Brice said, 'Odd that your adventure wasn't reported in the press.'

Stafford shrugged. 'Bloody bad journalism. Have there been any developments?'

'Nothing,' said Dirk. 'I've been to the police and the American Embassy but no one seems to know anything or, if they do, they aren't saying.'

'It hasn't done diplomatic relations between Kenya and Tanzania any good,' remarked Brice. 'Not that they were so sparkling in the first place.' He changed the subject. 'I suspect you'll want to clean up. We have some bedrooms upstairs for VIPs – the Trustees visit us from time to time and sometimes the odd government official. You can have one of those while you're here.'

'It's very good of you.'

'No problem at all. You know, we're a rather ingrown community here – something like a monastery but for the few women among us like Judy Hunt. It will do us good to see a new face and have fresh conversation and ideas. Dirk will show you to your room and then… er… hunt up Hunt, if you'll pardon the phrase.'

'Right,' said Dirk. 'I'll take you up. You have the room next to mine.'

'And you'll join us for dinner,' said Brice.

As they went upstairs Stafford said to Hendriks, 'You're the real VIP here, of course. What do you think of the place?'

'I haven't seen much of it yet. I've been too busy trying to get some action on my cousin. But what I've seen has impressed me. Here's your room.'

The 'monks' in Brice's monastery lived well, thought Stafford as he surveyed the bedroom which would not have disgraced a three-star hotel. Dirk indicated a door. 'That's the bathroom. If you'll give me your car keys I'll have someone bring up your bags.'

'It's not locked.'

'Right. The staff room is at the far end of the corridor. I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes with Hunt. We'll have a drink together.'

'I know where the staff room is.'

'Oh, yes,' said Dirk. 'I'd forgotten you've been here before.'

He departed and Stafford did not doubt that the Nissan would be thoroughly searched, as would his suitcase. He did not mind; there was nothing unusual to be found. He inspected the room with a experienced eye, looking not for comfort but for bugs, the electronic kind. He had no doubt that the room would be bugged; Brice would be interested in the private conversations of the Trustees and government officials.

The table lamp was clean as was the reading lamp over the bed. There were no strange objects attached beneath the coffee table, the dressing table or the bed. He looked at the telephone doubtfully. It would probably be tapped but that did not matter; any conversation he used it for would definitely be innocuous. However, it might have been gimmicked in another way. He unscrewed the mouthpiece and shook out the carbon button to inspect it. It looked all right so he put it back and replaced the mouthpiece. It had taken him fifteen seconds.

As he put down the telephone there was a knock at the door and the Kenyan who had been at the counter in the hall downstairs came in bearing Stafford's suitcase. He put it next to the dressing table, and said, 'Mr Hunt is in the staff room, sah.'

'Thank you. Tell him I'll be along in a few minutes.' Stafford took his toilet kit and went into the bathroom. When he came out he looked at the picture on the wall which appeared conventional enough. It was a reproduction of a painting of an elephant by David Shepherd, typical of those to be found in the curio shops in Nairobi. He examined it more closely paying attention, not to the picture itself, but to the frame which was of unpainted white wood and which seemed unusually thick. Near the bottom of the frame he found a small knot hole and he smiled.

From his jacket pocket he took a pen torch and examined the hole more carefully. By angling the light and moving it rhythmically he caught a repeated metallic wink from the bottom of the hole – the diaphragm of a miniature button microphone. As he put away the torch he felt relieved. If he had not found a bug he would have been worried because so far all his suspicions about Hendriks and Brice had been built on a tenuous chain of suppositions. But this was the clincher; no-innocent organization would bug its own rooms.

Hidden in the thickness of the picture frame would be a small transmitter and the batteries to power it, and probably somewhere in Ol Njorowa would be a receiver coupled to a sound-actuated tape recorder. It would be simple to put the bug out of order by the simple expedient of inserting a needle into the hole and ruining the microphone but that would not do because it would be a dead giveaway. Better to leave it alone and say nothing of consequence in the room or, indeed, anywhere in Ol Njorowa.

Before leaving the room he took a small pair of field glasses from his suitcase and went to the window. In the distance he could see a section of the chain-link fence which indicated the perimeter of the college. He swept it, the glasses to his eyes, and estimated it to be ten feet high. At the top were three strands of barbed wire. Somewhere on the other side Curtis was making an examination of the fence from the outside, and his briefing had been to make a complete reconnaissance of the perimeter. Stafford put the field glasses away and walked to the staff room with a light heart.

In Brice's office Dirk Hendriks put down the telephone. He had found it difficult to contact Mandeville in London; the lawyer had been engaged in court and Hendriks had requested a return call with some urgency. Now he had just finished talking to Mandeville and the news he got had knocked the wind out of him.

Brice said, 'What's the matter? What did Mandeville say?'

'The New York agency was Gunnarsson Associates,' said Dirk hollowly.

'What?' Brice sat open-mouthed. 'You mean the man you talked with in Nairobi was the man who found Henry Hendrix in the States?'

'It would seem so.' Hendriks stood up. 'There can't be many Gunnarssons around and the Gunnarsson in Nairobi is an American.'

'And he was in the tour group with your cousin. They were travelling together, obviously. Now, why should a private detective still stick around after he's delivered the goods? And to the extent of coming to Kenya at that. And why should Henry Hendrix let him?'

'Perhaps he thought he needed a bodyguard after inheriting all that money.'

'Unlikely.' Brice drummed his finger on the desk.

'Oh, I don't know,' Hendriks objected. 'He'd been shot in Los Angeles and there was the business of the car in Cornwall. He might have become suspicious.'

'I suppose so,' Brice said tiredly. 'Another suggestion is that Gunnarsson and Stafford are tied together.' He thought for a moment. 'Whichever way it is Gunnarsson needs watching. We must find out who he sees, and particularly if he gets in touch with Stafford.'

'Do I go back to Nairobi?' asked Dirk.

'No, you stay here and keep an eye on Stafford. I'll send Patterson.' Brice stood up. 'I'll go to the radar office and send him now. You say Gunnarsson is staying at the New Stanley?'

Dirk nodded. Brice was almost out of the room when Dirk said suddenly, 'Wait a minute. I've just remembered something." Brice turned back and raised an eyebrow, and Dirk said, 'When I was talking to Gunnarsson in the Thorn Tree I had the odd impression I'd seen him before but I couldn't place him. I can now.'

'Where?'

'Remember when I came to Kenya for the first time with Henry and Farrar? We stayed at the Lake Naivasha Hotel. You joined us there and we had dinner together.'

'Well?'

'Gunnarsson was dining at a corner table alone.'