'I thought you didn't discuss business in your club.'

'Pah!' he said. 'I was referring to commercial business.'

'You mean the sordid business of making money.'

'Precisely. This is different.'

Stafford put some sugar into his coffee and stirred. 'Sam Johnson, whom you seem to despise, had something to say about that. He said that there are few ways in which a man can be more innocently employed than in getting money. Is the proposition you have just made to me in your club any less sordid than commerce?"

Abercrombie-Smith raised his eyebrows. 'My dear chap; I see your are a moralist. Scruples? I would have thought scruples to be undesirable in your profession; positively a hindrance.' His voice sharpened. 'I suggest you address yourself to self preservation and the protection of your – er -business interests since you seem to have such a high regard for money getting.' He was openly contemptuous.

His contempt Stafford could survive. 'I'm Max. Do you mind if I call you Anthony?' He sipped the coffee.

The switch took Abercrombie-Smith by surprise. 'If you must,' he said stiffly. He came from the formal world of English public schools and London Clubland in which the informality of the use of Christian names is looked down upon.

Stafford said, 'Well, Tony; you're nothing but a cheap blackmailer – a common criminal. If the security of the United Kingdom has to depend on you, or the likes of you, then God help us all. I have nothing against blackmail, of course, but clumsiness is intolerable. Your approach to me had all the subtlety of a Soho whore.'

Abercrombie-Smith was taken aback as though he had been attacked and bitten by a newborn lamb. He reddened and said, 'Don't talk to me in those terms.'

'I'll talk to you in any way I damn well like.'

'So you won't co-operate. That could be dangerous as I have pointed out.'

Stafford put down the coffee cup and leaned back. 'I like your idea of co-operation, but I doubt if it's an acceptable dictionary definition. Do what I say or else – is that it?' He leaned forward. 'I've built up quite an organization in the last ten years. Stafford Security Consultants is primarily a defensive organization but it can be used for attack. If I find any change for the worse in the way I do my business I have the capability of finding the reason. If you are the reason I'll smash you. Not your department or whatever idiot employs you but you, personally. Personal ruin. Do I make myself quite clear?'

Abercrombie-Smith was apoplectic. He gobbled for a moment then said breathily, 'This is outrageous. I've never been spoken to like that before; not by anyone.'

'A pity,' Stafford said, and stood up as the hall porter came into the lounge. 'You might have made a half-way decent man if someone had taken you in hand earlier.' He held up his hand. 'Don't get up. I'll find my own way back.'

By the time the taxi deposited him in front of the Norfolk he had cooled down somewhat. As he paid off the driver he wondered if he had made a rod for his own back. Stafford had always deemed it a virtue not to make unnecessary enemies and he had been hard on Abercrombie-Smith. Still, the man had been nauseating with his casual assumption that he had but to crook a finger and Stafford would come to heel. Stafford reflected that he had better look to his defences.

He picked up his key at the desk and found a message from Hardin saying he was at the hotel pool. He walked through the courtyard, past the aviaries with their twittering and chirping birds, and through the archway to the pool. There he found Hardin who said, 'Where have you been? Pasternak rang again, and said he'd have to make it earlier. He'll be here any minute.'

'I've been having my brains washed,' Stafford said sourly. 'Pasternak wouldn't be boss of the Kenya CIA station by any chance?'

' He might be,' said Hardin with a grin. 'But he's not saying.'

'Tell me more,' Stafford said.

'I didn't know Pasternak when I was here but I knew him from Langley. We weren't really buddy-buddy in those days but we had a drink together from time to time. It's useful that he's here.'

'Where's Curtis?'

'He went downtown.' Hardin looked over Stafford's shoulder. 'Here's Pasternak now.'

Pasternak was a lean, rangy man with a closed look about his face. As they shook hands he said, 'Mike Pasternak. Good of you to see me, Mr Stafford.'

'It's no trouble,' he said. 'But I don't know that I can tell you much. I'm a security man and it's my job to keep secrets. Care for a drink?'

'I'll get them,' said Hardin. 'Beer, Mike?'

Pasternak nodded and Hardin went to the poolside bar. Pasternak said, 'Ben tells me you're interested in Pete Chipende.'

'That's right.' Stafford gestured. 'Let's sit.'

They sat face to face across a table and Pasternak looked at Stafford thoughtfully. 'I'd give a whole lot to know why you're running with Pete Chipende.'

'Didn't Ben tell you?'

'Yeah.' Pasternak smiled wryly. 'I didn't believe him. I'm hoping you'll tell me.'

'I'm afraid it's my business, Mr Pasternak.' said Stafford.

'I thought you'd take that attitude. I'm sorry. I hope you know what you're getting into.' Pasternak lit a cigarette. 'Ben tells me you're in the same line as Gunnarsson, but in Europe. He also told me you were in British army intelligence at one time.'

'That's correct. It's a matter of record. And you are CIA but you won't admit it outright.'

Pasternak smiled. 'Would you expect me to?' The smile faded. 'Now, here's a funny thing. Hendrix, a newly hatched millionaire, and Gunnarsson, ex-CIA, are in a party kidnapped into Tanzania. Along comes Stafford, again an ex-intelligence guy, and he chases after the kidnappers together with Chipende and Nair Singh. Then I see Ben, also ex-CIA. Don't you think it's strange, Mr Stafford?'

Stafford said, 'Do you know a man called Abercrombie-Smith from the British High Commission?'

Pasternak straightened. 'Don't tell me he's in on this? Whatever it is.'

'I had lunch with him. And now you are here. Perhaps we'd better hire the Kenyatta Conference Centre for a secret service congress,' Stafford said dryly. 'But what's jour interest in Chipende?'

Pasternak gave Stafford a strange look. 'Are you kidding?'

'I never kid about serious matters, Mr Pasternak. I really would like to know.'

'It seems as though I'm wasting my time after all,' he said. 'And probably wasting yours. Here's Ben with the beer. Let me put it on my expense account.'

'Don't bother,' Stafford said. 'Just tell me about Chipende.

Abercrombie-Smith wants to know, too. He tried to twist my arm this afternoon.'

'Successfully?'

'He got a flea in his ear.'

'I don't want to get the same treatment, Mr Stafford," said Pasternak. 'So just let's concentrate on the beer.'

Hardin came up with a tray which he placed on the table. They drank beer and chatted about inconsequential subjects such as the necessity for adjusting the carburettor of a car when driving from Mombasa at sea level to Eldoret which is at an altitude of nearly 10,000 feet. Hardin was baffled, as Stafford could see by the odd looks he received.

Pasternak drained his glass. 'I must be going,' he said, and stood up. 'Nice to have met you, Mr Stafford.'

'Come again,' said Stafford ironically.

He walked with Pasternak through the courtyard. Pasternak stopped by one of the aviaries and said, 'Have you noticed that there are no songbirds in Africa? They cheep and chirp but don't sing.' He paused. 'Do you mind if I give you some advice?'

Stafford smiled. 'Not at all. The great thing about advice is that you needn't follow it.'

'Watch Gunnarsson. I got a report on him this morning. That guy is bad news.'

'That's the most superfluous advice I've ever been given,' said Stafford chuckling. 'But thanks, anyway.' They shook hands and Pasternak went on his way.