Stafford shrugged. 'You will have to ask Mr Chipende about that."

So he did, and Chip switched into fast Swahili. Eventually Ukiru shrugged his acceptance, the photographers took their pictures, and they all went away. Stafford said, 'They got here damned quickly. How?'

'The manager will have telephoned his head office who will have notified the police in Nairobi. Plenty of room for leaks to the press there. They'll have chartered aircraft. There's an airstrip here.'

'Yes, I've seen the airstrip,' said Stafford. 'But I didn't know about the telephone. I've seen no wires.'

Chip smiled. 'It's a radio-phone in the manager's office. And we can't have wires because the elephants knock down the telegraph poles. Let's have that swim.'

Stafford wanted to put himself next to Gunnarsson and found the opportunity during the pre-dinner cocktail hours. All the rescued tour group was there in the bar with the exception of Adam Muliro and they were being quizzed about their experience by the other guests. There was an air of euphoria about them; much laughter from the Roches and Kosters. Now saved, their adventure verged somewhat on unreality and would be something to dine out on for years to come. Adventure is discomfort recollected in tranquillity.

Stafford talked with Kosters and Michele Roche and got their account with no great difficulty, then said with an air of puzzlement. 'But what about Hendrix? What happened to him?'

The euphoric gaiety disappeared fast. 'I don't know,' said Kosters soberly. 'They took him away and there was shooting.'

'You think he's dead?'

Michele's voice was sombre. 'He hasn't come back. We didn't see him again.'

Stafford looked across at Gunnarsson. There was no euphoria about him. He sat with his legs stretched out, gloomily regarding his bandaged feet. Someone had found him a pair of carpet slippers which had been slashed to accommodate the bandages. Stafford took his drink and walked over to Gunnarsson. 'You've had a nasty experience. Oh; my name is Stafford.'

Gunnarsson squinted up at him. 'Stafford? You the guy who tried to come after us?'

'We didn't get very far,' Stafford said ruefully. 'We just got lost and made bloody fools of ourselves.'

'Let me top up your drink.' Stafford sat down. 'I'm John Gunnarsson.' He turned and looked at Stafford, then shook his head. 'You wouldn't have done any good, Mr Stafford -those guys were a walking arsenal – but thanks for trying. What will you have?'

'Gin and tonic.'

Gunnarsson beckoned to a waiter and gave the order, then sighed. 'Christ, what an experience. I've been in some tough spots in my time but that was one of the toughest.'

'They tell me it's happened before,' Stafford said casually.

'Yeah. These damned half-ass Kenyans ought to beef up their border force. You know what was the worst? There's nothing takes the steam out of a guy faster than to strip him ballock naked.' He gave a small snort. 'Well, not quite; they let us keep our underpants.' He brooded. 'It was bad coming back what with the sun and the thorns. My feet feel the size of footballs. And there was the goddamn hyena…'

'A hyena?'

'A big son of a bitch. It trotted parallel with us about a hundred yards off, I guess. Waiting for someone to lag or drop out. If it wasn't for the nig… the black guy, Adam Somebody, I don't think we'd have made it. He was good.'

'I hear somebody didn't make it,' Stafford said.

'Oh, Jesus!' Gunnarsson's neck swelled.

'What happened to him? Enderby, wasn't it?'

'Hendrix.' Gunnarsson glowered. 'There were six of us, six of them, and Adam, the driver. Trouble was, they were armed. Kalashnikovs. Know what they are?'

Stafford shook his head. 'Things like that don't come my way.'

'You're lucky. They're Russian-made automatic rifles. We couldn't do a goddamn thing. Helpless.' He made a fist in his frustration. 'Then a couple of them took Hendrix away and later there was firing and the four black guys with us burst out laughing. Imagine that.'

'I can't,' Stafford said soberly. 'Were these men in uniform?'

'Yeah. Camouflage gear. A real military set-up. Jesus, but there's going to be trouble when I get back to Nairobi. Nobody's going to get away with doing this to an American citizen.'

'What are you going to do?' Stafford asked interestedly.

'Do! I'm going to raise hell with the American Ambassador, that's what I'm going to do. Hendrix was a real nice young guy and I want him found, dead or alive. And if he's dead I want blood if I have to take it all the way to the United Nations.'

Stafford contemplated that statement. If Gunnarsson was prepared to raise a stink at that level it meant that the real Hendrix was not around to object. Terminated with extreme prejudice, as Chip had said. The killing of a newly made American millionaire was certain to find its way into New York newspapers if Gunnarsson was prepared to push it so far, which meant that Gunnarsson thought he was safe.

'Had you known him long? Hendrix, I mean.'

'A while – not long.' said Gunnarsson. 'But that's not the point, Mr Stafford. The point is they can't get away with doing this to an American citizen and I'm going to scream that loud and clear.'

Yes, it was his only chance if Hendrix/Corliss was still alive and in the hands of the Tanzanians. Only strong diplomatic pressure put on Tanzania by Kenya and the United States could get back Gunnarsson's walking treasure chest. It would take nerve but Gunnarsson had that in plenty.

'I wish you well,' Stafford said. 'Let me buy you a drink.' So he bought Gunnarsson a drink and presently took his leave. As he walked by the back of Gunnarsson's chair he said, 'Good luck,' and clapped him on the shoulder. Gunnarsson jumped a foot in the air, let out a scream and banged both feet on the floor, whereupon he emitted another piercing yell. Stafford apologized, professing to have forgotten his sunburn, and made a quick getaway.

Chapter 17

They left for Nairobi next morning and so did a lot of others but for different reasons. After seeing the condition in which the tour group had come back from their unwanted, brief sojourn in Tanzania the front desk was busy as the fearful paid their bills. The manager was gloomy but resigned.

Again they drove that spine-jolting, back-breaking road to Narok and then sat back with relief as they hit the asphalt which led all the way to Nairobi, and pulled into a parking slot in front of the Norfolk Hotel in comfortable time for lunch. There Stafford received a surprise. On opening the door of his room he found an envelope on the floor just inside. It contained the briefest of messages: 'I'm back. Come see me. Room 14. Ben.'

He dumped his bags, went to room 14, and knocked. A guarded voice said, 'Yeah; who is it?'

'Stafford.'

There was the snap of a lock and the door opened and swung wide. He went in and Hardin said, 'Where the hell have you been? I've been telephoning every two hours for the last two days and getting no answer. So I jump a plane and what do I find? No one.' He was aggrieved.

'Calm down, Ben,' Stafford said. 'We had to go away but it had good results.' He paused and examined that statement, then added, 'If I knew what they were.'

Hardin examined Stafford closely. 'Your face is scratched. Been with a dame?'

Stafford sat down. 'When you've stopped being funny we can carry on. You were sent back for a reason. Did you find anything?'

Hardin said, 'I've just ordered from room service. I didn't want to eat in public before I knew where Gunnarsson was. I'll cancel.'

'No, I'll join you,' said Stafford. 'Duplicate the order.'

'Okay.' Hardin telephoned the order before opening the refrigerator and taking out a couple of bottles of beer. 'Jan-Willem Hendrykxx – an old guy and a travelling man. I've been spending a lot of your money, Max; ran up a hell of a phone bill. And I had to go to Belgium.' He held up his hand. 'Don't worry; I flew economy.'