Windfall

'I've been wanting to meet you," he said. 'We've been expecting you at the office.'

Stafford said, 'It never occurred to me.'

'Humph! All the same you should have come. Never mind; we'll make it the occasion for a lunch. There's no point in having the formality of an office meeting. What about tomorrow?'

Stafford inclined his head. 'That -will be all right.'

'Good. We'll lunch at the Muthaiga Club. I'll pick you up here at midday.' He turned back to his plate and Stafford assumed that the audience was over so he left.

Stafford was ready when Abercrombie-Smith arrived on the dot of midday to pick him up. Hardin and Curtis had taken a Nissan and gone off to the Nairobi Game Park situated so conveniently nearby.

Abercrombie-Smith drove north through a part of Nairobi Stafford had not seen and made bland conversation about the sights to be seen, the Indian temples and the thriving open markets. Presently they came to a suburb which was redolent of wealth. The houses were large – what little could be seen of them because they were set back far from the road and discreetly screened by hedges and trees. Stafford noted that many had guards on the gates which interested him professionally.

'This is Muthaiga,' said Abercrombie-Smith. 'A rather select part of Nairobi. Most of the foreign embassies are here. My master, the High Commissioner, has his home quite close.' They turned a corner, then off the road through a gateway. A Kenyan at the gate gave a semi-salute. 'And this is the Muthaiga Club.'

Inside, the rooms were cool and airy. The walls were decked with animal trophies; kongoni, gazelle, impala, leopard. They went into the lounge and sat in comfortable club chairs. 'And now, dear boy,' said Abercrombie-Smith, 'what will it be?'

Stafford asked for a gin and tonic so he ordered two. 'This is one of the oldest clubs in Kenya,' he said. 'And one of the most exclusive.' He looked at the two Sikhs across the room who were engrossed in a discussion over papers spread on a table. 'Although not as exclusive as it once was,' he observed. 'In my day one never discussed business in one's club.'

Stafford let it ride, content to let Abercrombie-Smith make the running. His small talk was more serious than most. He expatiated on the political situation in Britain, ditto in America, the dangers inherent in the Russian interference in Afghanistan and Poland, and so forth. But it was still small talk. Stafford let him run on, putting in the occasional comment so that the conversation would not run down, and waited for him to come to the nub. In the meantime he assessed the Muthaiga Club.

It was obviously a relic of colonial days; the chosen, self-designed watering hole of the higher civil servants and the wealthier and more influential merchants – all white, of course, in those days. It was probably in here that the real decisions were made, and not in the Legislative Council or the Law Courts. The coming of Uhuru must have been painful for the membership who had to adapt to a determinedly multiracial society. Stafford wondered who had been the brave non-white to have first applied for membership.

They finished their drinks and Abercrombie-Smith proposed a move. 'I suggest we go into the dining room,' he said. He still had not come to any point that was worth making. Stafford nodded, stood up with him, and followed into the dining room which was half full of a mixed crowd of whites, blacks and Asians.

They consulted the menu together and Stafford chose melon to start with. 'I recommend the tilapia,' said Abercrombie-Smith. 'It's a flavoursome freshwater fish from the lakes. And the curry here is exceptional.' Stafford nodded so he ordered curry for both of them, then said to the waiter, 'A bottle of hock with the fish and lager with the curry.' The waiter went away. Abercrombie-Smith leaned across the table. 'One cannot really drink wine with curry, can one? Besides, nothing goes better with curry than cold lager.'

Stafford agreed politely. Who was he to disagree with his host?

Over the melon they discussed cricket and the current Test Match; over the fish, current affairs in East Africa.

Stafford thought Abercrombie-Smith was coming in a circumlocutory manner to some possible point at issue. But he was right; the tilapia was delicious.

As the curry dishes were placed on the table he said, 'Help yourself, dear boy. You know we really expected you to come to us after that unfortunate incident in the Masai Mara.' He cocked an eyebrow at Stafford expectantly.

Stafford said, 'I don't know why. I had no complaints to make.' He spooned rice on to his plate.

'But, still; a kidnapping!'

Stafford passed him the rice dish. 'I wasn't kidnapped,' hi said briefly. The curry had a rich, spicy aroma.

'Um,' said Abercrombie-Smith. 'Just so. All the same we thought you might. Would you like to tell me what happened down there?'

'I don't mind,' Stafford said as he helped himself to the curry, and gave a strictly edited version.

'I see,' he said. 'I see. You say you turned back at the border. How did you know it was the border? As I recollect there are no fences or signs in that wilderness. No fences because of the wildebeest migration of course, and the elephants tend to destroy any signposts.'

'Like the telegraph poles,' Stafford said, and he nodded. Stafford sampled the curry and found it good. 'You'll have to ask Pete Chipende about that. He's the local expert.'

'Try the sambals,' Abercrombie-Smith urged. 'They do them very well here. The tomatoes and onions are marinate: in herbs; not the bananas, of course, and certainly not the coconut. The coconut, I assure you, is perfectly fresh; cot the nasty, dried-up stuff you get in England. I recommend the mango chutney, too.' He helped himself to curry. 'Ah, yes. Chipende. An interesting man, don't you think?'

'Certainly an intelligent man,' said Stafford.

'I would tend to agree there; I certainly would. How did it come about that he was with you?'

Abercrombie-Smith was being too damned nosey. Stafford said, 'He offered to act as guide and courier.'

'And Nair Singh? A courier also?' His eyebrows twitched upwards. 'Wasn't that a little overkill, dear boy?'

Stafford shrugged. 'Chip wanted Nair along as driver. He said Nair was the better driver.' That was the exact truth but he did not expect to be believed.

Abercrombie-Smith started to laugh. He laughed so much that he was speechless. He choked on his curry and it was quite a time before he recovered. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin and said, still chuckling, 'Oh, my dear chap; that's rich – rich, indeed.' He put down the napkin. 'Didn't you know that Mr Peter Chipende entered the East African Safari Rally three years in succession? He didn't win but he finished every time and that is an achievement in itself.'

Stafford had heard of the East African Safari Rally; it was supposed to be the most gruelling long-distance motor race in the world and, judging by the condition of the road between Narok and Keekorok, he could very well believe it. He cursed Chip for putting him in such an intenable position and said, 'I wouldn't know about that; I'm a stranger in these parts.'

'So that's what Chipende told you, is it? Well, well.'

Stafford decided to give him back some of the malarkey he had been handing out. 'This curry is really very good; thanks for recommending it. Do you think I could get the recipe from the chef? I pride myself on being a good cook.'

Abercrombie-Smith's eyes went flinty. He knew when someone was taking the mickey as well as the next man. However, he held himself in. 'I would think it's the chef's family secret, dear boy.' He riddled with his napkin. 'You haven't been here long, Stafford; but you've mixed with some very interesting people. Interesting to me, that is.'

Stafford thought it would be rather more interesting to MI6 or whatever funny number they gave to foreign espionage these days. He said, 'Who, for instance?'