold controlling interests in businesses in Kenya. There was a brisk trade in front men -Kenyans who would apparently own shares but who did not actually do so. Pure legal fakery. It was Mzee Kenyatta who coined the phrase, "business prostitute", wasn't it?'

'That's right,' said Chip. 'He made it illegal. Colonel Lovejoy is okay, though; he's been in Kenya forever. An old man now. Peacock is a missionary.'

Stafford was baffled. It was a curious mixture. 'How in hell did three crooks get made Trustees of the Ol Njorowa Foundation?'

'It is odd,' agreed Chip. 'What is your interest in the Foundation, Max?'

'I don't know that I have any interest in the Foundation itself. The Foundation is peripheral to my investigation.'

'I wonder…' mused Nair.

Chip said, 'You wonder what?'

'If the Foundation is really peripheral to Max's investigation.'

'Since we don't know what Max is investigating that's hard to say,' observed Chip judiciously.

Stafford sighed and leaned back in his chair. 'All right, boys; suppose we stop talking with forked tongues.'

Chip said, 'Well, if we knew what we were doing it would help. Wouldn't it, Nair?'

'I should think so.'

Stafford said, 'I'll think about it. Meanwhile, if you cross-talk comedians will allow me, 'I'll get on with this.' He turned pages. There were plans of the College which appeared to be quite extensive, involving lecture rooms, laboratories, studies, a library and a residential area. There were sports facilities including a swimming pool, tennis courts and a football field. There was also a large area devoted to experimental plots, something like British garden allotments but more scientific.

Stafford flipped a few pages and found a list of the faculty and caught the name of Alan Hunt. He tapped the name at the top of the page. 'This man, Brice, the Director. Your friend, Hunt, seems to think he's a good man, good for the Foundation. Would you agree?'

'Yes, I would. He's built up the place since he's been there.

He works in well with the agronomists at the University, too.' Nair shrugged. 'I think the University – and the Government – are pleased that the Foundation can take up some of the financial load. Research is expensive.'

But Hunt had said that cash was tight. Stafford ignored that for the moment and flipped back the pages to the beginning – to the Trustees. 'How long have these three jokers been on the Board of Trustees?'

'. 'I don't know,' said Chip. 'But we can find out. Can't we, Nair?'

'I should think so,' said Nair. 'Not much difficulty there.'

The telephone rang and Stafford picked it up, then held it out to Chip. 'For you.'

He listened, answering in monosyllables and not speaking English. Then he put down the phone, and said, 'Gunnarsson is up and about. He's at the New Stanley, having a coffee at the Thorn Tree.' He stood up. 'I'll be about his business. Coming, Nair?'

'Might as well. Nothing to do here except drink Max's beer, and I can't.' He joined Chip at the door.

Chip turned, and said softly, 'I hope you'll make up your mind about telling us what this is about, Max. It would be better for all of us.' The door closed behind them.

Stafford seriously doubted that. If Hardin was right and a proscribed political party was looking for loot to replenish its war chest there was too much of it about floating relatively loose for him to take chances. He spent the rest of the afternoon concocting a suitable story which would satisfy Chip and Nair, and then went to see Hardin who was in his room packing.

Hardin went back to London. Farrar duly arrived and wasted no time. He whisked the two heirs down to Naivasha. Unknown to him Gunnarsson went, too, and they all stayed at the Lake Naivasha Hotel. And, unknown to any of them, Chip and Nair were there. A real cosy gathering. Stafford stayed in Nairobi digging a little deeper into the curious matter of the Trustees, although he would dearly have liked to be a fly on the wall when Farrar, Hendrix, Hendriks and Brice got together in Brice's office.

They stayed in Naivasha for a total of three days and then returned to Nairobi. Farrar and Dirk took the night flight to London, and Stafford wired Hardin to expect them. Gunnarsson moved into the New Stanley with Hendrix, and Stafford sat back wondering what was to happen next. Sooner or later he would have to make a move, but he didn't know the move to make. It was like playing chess blindfold, but he knew he would have to do something before distribution of the estate was made and Gunnarsson and Hendrix departed over the horizon, disappearing with three million pounds. Stafford badly needed ammunition – bullets to shoot – and he hoped Hardin would find something.

Chip came to see him. 'You wanted to know when the various Trustees of the Foundation were appointed.'

'I could bear to know.'

Chip grinned. 'Lovejoy and Peacock are founder Trustees; they've been on the Board since 1950. The others all came on at the same time in 1975.'

Stafford sat back to think. 'When did Brice take over as Director? When exactly?'

Chip said, 'Early 1976.'

'Interesting. Try this on for size, Chip. The Foundation was started in the 1950s but, according to Alan Hunt, it went moribund just after Kenya went independent. But that doesn't mean to say it had no money. 'I'll bet it had more than ever. The Charities Commission in the UK has done a survey and found scores of charities not doing what their charters have called for, but piling up investment money. No jiggery-pokery intended, just apathy and laxity on the part of the Trustees."

'So?'

'So the Foundation must have had money. Where else could Brice have got it for his revitalizing programme? Now, take three vultures called Patterjee, Peters and Ngotho who realize there's a fat pigeon to be picked over. Somehow, I don't know how, they get themselves elected on to the Board of Trustees. They appoint as Director a non-Kenyan, a stranger called Brice, a man who doesn't know the country or its customs and they think they can pull the wool over his eyes.'

'While they milk the Foundation?' said Chip. He nodded. 'It would fit. But what about Lovejoy and Peacock?'

'I've done a little check on that pair,' said Stafford. 'Colonel Lovejoy is, as you say, an old man. He's eighty-two and senile, and no longer takes any active role in any business. Peacock, the missionary, used to be active in the Naivasha area but he moved to Uganda when Amin was kicked out. Now he's doing famine relief work there up in Karamoja. I don't think they'd be any problem to our thieves. But Brice is too sharp. He's no figurehead; he's proved that while he's been Director. Our trio have hardly got their hands into the cash register before he's really taken charge. He's got his hands on the accounts and they can't do a damned thing about it.'