Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  Oh, that’s a big jump, Justin thought. Maybe it’s a trick to throw us off and they just turned around. Or maybe the woman has never met the kidnappers. She’s just the messenger and the collector.

  He sighed. “Any fingerprints?”

  “Yes, a few. The police are collecting them and will run them through databases. Hopefully, we’ll get a hit and a lead.”

  Justin doubted it, but perhaps luck was going to be on their side. Everyone made mistakes, which sometimes could prove to be fatal.

  “The police want our fingerprints for exclusion purposes,” Kayo said. “I’ve already given them mine. I’ll come and pick you up, so we can go to the police station.”

  “All right,” Justin said. “See you in a bit.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair then scratched his chin. He had been growing a beard over the last couple of months and now it was over an inch long. It was scraggly, and gray and reddish in some parts, and Justin had not taken any extra care of it other than washing it. The beard was going to be a part of his cover during this next operation, somewhere in the Middle East. Justin suspected it was going to be Syria, where recent unrest had escalated into an all-out war between the interim government and armed rebels backed by Islamic terrorists groups. He wondered about the impression his scruffy beard would have on Nailah.

  Justin brewed another pot of coffee, then returned to his files on the secure server. Someone in the Ottawa headquarters had uploaded a file on Duncan’s schedule of the last month before his doomed trip to Nigeria. Justin began to scan the files for a Nigerian or an oil connection, starting with Duncan’s most recent meetings.

  Duncan had been an extremely busy man; at least that was what his schedule told Justin. Three days before arriving in Lagos, Duncan had been in Zurich, Switzerland. He had met with Swiss politicians, bankers, and other businessmen. There were a few oil executives, whose companies had major holdings in Nigeria, but none of them were from CanadaOil. Then, Duncan had travelled to Dubai. More meetings with sheikhs dripping with petro-dollars, construction companies’ senior officials, and investment brokerages. Again, no meetings with CanadaOil officials.

  Justin backtracked to a week before those meetings, and he found a promising connection. A meeting with two executive directors from the NNPC Exploration and Production Directorate in Vienna, then the next day a meeting, still in Vienna, with two managing directors of exploration and production activities of CanadaOil for Nigeria. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  He printed the details of those meetings, noticing their length. The meeting with the Nigerian officials had lasted four hours, and that did not include the business lunch in between the two sessions. The next-day meeting with the Canadian executives had run pretty much all afternoon. It had to be something quite important, since it took so much of their time. Duncan’s previous meetings had lasted two hours maximum, with most meetings being either thirty or sixty minutes.

  He wished he had the minutes of those meetings, or at least a general idea of the discussions. He thought about asking McClain to lean on DFAIT officials and CanadaOil executives for briefing notes and the purpose of that meeting. But he feared DFAIT would call on their lawyers from the Trade Law Bureau and put up defenses in the name of protecting the ministry’s and the country’s foreign policy, relations, or negotiations. CanadaOil, on the other hand, would hide behind the need to protect the confidentiality of the company’s business deals in Nigeria. Eventually, McClain would twist their arm and obtain the needed information, but that could take a while and Justin was meeting with Nailah in a few hours.

  He continued studying Duncan’s files and found out that two other meetings had taken place over the course of the last three weeks before Duncan’s arrival in Nigeria. The first meeting had taken place in Ottawa; the second in Vienna. The names of officials from the NNPC and CanadaOil were the same as those who attended the third meeting, but the previous meetings had been shorter, less than an hour. Something that could not be easily resolved prompted the third and last meeting.

  Justin made a note to check if the four officials had been in Lagos or scheduled to fly to Nigeria at the time of Duncan’s disappearance. Even if they were not directly involved in the kidnapping, they may have lured Duncan to come to Lagos for the conference. Once I’ve talked to Nailah, I may have a better idea of the big picture.

  Someone turned the key in the apartment’s door, and Justin heard the deadbolt thud. He reached for his pistol and jumped to his feet. He tiptoed toward the kitchen door and placed his back against the wall.

  “Hey, Justin, it’s me,” Kayo said as he opened the door.

  Justin sighed. “Kayo, always announce yourself before you get in,” he said in a slightly irritated voice, and he lowered his pistol. They had had this conversation two other times, and had also agreed on a door-knocking code. Kayo either was not understanding Justin’s protocol or simply was choosing to ignore it.

  “Were you expecting someone else?” Kayo replied in a similar tone.

  Justin ignored the question. No point in wasting his time re-explaining the protocol.

  “Anything new? Witnesses?” he asked.

  Kayo shook his head. “No, nothing. The police towed the Rover for further forensic analysis at their lab. They’ll let us know if they find anything.”

  Justin pointed at the files spread across the table. “I’ve been reviewing the intel we have on the rebels, their associates, and their activities. The tactic they used today is unusual, different from their usual methods of operation.”

  He did not like lying to his partner, but he deemed it necessary under the circumstances. Revealing that information to Kayo could prove fatal if Kayo mishandled it or in some other way failed to take the necessary precautions to keep it safe. He had a track record of ignoring even the most basic rules and regulations which helped ensure their survival. Maybe it was because this was his homeland and he did not feel the need for such smoke and mirrors. But Justin thought differently, and he expected Kayo to respect the established set of rules of their mission.

  Justin clicked on the laptop’s keyboard and ended the connection with the CIS server. He took a sip of his coffee, then looked up at Kayo, who was still standing by the kitchen window. “Any suggestions on how to move forward?”

  Kayo turned around. “I know a couple of people, local men, who could have some intel on the armed gangs. I’ll arrange a meeting for tonight, but . . .”

  “What?”

  “It might be better if I go alone.”

  Justin arched an eyebrow. “Without any backup at all?”

  Kayo hesitated for a moment. “These men are old childhood friends. We grew up together here in Lagos. Then our lives took different turns. They’ll be more likely to give us a hand if they see just me, alone, in a good gesture of trust.”

  Justin bit his lip. He felt Kayo was perhaps trusting his friends a bit too much. But he did not know Kayo’s friends, and this was his country. And Kayo was not really asking for Justin’s advice.

  “All right,” Justin said. “But I want to know where you are at all times, in case things go wrong. We’ll put a tracker on your phone and another one on your Mazda.”

  Justin had ulterior motives for wanting to know Kayo’s location: to see if he was being truthful to him or if there was any foul play in the works. Being upfront about the trackers would save Justin the efforts of trying to sneak them in and a potential heated argument later on if Kayo happened to discover the trackers.

  Kayo thought about it for a moment, scratched his egg-shaped head, then nodded. “Fine, but don’t follow me. These people are extremely suspicious of strangers. If they notice you, both our lives will be in danger.”

  “If you want it that way. I can follow the GPS tracker from anywhere in the city. I’ll know something is wrong if there is a change in the route or the location, unless you call me in advance to inform me of such a change. Will that work?”

  “Yes, that’s fine.�
��

  “Okay. We’ll get it all set up. When are you leaving?”

  “As soon as you’re done installing the trackers. We’re running out of time. And you know how to get to the police station for your fingerprinting, right?”

  Justin nodded and stood up. “Yeah, I know where Sunday’s people are. I’ll head out after we’ve finishing installing the trackers. I have everything in my bedroom. This will not take long, and you’ll be good to go.”

  Chapter Four

  Lagos, Nigeria

  March 20, 6:30 p.m.

  Justin stopped at the police station in Lagos Island for his fingerprints, so the police could exclude him from their database searches. The commissioner of police had gone home for the day, but he had instructed a couple of officers to fingerprint Justin and not to include those records in the police database, but use them only for this particular investigation.

  The police officers ushered him inside the building from a side door. Justin was glad they avoided the metal detectors by the front entrance, as it spared an awkward explanation of the pistols he was carrying in his waistband and ankle holster. His official cover story was that he was a low-level diplomat with the High Commission of Canada in Nigeria’s capital. If he were discovered in possession of two SIG pistols, it would completely blow his cover.

  The entire process took about ten minutes, and Justin had plenty of time before his dinner meeting. He hailed a cab and asked the driver to take him to Banana Island, but did not give him the exact address. The sun had already set but the evening was just slightly cooler than the heat of the day. The taxi’s thermometer showed the outside temperature was eighty degrees and Justin was glad for the taxi’s air conditioning. He loosened his black tie and undid the top button of his blue shirt. He had thought about ditching the black suit, which hung heavy on his broad frame, but it concealed his guns well. His suit and pants were handmade and tailored wide to accommodate holsters and pistols, and hide any obvious bulges. Justin pulled a few Kleenexes from an outside pocket and began to mop his face.

  “Big date tonight, mister?” the taxi driver asked and found Justin’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

  His words caught Justin by surprise. He looked at the wrinkled face of the driver; it showed no sign of fatigue from the heat. True, the man worked in an air-conditioned cab, but still, there was not a drop of sweat on his face.

  Justin straightened the left side of his suit and said, “Business meeting.”

  “Banana Island very expensive. People with big money go there.”

  “Not me. I don’t have big money.” Justin shook his head.

  “But your company, they—”

  “The bosses, yes, they have the big bucks. Me, I’m the little guy, like you.”

  The taxi driver gave him a frowning look that clearly indicated his displeasure at the comparison.

  “I meant no disrespect,” Justin added quickly. “I’m at the bottom of the pole and other people order me here and there. They tell me where and when to go.”

  The driver’s face began to light up. “What do you do?”

  “I . . . I fix things. If something happens in my company—someone makes a mistake or there’s a screw-up—they send me in to fix it.”

  The driver nodded. “Oil industry?”

  Justin nodded back. “Yeah, you nailed it.”

  They drove for a few moments in silence. Justin looked at the tall office towers rising up on both sides. There were glowing lights and billboards advertising drinks, real estate, and cellphones, and expensive cars were gliding down and speeding away.

  The taxi turned into Osborne Road, one the main arteries of Lagos Island. A couple of high-rise skyscrapers were being built on the left side, overlooking the waters of Lagos Lagoon.

  The driver noticed Justin’s glance and said, “An oilman who’s also a politician is building those homes for the people, forgetting that the other people cannot afford half a million American dollars for an apartment.”

  “What? That’s how much they cost?”

  “That’s the starting price, and there’s usually two or more people fighting over who buys the apartment like vultures, which increases the price. Vultures.” The driver rolled down his window and spat out.

  Justin nodded. Nigeria was a land of contrasts and controversies. As in most African countries, the poor were dirt poor and the rich were filthy rich.

  Osborne Road made a big curve and turned into Gerrard Road. The taxi driver asked for the address and Justin gave him the address of an office tower on Banana Island’s 1st Avenue. Le Petit Café, his rendezvous place with Nailah, was about three blocks down and on 4th Avenue. Justin was going to walk the rest of the way.

  As they came to the entrance of Rebecca Court—a five-story luxurious residential complex—the driver pointed his bone-thin finger straight ahead and said, “And that’s Banana Island. You know this development has its own place on the Monopoly game. Lagos is the first city in Africa to get its own Monopoly, and instead of Boardwalk, you have Banana Island.” Scorn was very obvious in his voice.

  Justin nodded and gazed at the newly built mansions that began to come into his view. They were enormous, three stories and four stories, painted white, yellow, or beige. Some stretched the length and the width of an entire city block. They were all well-lit, with elaborate facades, and sheltered behind tall, thick walls. A few of the largest houses had guard booths outside their main or side entrances. Men in blue or brown uniforms paraded their assault rifles in a very visible way.

  “The rich can afford their own private security,” the driver said with pure disgust in his voice. “But for the poor there’s nothing. The police are either slow, weak, or corrupt.”

  Justin said nothing.

  The driver took a couple of turns and arrived at the headquarters of Etisalat Telecoms in Nigeria. “I thought you said you were in the oil business,” he said as he pulled in front of the building.

  “We still need cellphones, right?” Justin replied.

  He paid the driver and gave him a generous tip. Then he took his briefcase and stepped outside. He memorized the taxi’s license plate and fixed his tie and his suit, flicking invisible specks of dirt from the front and the shoulders. He waited until the Nissan taxi disappeared into traffic, then turned around and headed in the other direction.

  He walked for a couple of blocks, doubled backed on his tracks, then made a full circle, checking for any tails that may have been following his taxi. It was all clear, and no one in a vehicle or on foot was paying attention to him. At least, he did not see anyone.

  So he crossed the five-minute distance separating him from Le Petit Café at leisure, fighting the muggy evening weather. There was plenty of street lighting and a few guards stood in front of a couple of mansions. Justin guessed the owners of these houses did not want to shell out the expense of building their guards a proper shack.

  Le Petit Café was one of the few restaurants on the island, since the developers and the residents had opted against having commercial establishments on the island. Justin remembered reading somewhere that it was thought to cut down on crime, as it would reduce the number of people wandering the streets supposedly on their way to the supermarket or the local corner store.

  He found the French restaurant on the first floor of a tall sleek glass-and-steel twelve-story building. The entire complex reminded Justin of a luxurious resort on the Mexican Riviera. It had a grandiose wrought-iron gate and a guard post to the left, with a circular driveway rounding a beautiful fountain at the front, surrounded by rows and clusters of baby palm trees. The tall man inside the guard post threw a glance at Justin, studied his face for a moment, then gestured for him to cross through the gate.

  Four guards were stationed on both sides of the entrance, which had a large wood-and-wrought-iron door fit for a castle. It was about fifty yards away from the gate. One of the guards, a large man with a thick head, stepped forward and asked Justin for his business, while the ot
her guards fixed him with harsh glares.

  Justin stated his reason for being there, and once he mentioned the name of the woman expecting him, the guards could not have stepped back fast enough. One of them apologized through his teeth and offered to escort him inside. Justin politely declined the offer and pushed open the door.

  Two beautiful women—who could have been fashion models, dressed in black evening gowns that showcased their long legs—greeted him as soon as he stepped inside the building. They gave him big smiles as they flashed their bright, perfect teeth. They were standing next to a crescent oak-veneered stand right outside a door that looked like a miniature version of the one secured by the four guards.

  “Bienvenue au Petit Café, Monsieur,” said the woman on the left side of the stand. She had long dark hair, with the occasional blonde highlight, that flowed down her neck. “Par ici s’il vous plait.”

  The restaurant was dim, lit by candles set in the middle of the square tables and recessed lights in the high ceiling. Hushed voices came from patrons, and the familiar tune of a famous French song wafted in the background. The hostess’s heels clicked on the beige marble floor as she led Justin through the restaurant’s dining room, beyond the kitchen and the bar, and Justin wondered how she knew who he was and whom he was to meet for supper. Nailah must have given them my description. Or perhaps they could hear my conversation with the guards.

  “And here you are, sir.” The hostess finally pointed at Justin’s table.

  It was near a corner by two floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Lagos Lagoon. Nailah was sitting with her back toward them, so she did not immediately notice their arrival. But she heard the hostess’s voice and looked up.

  “Oh, my . . . Justin, that’s quite the look,” she said as she stood up and fell into his arms for a tight embrace.

  Justin smelled her jasmine flagrance, which immediately relaxed him and brought back fond memories.

  “Nailah, you’re as amazing as the last time I saw you,” he said when they broke their embrace.