Chapter 23

Dirk Hendriks walked into the staff room and found Stafford in conversation with Alan Hunt who was saying, 'I'm going up tomorrow anyway. Jim Odhiambo wants some photographs of his experimental plots. The balloon is useful for that kind of thing.'

Stafford beckoned to Dirk and said, 'Alan, I don't think you've met Dirk Hendriks, the grandson of the benefactor of the Ol Njorowa Foundation. Alan Hunt.'

The two men shook hands and Hunt said, 'Your grandfather's largesse has come just at the right time for me. I want a fraction of that seven million quid for a gas chromatograph.'

Dirk laughed. 'I wouldn't know what that is.'

'Seven million!' said Stafford in simulated surprise. It's more than that, surely.'

'Per annum," said Dirk easily. 'That's Charles Brice's estimate of the annual return when the capital is invested. I think he's too optimistic. It's before tax, of course, but he's having talks with the government with a view to getting it tax free. The Foundation is a non-profit organization, after all.'

All very specious. 'I must have misunderstood Brice,' Stafford said.

Hunt whistled. 'I certainly misunderstood him, and so did the pressmen. How much did your grandfather leave us?'

'At the time of his death it would have been about thirty-four million, but probate and proving the will has taken some time during which the original sum has been earning more cash. Say about thirty-seven million.'

Hunt gave a sharp crack of laughter. 'Now I know I'll get my gas chromatograph. Let's drink to it.'

He ordered a round of drinks and then Stafford said curiously, 'You said you are taking photographs for Dr Odhiambo. I don't see the point. I mean he can see the crops on the ground, can't he?'

'Ah,' said Hunt. 'But this is quicker. We use infra-red film to shoot his experimental plots. Plants that are ailing or sick show up very well on infra-red if you know what to look for. It saves Jim many a weary mile of walking.'

'The wonders of science,' said Hendriks.

'They use the same system in satellites,' said Hunt. 'But they can cover greater areas than I can.'

Stafford sampled his beer. 'Talking about satellites, who owns the satellite your animal movement people use? They couldn't have put it up themselves.'

Hunt laughed. 'Not likely. It's an American job. The migration study boys asked to put their scientific package into it. It's not very big and it takes very little power so the Yanks didn't mind. But the satellite does a lot more than monitor the movement of wildebeest.' He pointed to the ceiling. 'It sits up there, 22,000 miles high, and watches the clouds over most of Africa and the Indian Ocean; a long term study of the monsoons.'

'A geostationary orbit,' said Stafford.

'That's right. It's on the Equator. Here we're about one degree south. It's fairly steady, too; there's a bit of liberation but not enough to worry about.'

'You've lost me,' said Hendriks. 'I understand about one word in three.' He shook his head and said wryly, 'My grandfather wanted me to work here part of the year but I don't see what I can do. I haven't had the right training. I was in liberal arts at university.'

'No doubt Brice will have you working with him on the administrative side,' observed Hunt, and drank some beer.

No doubt he would, thought Stafford, and said aloud, 'Which university, Dirk?'

'Potch. That's Potchefstroom in the Transvaal.'

Stafford filed that information away in his mind; it would be a useful benchmark if Hendriks had to be investigated in depth at a later date.

Hunt said, 'Max, if you're coming with us tomorrow it'll be early – before breakfast. The air is more stable in the early morning. I'll give you a ring at six-thirty.' Stafford nodded and Hunt looked at Dirk. 'Would you like to come? There's room for one more.'

Hendriks shook his head. 'Brice wants to see me early tomorrow morning. Some other time, perhaps.'

Stafford was relieved; he had his own reasons for wanting to overfly Ol Njorowa and he did not want Hendriks watching him when it happened. He did not think the Hunts were mixed up in any undercover activity at the College. They were Kenya born and it was unlikely they would have been suborned by South African intelligence. He thought they were part of the innocent protective camouflage behind which Brice hid, like most of the scientific staff. He had his own ideas about where the worm in this rosy apple lay.

Hunt announced he had work to do, finished his beer and went off. Stafford and Hendriks continued to chat, a curious conversation in which both probed but neither wanted to give anything away. A duel with words ending at honours even.

As Gunnarsson drove to Naivasha he began to put the pieces together and the conclusion he arrived at was frightening. He was a tough-minded man and did not scare easily but now he was worried because the package he had put together in New York was coming apart; the string unravelling, the cover torn and, worse, the contents missing.

Corliss was missing, damn him!

He had been so careful in New York. After Hendrix had been delivered by Hardin no one had seen him because Gunnarsson had personally smuggled him out of the building and to a hideaway in Connecticut. The only person to have laid eyes on Hendrix, apart from Hardin, had been his secretary in the outer office and she did not know who he was because the name had not been mentioned. And he had successfully got rid of Hardin; the damn fool needled so easily and had blown his top, which made his dismissal a perfectly natural reaction.

Gunnarsson tapped his fingers on the wheel of the car. Still, it was strange that when he wanted to find Hardin again he had vanished. Probably he had crawled into some hole to lick his wounds. Gunnarsson shrugged and dismissed Hardin from his mind. The guy was a has-been and of no consequence in the immediate problem he faced.

But Hardin's report had been interesting and valuable. Here was Henry Hendrix, a hippy drop-out with no folks, and no one in the world would give a damn whether he lived or died because no one knew the guy existed. No one except that freaky commune in Los Angeles and, at first, he had discounted Biggie and his crowd.

And so, with Hendrix held isolated, he had the material for the perfect scam, and the hit was going to be big – no less than six million bucks. Hendrix had gone along with everything, talking freely under the impression that his interrogation was for the benefit of a British lawyer and quite unaware of the quietly revolving spools of the tape recorder memorizing every word.

And then there was Corliss. Corliss had been easy because he was weak and bent under pressure. He had been uncovered in a routine check by Gunnarsson Associates and when Gunnarsson had faced him and shown him the options he had folded fast. No one in the organization wondered when he quit his job without being prosecuted because everyone knew computer frauds were hushed up. No bank liked to broadcast that it had been ripped off by a computer artist because it was bad for business. And so Corliss had also been isolated but Gunnarsson made sure that Corliss and Hendrix never met.

Then Corliss was groomed to take the part of Hendrix. It was lucky that Corliss was not unlike Hendrix physically -they were both blond and of about the same age – and the passport was easy to fix. After that something had to be done about Hendrix and Gunnarsson saw to it personally. It was a pity but it was necessary and Hendrix now resided encased in a block of concrete at the bottom of Long Island Sound.

Gunnarsson had second thoughts about Biggie and the commune. The sudden emergence of an overnight multimillionaire called Hendrix could attract the attention of the media. It might make the papers on the West Coast – it could even be on TV with pictures – something which Biggie might see. So something had to be done about that and, again, Gunnarsson saw to it personally.