Black, white, rich, poor - he realised now that none of it was of any consequence.
Indeed, all that should have mattered to him was his daughter’s happiness and he had selfishly denied her that.
What is more, the man she loved had also nearly died in the vicious attack and Ekon felt deeply guilty for never having had the courage to meet him and offer his sincerest condolences.
Furthermore, he wished now that he could thank him for being there during his daughter’s final moments; serving as a singular presence of love amongst such unbridled hatred.
The fact that Sam had been there with her, that she did not die alone, was the only crumb of solace Ekon could find to ease his troubled conscience; his belief in God shaken to its very foundation.
In a country so predominantly Muslim, Ekon had always been devoutly Christian, but he was no longer a religious man and did not believe in a God of any kind; his loss of faith directly related to the loss of his beautiful eldest child.
After all, what God would permit such a wicked thing to happen?
The only religious doctrine Ekon believed in now was ‘an eye for an eye’ and he sincerely hoped that those six evil men, wherever they may be, would be duly punished according to that principle.
In point of fact, for butchering and raping his daughter, he wished them all very long, slow, painful deaths and was only sorry that he would not be the cause of them.
However, he reserved most of his hatred for Quentin Faraday, because if not for him then Claudette would still be alive and her child would now be ten years old.
But it was not to be and Ekon so badly wanted to make Faraday pay.
Yet at seventy years old and with very limited funds, Ekon knew it was a forlorn hope. Faraday and the men he had hired were all destined to escape scot-free and the very concept of that seemed so grossly unjust.
So much for an eye for an eye.
Ekon tried hard not to let these concerns effect his day to day life for the sake of his wife and three remaining daughters but it was difficult for the bitter taste of it was forever with him.
If only he was stronger and had the wherewithal to give those men the brand of justice that befitted their heinous crime then he could go to his grave a happy man.
For the moment, however, it was better not to dwell on such things as he had to concentrate on his youngest daughter’s happiness and her forthcoming nuptials.
Indeed, their small house was a hive of activity; his wife, three daughters and many of their female neighbours all bustling about stricken with wedding fever.
As for Ekon, in his capacity as father of the bride, he had negotiated her dowry and provided the items she would need to establish herself in a new home, as was Tuareg tribal tradition. Additionally, he had booked the band, arranged the ceremonial meal and, along with his two sons-in-law, erected the wedding tent - which had all helped to keep his mind occupied.
However when it was finished and there was nothing left for him to do but wait, he again thought of Claudette and just how beautiful she might have looked on her wedding day.
He imagined her wearing a brightly coloured traditional dress, her cheeks symbolically painted and her hands and feet decorated with the henna that was the custom of their tribe.
Ekon could picture her in his mind’s eye looking utterly stunning which only served to make the pain in his broken heart all the more intense.
Nonetheless, as he sat in a plastic garden chair in the small dusty yard at the rear of his house, trying not to fall again into a well of despair, he was conscious of an excited commotion coming from within; the women suddenly clucking and flapping like a gaggle of frightened hens.
Indeed, as he turned in his chair to see what the ruckus was about, his generously proportioned wife, Celine, came hurrying towards him with a concerned expression on her round face.
“What on earth’s the matter, my dear?” Ekon enquired, immediately sensing her distress.
“There’s someone at the door, husband,” she replied. “A white man. An American.”
“There is?” Queried Ekon, thinking it rather strange. “What does he want?”
“He would like to speak with you.”
“With me, why?”
“Because, husband, it’s about the men who - who—“
“Who what?”
“Who killed Claudette,” Celine said, her voice barely a whisper.
Suddenly Ekon felt as if he had been kicked in the gut. He was stunned, could not believe it, and he leapt to his feet in shock; the plastic garden chair tipping backwards onto the dry earth behind.
“Who is this man?” He asked, narrowing his eyes with curiosity.
“That’s just it, my love,” replied his wife, equally shocked, “He says his name is—“ she could hardly bring herself to say the words for the pain it might cause her husband, knowing the deep rooted guilt he felt. “That is to say he calls himself—“
“What? What’s his name?” Ekon demanded.
Celine Sekibo looked at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. “It’s him,” she said. “The man at the door is Sam Beresford.”
***
After tending to Sam’s wounds in the glass merchant’s workshop and applying a temporary field dressing, Miri had returned with him to London the following morning on the Eurostar, arriving back at the penthouse in Canary Wharf just after breakfast.
Neither thought it wise to remain in Paris any longer than absolutely necessary as Locke’s dead body was bound to be found sooner rather than later and Sam’s wounds needed proper care and attention.
Indeed, once in the safety of their apartment, Miri thoroughly cleaned and re-dressed the gash across Sam’s chest to prevent any infection. Thankfully his leather jacket had taken the brunt of the damage and when all the blood had been wiped away the wound was nowhere near as serious as it first appeared.
In fact, Miri was confident that after a few weeks nothing more than a thin scar would remain.
The stab wound in Sam’s shoulder, however, was more severe but, again, he had been fortunate. The razor sharp blade of the trench knife had made a clean incision and, although deep, it would not leave any permanent damage.
Nonetheless, it did require several stitches and would need many weeks of rest before he would be able to use it normally.
Yet he and Miri made good use of the down time.
With Marcus Ellison and Vladimir Voronin’s invaluable help they looked into all of Quentin Faraday’s business dealings.
Indeed, Vladimir had access to a huge network of resources no legitimate organisation could ever hope to utilise and was soon able to confirm exactly what Miles DeVilliers had said regarding the construction site in the Ténéré Desert.
What is more, he discovered it was now only weeks from completion and would be fully operational within a matter of months.
Even more interestingly, Vladimir had learned that Faraday intended to announce this to his investors at the next World Energy Conference in London - an annual event attended by most of the world’s major power players - including those with more nefarious agendas.
Indeed, rubbing shoulders with politicians, scientists, humanitarians and global climate campaigners were despots, warmongers and leaders of various radical organisations
The latter three being precisely the ones financing Faraday’s scheme.
However, it was a badly kept secret that these backers were extremely angry with Faraday due to constant and very costly delays.
It was also reported that Faraday had been granted just one last chance to complete construction - one final stay of execution in order to deliver the facility he had long promised.
Any failure to do so this time, no matter the reason, no matter the excuse, would result in very severe consequences for Faraday personally.
According to Vla
dimir’s sources, the threat of violence had proved to be an effective motivator and the desert facility was now tantalisingly close to being finished. However, in order to make it happen, Faraday had been forced to use his own money and had reportedly buried almost everything he had into the project to speed it to its conclusion, leaving him with hardly anything left.
Yet his very expensive gamble had apparently paid off with the deadline that his backers had set for completion now easily within reach.
Soon his faith in his abilities would pay dividends and he would recoup the vast amounts he had ploughed into the project a thousand times over. It was just a matter of waiting until the production of enriched uranium was finally underway.
However, that was now merely a formality.
Nevertheless, Faraday was so enamoured by his own achievements that he had invited his aggrieved investors to a private gathering at The Dorchester Hotel after The World Energy Conference to announce his success to them.
It was his moment to bask in the glory of what he had accomplished and cock a snook at the mistrusting fools who had the audacity to doubt him.
Yet Faraday’s supreme arrogance and out-of-control ego gave Sam a rather delicious idea.
Firstly, however, he needed to do something which he should have done many years earlier.
***
Deep down Sam knew there was nothing he could have done to save Claudette yet there had always been a lingering doubt.
However, now in possession of all the facts, any question of his culpability had finally been eliminated.
The hard truth was, regardless of what he may or may not have done differently, Claudette would still have been killed; her death decreed by a power hungry businessman who cared nothing for the devastation it would cause.
Indeed, she had been specifically targeted for reasons she had absolutely no knowledge of or control over; her murder a senselessly callous act committed for no other reason than financial gain.
Knowing this, Sam now felt able to look Ekon Sekibo in the eyes without guilt; the blame solely belonging to Quentin Faraday and the men he hired to carry out his murderous orders.
To Sam’s mind, those men had all paid for what they had done and justice had been properly served.
Quentin Faraday, their wickedly unscrupulous paymaster, was the only who was yet to be punished and Sam had something particularly special lined up for him.
But first it was time he made things right with Ekon Sekibo.
With this in mind, Sam travelled to Niger with Miriam and Vasily who had both met Ekon before, at Claudette’s funeral. But it had been a difficult time for everyone back then and, whilst courteous, her father had been understandably withdrawn.
Yet now the rawness of her passing had faded it was hoped they might find him a little more convivial so that they could join him in remembering the beautiful girl they had all loved.
However Miri and Vas agreed to let Sam meet with Claudette’s father alone first, knowing the two of them had much to discuss.
So, leaving his friends to loiter nearby, Sam wandered over to the small house on the shady side of a wide dirt street on the outskirts of Niamey; his heart racing with trepidation.
He remembered Claudette describing her father as a very serious, highly principled man, so he was a little concerned by the reception he might get.
Nonetheless, after swallowing down his nerves, he took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
***
Sam was escorted through the house by Claudette’s mother, Celine, who was dressed in typical Nigerien style of brightly coloured wrap dress and matching head scarf. She was voluptuous and well padded but her features - her eyes in particular - were very similar to Claudette’s; the family link unmistakable.
The small, stone dwelling - adorned with colourful wall hangings and patterned carpets - was a hive of activity; full of women dressed similarly to Claudette’s mother all gossiping and whispering as Sam was led through to the dusty yard at the rear.
However, Celine did not lead him outside but instead stayed by the door and gestured for him to step into the yard.
Sam did as bidden, ducking under the low door frame and apprehensively walking from the cool of the house out into the hot, African air once more.
Ekon Sekibo was standing under the shade of a nearby tree.
He looked different to the way Sam had imagined him; smaller and more frail, although every bit as dignified.
His skin was the colour of burnt umber; dark and glossy, just like Claudette’s. He had her proud forehead, too, as well as her sharply defined cheek bones and again Sam was struck by the family resemblance.
Ekon’s hair was snowy white and he wore large silver-framed spectacles. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, and pristine beige slacks. A pair of leather sandals on his feet.
He stood with his arms by his sides and an unreadable expression on his noble face as Sam walked over to him.
“Good afternoon, sir. Thank you for seeing me,” he said in perfect French, his manner deferential and respectful. “I apologise that it’s taken me so long to come here.”
He then paused and waited for a reply as Ekon eyed him curiously.
“You’re sorry?” He said at last, his voice deep and rich.
“I am, sir,” Sam replied. “The delay is unforgivable, I know.”
Again, Ekon studied him, incredulity written all over his face and Sam braced himself for what might follow.
Instead, however, Ekon just shook his head in disbelief. “My dear man,” he said. “It is not you but I who should apologise.”
His manner suddenly relaxed and his austere demeanour changed to one of appeasement. “Indeed, I would very much like to thank you for being so kind to my daughter - for being there with her at the end—“ he broke off, the pain in his heart making itself known once more. However, he fought through it and staring into Sam’s eyes, he said earnestly, “Believe me, it means a great deal to me.”
For a moment Sam was stunned. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, truly at a loss, “I really don’t know what to say - I always thought—”
He considered his next words carefully, not wishing to cause offence or be disrespectful. “I always thought you didn’t approve of Claudette and I being together - that you believed it to be wrong—”
“I did,” Ekon broke in. “But it was I who was wrong. I was a stupid, self-righteous fool and because of it I denied my daughter the happiness she truly deserved.”
Sam’s heart went out to him as the old man continued speaking. “The last time I saw her we argued. I said some dreadfully hurtful things - things which were unforgivable and I know she must have died hating me.”
“No, sir.” Sam broke in. “I’m sorry but you’re wrong. She didn’t hate you - quite the opposite in fact. You argued, yes, and she was upset, but she didn’t hold it against you. In fact she was certain that things would be fine the next time she saw you - she told me as much.”
Ekon looked at Sam, the tears welling in his eyes. “But it was not to be, was it?” He said sadly. “I would never see my darling girl again.”
There was nothing Sam could say as he felt exactly the same way.
A few seconds passed, both men reflecting on what might have been, before Ekon spoke again.
“I would have loved my grandchild with all my heart,” he said. “Regardless of all my blather and indignation - she was my little girl and I would have given anything—” but Ekon could not continue as the words caught in his throat.
Without conscious thought, his empathy for the other man’s pain vividly effecting, Sam instinctively reached out and hugged him. “I know, sir,” he said softly. “And so did Claudette.”
Ekon responded by throwing his arms around Sam and embracing him tightly, tears streaming down his face. “I’m so sorry,
” he wept, “so, truly sorry.”
But Sam merely let him cry, realising Ekon’s cathartic need for it.
There was silence between them for a long time as Ekon’s tears slowly dried.
When at last they released the embrace, the old man looked at the younger one again. “I should have come to you,” he said. “When you were lying in hospital - I heard the terrible news about your parents and I felt so sorry for you. I badly wanted to meet you - to thank you for being there for my daughter and to offer my sincerest condolences - for her, your parents and your baby, too. But I simply felt too ashamed of myself to make the journey. Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” said Sam. “I completely understand.”
Ekon nodded his thanks, then as he wiped his eyes, said, “Come and sit down, there is something else you must know.”
A few moments later they were both sitting in plastic garden chairs under the shade of the tree. Celine, seeing that they were getting along, had brought them both a conciliatory glass of cold lemonade before making herself scarce once more.
“There is another reason why I did not come to visit you in hospital,” Ekon said, after taking a long, refreshing sip. “It is because I was fearful for the safety of my other three daughters.”
Sam regarded him as he, too, took a drink of the ice cold lemonade.
“You see, there is perhaps much you do not know,” Ekon continued. “Claudette’s death was no random act, but in fact part of a much grander scheme orchestrated by a vile individual by the name of Quentin Faraday.”
However, it was no surprise to Sam. “Believe me,” he said. “I know all about Faraday and the six men he hired to murder Claudette. I also know it was because he was trying to blackmail you.”
Ekon was surprised. “You know? But how?”
“It’s a long story,” said Sam. “But, yes, I know everything.”
“Then please,” begged Ekon, “you must understand that if had I thought for a moment Faraday was actually going to do such a terrible thing I never would have—“
Perfect Day Page 51
