by Ponzo, Gary
“Wrong answer.” Justin grabbed the shooter’s neck with his left hand and rested his thumb over the shooter’s throat. “Think again before you are in a lot of pain.”
The surgeon said, “Hey, what are you—”
“Stay the hell out of this,” Justin shouted at him and kept his gaze glued to the shooter’s face. “Let’s try this again,” he said to the shooter. “Talk!”
The shooter winced as he tried to inch his head away, but Justin’s grasp held his neck in place. The shooter started to wheeze and rasp as Justin began to press down hard with his thumb. The shooter’s rasp turned to a cough, and saliva began to drip from the corners of his mouth. He tried to take a breath, but Justin’s hand had blocked his windpipe.
“You’re going to choke him,” cried the surgeon.
“Then he better talk. Talk, you bastard!”
The shooter closed his eyes and struggled with his breathing. His head twitched almost involuntarily.
“Justin,” Carrie said in a soft but warning tone.
Justin eased his fingers and drew back his hand. The shooter coughed again, harder and louder, and opened his eyes. They were dull and almost lifeless, but he still drew breath.
“You’re doing it wrong, Justin,” Carrie said. “How can he talk if you’re grabbing him by the throat?” She gave him a small smile, the left side of her lip curling up.
Justin realized Carrie had a plan, so he let her run with it. “Fine,” he said. He took a step away from the shooter, then said in low voice, “I’m sorry. I lost my temper.”
“Yes, you can’t be objective. And this interrogation requires more finesse. You can’t go at it barehanded.”
She nodded toward the surgeon’s suitcase on the kitchen counter. “You need the right tool. Something small, but sharp. Like a scalpel.”
The surgeon shook his head and tried to stop her, but Justin grabbed his arm. Carrie crossed the short distance between her and the suitcase. She said, “You see, it doesn’t take a lot of strength to get a man to do what you want. It just takes a bit of skill and a little persistence.”
She picked up a surgical blade, still in its package and ripped it open. Then she attached the blade to the top of a surgical knife handle, forming a scalpel. She walked around the table and stood over the shooter’s head, across from Justin.
“You will answer my questions, with or without pain. I’ll let you make the choice.”
The shooter still was breathing with difficulty. Drops of saliva had trickled down his neck. He stared at Carrie and his eyes showed no fear, but pure rage.
“I will . . . not be defeated by a woman, an oyinbo.” The shooter gasped out his words.
Carrie remained calm. “That’s what three men called me in the Central African Republic before they tried to assault me. They called me white person, oyinbo, in the same insulting tone. I think they were Nigerians too. I took one of their machetes and chopped off their hands. Just like that.”
She waved her scalpel in the air in a swift upward movement, very close to the shooter’s face.
He recoiled instinctively but there was nowhere to hide. He tried to turn his head to the side, but stopped as Carrie dropped her scalpel a hair’s breadth away from his nose.
“That machete was rusty and the blade very dull. Cutting flesh and bones is harder than most people imagine it to be. But this blade is brand new and so very sharp.” Carrie pressed the unsharpened back edge of the blade hard into the shooter’s left cheek, right under his blinking eye.
The shooter turned his head as far left as he could. He tried to raise his shoulders and his arms but he was still very weak. His attempt did not push Carrie away.
“No, no, don’t move or you’re going to cut yourself,” Carrie said slowly, her voice feigning concern.
She turned the scalpel without warning and cut down hard and fast. The curved edge of the blade sliced the shooter’s cheek, leaving a two-inch gash. Blood began to ooze out of the fresh wound.
The shooter screamed.
“I can’t . . . I can’t watch this,” the surgeon said.
“Then look away,” Justin said over the shooter’s agony.
“See what happened?” Carrie said, moving her scalpel to the shooter’s other cheek. “You don’t listen and bad things happen. Now reconsider your reply.”
The shooter screamed again.
Carrie shook her head. “Wrong answer.”
She ran the edge of the blade along the shooter’s other cheek, making another small surface slash. More blood trickled down the shooter’s face and more screams filled the kitchen.
“Make her stop it,” the surgeon said. “Someone will hear him.”
“Nobody will,” Justin said.
He did not have to explain the other two apartments were vacant. Even if someone heard the screams they would not necessarily call the police.
“You and your friends have stolen something that belongs to us.” Carrie pointed to herself and then to Justin. “What is the punishment for theft in your law?”
The shooter shut his eyes, then opened them again. Fear had slowly started to creep in as he understood the severity of his situation.
“It’s amputation of your hand. So, tell me, which hand should I cut: the left or the right?”
She paused, looked at Justin, then at the shooter, and said, “Maybe I’ll cut them both. I’ll start with the right.”
She held the shooter’s hand at his wrist.
“No . . . ah, please, no,” the shooter pleaded.
“She’s not serious, is she?” the surgeon asked.
“Justin, get him out of here,” Carrie said.
“Let’s go,” Justin said.
“No, please, don’t . . .” the shooter shouted.
“Tell me where he is and you can put an end to all of your misery.”
Justin ushered the surgeon into the hall and pulled the kitchen door shut behind him. A series of muffled screams came from the shooter.
“She will kill him. This is murder. I want no part of this.” The surgeon blurted out his words in a stressed tone. His face was distorted and his forehead was covered in sweat. His hands were trembling.
“Relax. She’s a trained investigator, and he’s of no use to us if he dies. She’s just scaring him into giving up the intel. Putting him under a lot of pressure until her reaches the breaking point.”
“But she’s carving him up like a lamb. This is not intimidation. This is torture.”
“Far from it. He already admitted to knowing where the hostage is but claimed he’s never going to tell us. She’s just proving him wrong. And what would you do if he had kidnapped your daughter?”
He let his words hang in the tense air.
The surgeon flinched as if Justin’s question was a slap across his face. He sighed and nodded. “I would do anything to get her back,” he said in a hesitant voice.
“And she’s making you extra money. You’ll have to come again and patch him up. One, maybe two more visits.”
The surgeon shook his head and clamped his jaw shut. He was probably cursing the moment he decided to accept Nailah’s proposal. But fifty thousand dollars had been an irresistible temptation.
Justin’s phone ringtone echoed from his bedroom. “Stay here,” he told the surgeon.
The surgeon shrugged and placed his back against one of the walls.
Justin picked up his phone. Nailah’s phone number appeared on the screen. “Nailah, how are you?”
“Well, very well. How are things going, Justin?”
A bone-chilling cry rang out from the kitchen. He sighed and covered the cellphone with his hand, trying to muffle the sound. A moment later, after the scream died, he said, “Not very good. The gunman isn’t talking and one of my partners was killed last night.”
“Oh, very sorry to hear that, Justin.”
He sighed, then said, “Did you find anything?”
“Yes, that’s why I called. I have the reports of those meet
ings where NNPC representatives met with Duncan. What is your e-mail?”
Justin gave it to her.
“Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Thanks, Nailah.”
“It’s the least I can do. You saved my life.”
They said their goodbyes and Justin sat down by his laptop. He clicked the refresh button on his Internet browser, but the files had not yet arrived in his inbox. He tried another time, but still nothing.
Out in the hall, the surgeon looked very nervous but did not speak a word to Justin. No screaming came from the kitchen but low, inaudible words as Carrie talked in a low voice to the shooter.
“See, he’s already giving up his secrets,” Justin said.
“Yes, and I wonder how many cuts she made.”
“That’s why you’re here, to stitch him up, Doctor.”
The surgeon began to voice his objection but at the same moment Carrie opened the kitchen door. Drops of blood had spattered her arms. She was still holding the scalpel in her right hand. “We’ve got the location,” she said, “and he gave us the identity of the woman.”
Chapter Eight
Lagos, Nigeria
March 21, 8:15 a.m.
Duncan was being held in a speedboat behind a rusty shack deep inside the slums of Makoko. The shooter had described the location to Carrie in specific details—providing the name of the speedboat, its colors, and the graffiti scribbled on the side of the shack, as well as the names of his accomplices. Considering the location and the circumstances, the insertion of a rescue team would be detected far in advance and the kidnappers would have plenty of time to move Duncan elsewhere within the shantytown. If they had not done so already.
Justin was reluctant to seek the assistance of local police, and after Kayo’s death, he was left with only Carrie on his side. They were tough, but not crazy. Even a stealthy infiltration would most likely result in the two of them being kidnapped, wounded, or killed. The odds were simply against them.
They pored over the files Nailah had e-mailed them, looking for another angle. There was a large collection of minutes from many meetings, briefing notes, project descriptions, planned activities, and a lot of background materials about CanadaOil and NNPC joint projects. The minutes from Duncan’s meetings with the executive directors of the NNPC showed he was trying to smooth over the relations between the two oil giants and forge a deal. The continuous investment, reaching billions of dollars, reflected well on the work of the government in securing new and enhanced markets for Canadian companies, and it gave CanadaOil a firm footing in the other energy markets in Africa. The bureaucrats, the lobbyists and the industry would all be well pleased with the results of a long-term deal. On the other hand, the investment was important for Nigerian officials, filling the state coffers and some politicians’ deep pockets with cash beyond their wildest dreams. But there was a small problem: the rebels.
In principle, the Nigerian government had reached a fragile cease-fire with the rebels. But on the ground, there were daily threats of kidnappings or killings, small-scale bombing of the pipeline or the wells, and a constant stream of irritants that made it all but impossible to have a normal sense of life and work in the Delta.
Both parties tried to pay off the rebels. It was a cut from their profits but they considered it the cost of doing business. They offered large sums of money to locals, strongmen in these tribal areas—“fixers”—to find solutions to their problems. Of course, this was all done under the guise of providing funding for schools and hospitals in the form of donations, building new roads, hiring local staff in consulting and security positions, and a host of other legitimate-looking business expenses to hide what were pure and simple bribes.
The strategy had worked in the past, but not this time. It seemed the amount did not matter. Someone seemed truly determined to break up any deals between CanadaOil and the NNPC.
“So what’s your theory?” Carrie asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed, her back resting against the headboard. “Duncan dumped his lover and she’s getting her revenge?”
“Yes, I suspected that much ever since I found out about Duncan’s weekend trips to Paris. And we both know hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
Carrie nodded. “Agreed. But I wouldn’t have kidnapped the prick. Probably shot him in the head and dropped him in the Seine.”
Her tone left him in doubt about whether she was serious or simply pulling his leg. Carrie must have noticed his confused face; she gave him a big smile. “I’m joking, Justin. Such scumbags cheating on their spouses already have their punishment.”
Justin stood up to stretch his legs. “We have the name of this Nigerian woman, Duncan’s alleged lover. Abeson Emodi.”
“The shooter wasn’t very helpful, and I don’t think he was withholding intel. All he said was her name and that she gave orders, but he had no idea how she fit within the big picture.”
“Her name is nowhere in these files. I’m going to send Abeson’s name to Nailah and see if she can search the internal databases. Maybe she’s someone who works for the NNPC. Duncan could have met her anywhere in Nigeria or in the world, but I have a hunch their relationship started off as professional before it became personal.”
“Talking from experience?” Carrie asked with a wry smile.
“I’ve read about it and I’ve seen it many times. Men spend more time at work than at home, around pretty, intelligent women, with whom they have strong professional ties. Over sixty percent of married men cheat with women they meet at work or in work-related situations,” Justin said thoughtfully.
He returned to his laptop and began to draft a note to Nailah.
Carrie said, “I’m going to make some tea. You want more coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.”
When she returned a couple of minutes later, Justin was reviewing one of the printouts. “I think we missed this the first time around,” he said. “These two exec directors, they were quite young, much younger than Duncan, and they were recently appointed to their positions.” He moved over to his laptop. “I’m going to ask Nailah to expand her search to cover the time period before these two men became directors and to include any former employees. Maybe Abeson was Duncan’s contact, his business partner, before these directors.”
“Good idea. And while you’re there, ask her if Abeson was in Paris during those dates when Duncan was enjoying his special weekend retreats.”
“Will do.”
Justin typed his e-mail while Carrie sat next to him. She cradled her teacup in her hands and took deep breaths, enjoying the strong aroma of her cinnamon black tea.
“How’s the gunman?” Justin asked when he finished and pushed the laptop to the side.
“Snoring like a pig, but still alive. The sedatives should keep him asleep for the rest of the day.”
“I wish the surgeon would have transported him to the hospital when he left, but it does make more sense to do that at night.”
“Yes, and another visit means another five grand.” Carrie took a small sip of her tea. “When are we calling McClain?”
“After we hear from Nailah. I want to give him some positive news. Kayo is dead; we know Duncan’s location, but it’s almost impossible to extract him if it’s just us. And there’s no time for McClain to put together a larger team.”
“So, this woman Abeson is our only lead?”
“Yes. It all depends on Nailah and her intel.”
They spent the next hour re-examining the files, looking for any further clues. Justin searched on the Internet for Abeson Emodi, but no one on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn or other social media and professional networks matched her profile. And then his phone rang.
“It’s Nailah,” he said.
“Speakerphone,” Carrie said.
“Hello, Nailah. Good news?”
“Hi, Justin. Yes, excellent news. Abeson Emodi was an executive director here until about five months ago, when she resigned for personal reason
s.”
“Was she in charge of negotiations with CanadaOil?” Justin asked.
“No, not directly. But she attended some of the meetings,” Nailah replied.
“That explains why her name was not in Duncan’s schedule. She was a second fiddle,” said Carrie.
“Hi, who is this?” Nailah asked in a worried tone.
“Oh, it’s okay. Carrie, my partner with the service.”
“Nice to meet you,” Carrie said.
“Likewise,” Nailah said. “I was saying Ms. Emodi was in some of the meetings taking place in Nigeria and in Vienna. And she was in Paris on those particular dates you gave me.”
“Bingo,” said Justin. “Where did she stay in Paris?”
“Hmmm, let me see.” The sound of shuffling papers and tapping keys came over the line, then Nailah said, “She always stayed at Villa Mazarin, just for Saturdays.”
Carrie reached for the laptop and searched the location of Villa Mazarin on the Internet. Then she looked up directions to Tour d’Argent. “It’s a romantic fifteen-minute walk across the Seine.”
“Do you have her picture on file?” Justin asked.
“I do. I’ll e-mail you a copy right now. And Justin, it’s your lucky day. I’ve got her address on file as well as the emergency contact info.”
“Send it all over,” Justin said.
“Just did it.”
Carrie handed him the laptop and Justin impatiently clicked the refresh button on his browser. Finally the e-mail arrived, and it took a few more seconds for the attachment to download and for the image to open up on the screen.
They looked at the smiling face of a woman in her mid-twenties. Large black eyes, light skin color, a small, narrow nose, and thick red lips.
“That’s her,” Justin said. “Abeson is the woman who came to pick up the ransom. We’ve got her name, her picture, and her addresses. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Justin. What are you going to do now?”
“It’s better if you don’t know that. You’ve been a tremendous help. I’ll call you when everything is over.”
