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DESMOND BAGLEY
Juggernaut
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by Collins 1985 Copyright © Brockhurst Publications 1985 Cover layout design Richard Augustus © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017 Desmond Bagley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Source ISBN: 9780008211394 Ebook Edition © August 2017 ISBN: 9780008211400 Version: 2017-06-29 CONTENTS The telephone call came when I was down by the big circular pool chatting up the two frauleins I had cut out of the herd. I didn’t rate my chances too highly. They were of an age which regards any man of over thirty-five as falling apart at the seams; but what the hell, it was improving my German. I looked up at the brown face of the waiter and said incredulously, ‘A phone call for me?’ ‘Yes, sir. From London.’ He seemed impressed. I sighed and grabbed my beach robe. ‘I’ll be back,’ I promised, and followed the waiter up the steps towards the hotel. At the top I paused. ‘I’ll take it in my room,’ I said, and cut across the front of the hotel towards the cabana I rented. Inside it was cool, almost cold, and the air conditioning unit uttered a muted roar. I took a can of beer from the refrigerator, opened it, and picked up the telephone. As I suspected, it was Geddes. ‘What are you doing in Kenya?’ he asked. The line was good; he could have been in the next room. I drank some beer. ‘What do you care where I take my vacations?’ ‘You’re on the right continent. It’s a pity you have to come back to London. What’s the weather like there?’ ‘It’s hot. What would you expect on the equator?’ ‘It’s
