Windfall

Curtis slept like a baby.

They landed just after eight in the morning and, even at that early hour, the sun was like a hammer. Stafford sniffed and caught the faintly spicy, dusty smell he had first encountered in Algeria—the smell of Africa. They went through Immigration and Customs and found Hardin waiting. ‘’Lo, Max; ‘lo, Sergeant. Have a good flight?’

‘Not bad.’ Stafford felt the bristles on his jaw. ‘A day flight would have been better.’

‘The pilots don’t like that,’ said Hardin. ‘This airport is nearly six thousand feet high and the midday air is hot and thin. They reckon it’s a bit risky landing at noon.’

Stafford’s eyes felt gritty. ‘You’re as bad as the Sergeant, here, for unexpected nuggets of information.’

‘I have wheels outside. Let me help you with your bags. Don’t let these porters get their hands on them; they want an arm and a leg for a tip.’

They followed Hardin and Stafford stared unbelievingly at the vehicle to which he was led. It was a Nissan van, an eight-seater with an opening roof, and it was dazzlingly painted in zebra stripes barely veiled in a thin film of dust. He said, ‘For Christ’s sake, Ben! We’re trying to be inconspicuous and you get us a circus van. That thing shouts at you from a bloody mile away.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Hardin said reassuringly. ‘These safari trucks are as common as fleas on a dog out here, and they’ll go anywhere. We’re disguised as tourists. You’ll see.’

Hardin drove, Stafford sat next to him, and Curtis got in the back. There was an unexpectedly good divided highway. Stafford said, ‘How far is the city?’

‘About seven miles.’ Hardin jerked his thumb. ‘See that fence? On the other side is the Nairobi National Game Park. Lots of animals back there.’ He laughed, it’s goddamn funny to see giraffes roaming free with skyscrapers in the background.’

‘I didn’t send you here to look at animals.’

‘Hell, it was Sunday morning. My way of going to church. Don’t be a grouch, Max.’

Hardin had a point. ‘Sorry, Ben. I suppose it’s the lack of sleep.’

‘That’s okay.’ Hardin was silent for a while, then he said, ‘I was talking to one of the local inhabitants in the bar of the Hilton. He lives at Langata, that’s a suburb of Nairobi. He said all hell had broken loose early that morning because a lion had taken a horse from the riding stables next door. Even in Manhattan we don’t live that dangerously.’

Stafford thought Hardin had turned into the perfect goggling tourist. He was not there to hear small talk about lions. He said, ‘What about the Foundation?’

Hardin caught the acerbity in Stafford’s voice and gave him a sideways glance. He said quietly, ‘Yeah, I got some information on that from the same guy who told me about the lion. He’s one of the Trustees; Indian guy called Patterjee.’

Stafford sighed. ‘Sorry again, Ben. This doesn’t seem to be my day.’

‘That’s okay. We all have off days.’

‘Did you get anything interesting out of Patterjee?’

‘A few names—members of the Board and so on. He gave me a printed handout which describes the work of the Foundation. It runs agricultural schools, experimental laboratories—things like that. And a Co-operative. The Director responsible to the Board is called Brice; he’s not in Nairobi—he’s at Ol Njorowa. That’s near Naivasha in the Rift Valley, about fifty miles from here.’

‘Who started the Foundation—and when?’

‘It was started just after the war, in the fifties. The handout doesn’t say who by. I did some poking around Naivasha but I didn’t see Brice; I thought I’d leave him for you. He’s English and I thought you’d handle him better, maybe.’