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.’
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