Windfall

Bernstein tented his fingers. 'Everyone knew the British would be giving up jurisdiction over Kenya – the tide of history was running against the British Empire. The Mau-Mau insurrection was a private fight among black Kenyans, mainly along tribal lines, to figure out who'd be on top when the British abdicated. A lot of people died and the few whites were killed mainly because they happened to be caught in the middle – in the wrong place at the wrong time. When it was all over, the British knew who was going to hold the reins of government. Jomo Kenyatta was intelligent, educated and had all the qualifications to be the leader of a country, including the prime qualification.'

'What was that?' asked Ellis.

Bernstein smiled. 'He'd served time in a British jail,' he said dryly. 'Kenyatta proved to be surprisingly moderate. He didn't go hog-wild like some of the other African leaders. He encouraged the whites to stay because he knew he needed their skills, and he built up the trade of the country. A while ago there was considerable speculation as to what would happen when he died. People expected another civil war on the lines of the Mau-Mau but, surprisingly, the transition was orderly in the democratic manner and Moi became President. Tribalism is officially discouraged and, yes, I'd say Kenya is a stable country.' He flicked the pages he held. 'It's all here in detail.'

'All right,' said Stafford. 'What's next?'

'Now we turn to Nigeria.'

The discussion continued for another hour and then Stafford checked the time. 'We'll have to call a halt now. I have a luncheon appointment.' He looked with some distaste at the foot-thick stack of papers on the desk. 'It'll take some time to get through that lot. Thanks for your help, Mr Bernstein; you've been very efficient.'

'Anything you can't figure out, come right back at me," said Bernstein.

'I think we'll give Africa a miss,' said Stafford thoughtfully. 'My inclination is to set up in the States and then, perhaps, in Australia. But I'm lunching with a South African. Perhaps he'll change my mind.'

Stafford's appointment was with Alix and Dirk Hendriks. He had met Alix a few years earlier when she had been Alix Aarvik, the daughter of an English mother and a Norwegian father who had been killed during the war. It was in the course of a professional investigation and, one thing leading to another, he had gone to North Africa to return to Britain with a bullet wound in the shoulder and a sizeable fortune for Alix Aarvik. His divorce was ratified about that time and he had contemplated marrying Alix, but there was not that spark between them and he had not pursued the idea although they remained good friends.

Since then she had married Dirk Hendriks. Stafford did not think a great deal of Hendriks. He distrusted the superficial veneer of charm and suspected that Hendriks had married Alix for her money. Certainly Hendriks did not appear to be gainfully employed. Still, Stafford was honest enough to admit to himself that his dislike of Hendriks might be motivated by an all-too-human dog in the manger attitude. Alix was expecting a baby.

Over lunch Alix complained that she did not see enough of him. 'You suddenly dropped out of my life.'

'For men must work,' said Stafford lightly, not worrying too much that his remark was a direct dig at Dirk Hendriks. 'I've been scurrying around Europe, making the fortunes of a couple of air lines.'

'Still intent on expansion, I see.'

'As long as people have secrets to protect there'll be work for people like me. I'm thinking of moving into the States.' He leaned back to let a waiter remove a plate. 'A chap this morning recommended that we expand our activities into South Africa. What do you think about that, Dirk?'

Hendriks laughed. 'Plenty of secrets in South Africa. It's not a bad idea.'

Stafford shook his head. 'I've decided to keep out of Africa altogether. There's plenty of scope in other directions and the Dark Continent doesn't appeal to me.'

He was to remember that remark with bitterness in the not too distant future.

Chapter 2

Three thousand miles away Ben Hardin knew nothing about Max Stafford and Kenya was the last thing on his mind. And he was in total ignorance of the fact that, in more senses than otic, he was the man in the middle. True, he had been in Kenya back in 1974, but it was in another job and in quite a different connection. Yet he was the unwitting key which unlocked the door to reveal the whole damn mess.

It was one of those hot, sticky days in late July when New York fries. Hardin had taken time off to visit his favourite bar to sink a couple of welcome cold beers and, when he got back to the office, Jack Richardson at the next desk said, 'Gunnarsson has been asking for you.'

'Oh; what does he want?"

Richardson shrugged. 'He didn't say.'

Hardin paused in the act of taking off his jacket and put it back on. 'When does he want to see me?'

'Yesterday,' said Richardson dryly. 'He sounded mad.'