by Ponzo, Gary
Nailah sighed. “All right, be careful. Goodbye, Justin.”
“Bye, Nailah.”
He hung up and looked at Carrie. She was already on her feet and was opening one of the closets, the one containing their weapons cache.
Chapter Nine
Lagos, Nigeria
March 21, 11:30 a.m.
Justin and Carrie updated McClain on the evolving situation and informed him of their plans. They had decided to leave the safe house behind, after cleaning it of any sensitive intelligence. The shooter was still lying on the kitchen table, but the surgeon had promised to dispatch an ambulance and take him to a hospital that night. They were going to check Abeson’s emergency contact address, a house on the other side of Lagos. It was the residence of her mother, a woman in her late seventies, according to the information on Abeson’s personnel file.
They called a taxi for the ride across the city. The cab driver—a young man in his twenties—offered to carry their luggage to the trunk, but they declined his offer. The two large duffel bags contained two AK-74 assault rifles, two SIG P228 pistols, and numerous magazines for their weapons. Justin and Carrie each wore a pistol in their concealed waistband holsters.
At this time of the day the traffic was crawling at a snail’s pace. It was another blistering hot day in the furnace called Lagos. The taxi had no air conditioning and the rolled-down windows drew in no gusts of fresh or cool air, but only the dust and the grime of the city. Thankfully, the cab driver was a chatterbox, entertaining them with tidbits of the city’s politics and history. Like many other people he shared his disgust with the “thieves in power” as he called summarily all politicians in Nigeria, and had nothing but swear words for the oil companies operating in the country.
After about an hour, the driver turned into some back alleys and the taxi picked up its pace. It seemed he was trying to make up the lost time. He was racing as fast as the narrow, potholed alleys allowed the taxi, often screeching to abrupt halts to avoid stray dogs, cats, or little children playing in the garbage-littered pathways.
Occasionally Justin gazed back behind the taxi, trying to establish if someone was following them, but he found no one. The way the driver was crisscrossing through the city would have made it quite an achievement for someone else to keep up with them without being noticed.
The cab driver dropped them off three blocks away from Abeson’s mother’s house, and they covered the remaining distance on foot. It was a quiet and clean residential area, with two-story houses lined up with palm trees. The streets were empty, unpaved, and narrow, barely sufficient for the width of two cars.
Their target house was surrounded by an eight-foot-high cinder-block wall topped with concertina barbed wire. Justin and Carrie slithered along the left wall of the house. When they reached the front entrance, it was Carrie who stepped casually around the corner, since Abeson or her associates—if they happened to be outside the house—would not recognize her.
She observed the area for a moment, then gestured for Justin to follow her. A brown Lexus was parked right outside the large black solid-steel gate, in front of a NO PARKING sign painted on the side of the house. A small matching door was next to the gate.
“No one’s in the car,” Carrie whispered.
“She’s inside.” Justin gestured toward the gate.
Carrie nodded. She found her cellphone in one of the many pockets of her khaki pants and dialed a number. It was Abeson’s emergency contact number. Justin and Carrie were counting on Abeson’s mother unknowingly providing them with vital information on Abeson’s location. If the old woman did not answer the phone, they would break into the house and search it top to bottom.
Carrie crouched next to the Lexus and held her phone in front of her mouth. She had pressed the speaker button so Justin could also hear the reply from inside the house.
“Yes, this is the Emodi residence,” came a feeble and raspy old woman’s voice.
“This is Amber Smith from Citibank. May I please talk to Ms. Abeson Emodi?” Carrie said in an upbeat tone.
“Yes, just a moment.”
Carrie’s eyes flashed with excitement. “She is inside.” Her mouth formed the words without making any sound.
Two women’s voices came from the phone. They sounded like they were at quite a distance from the phone. The first voice was of the old woman who had answered Carrie’s call. “I don’t know, I forgot her name. She was from a bank.”
“Why did you tell them I was here?” asked the other voice.
“Well, you are here.”
The other voice swore, then grew louder as it drew near the phone. “Who is this again?”
“Amber Smith with Citibank. May I please talk to Ms. Abeson Emodi?” Carrie repeated her line.
“She’s . . . she’s not here. What is this all about? How did you get this number?”
“That’s her. I’m sure that’s our target.” Justin mouthed the words in not even a whisper.
“I’m sorry. I’ll call again later,” Carrie said, and hung up.
“We’ve got her all riled up. Get ready.”
Justin pulled out his pistol and held it low to the side. He stood up and put his back against the wall to the right side of the gate. Carrie set up her position behind the front wheel of the Lexus.
A long minute passed and someone pushed open the front entrance door. A man sprang forward, holding an AK in his hands. Carrie leaped up from her position, her pistol aimed at the gunman. “Drop it,” she shouted.
The man began to swing his AK in her direction, but Justin’s right fist caught him on the side of his jaw. He fell against the Lexus, his head smashing through the glass of the back passenger window.
A second man burst through the door. He pointed his pistol at Justin, but before he could pull the trigger, Carrie fired her pistol equipped with a sound suppressor and planted a bullet in the man’s chest.
Justin thanked her with a nod. She gestured toward the door and Justin came around it, holding his pistol in front of him. On the other side of the gate, Abeson began to raise an AK in his direction. Before she could aim it, Justin shouted, “Drop it.”
Her hands froze in mid-air.
“Drop it, Abeson. It’s over,” Justin shouted.
“What was that noise?” the old woman’s voice came from inside the house. The main entrance door was still ajar.
“You’re not going to kill me in front of my sick mother,” Abeson said in a low voice.
“Try me and you’ll find out.” Justin realigned his pistol with her head.
“Where are you? What is going on?” the old woman called. Her voice was getting louder and more impatient as she was probably shuffling toward the door.
Abeson hesitated for another moment, then lowered her AK in front of her, the barrel pointing at the ground. She hid it in front of the long black robe that came down to her feet. Then she held it by the worn wooden stock with her left hand, while readjusting her hijab over her head with her right hand.
“Carrie, you have her?” Justin asked.
“I do,” Carrie replied.
Justin tucked his right hand, still holding his pistol, inside his vest’s pocket. He kept his finger on the trigger, in case Abeson had a change of heart.
“Who are you? What’s happening?” the old woman bellowed at Justin.
Justin glanced up at the thin, frail-looking woman hunched over at the door, leaning on her walking stick, breathing heavily. A pair of glasses were hanging from her neck, and she struggled to find and raise them to her eyes.
“It’s okay, Mom. He’s a friend, just picking me up,” Abeson said without looking back.
She nodded and gestured for Justin to walk toward the car.
The old woman peered at Justin through her glasses, then dropped them to the tip of her nose. “All right, then. Have fun and call me tonight.”
“Of course, Mom. Bye now,” Abeson said.
Justin gave the old woman a slight nod, but she pr
obably did not notice it, as she did not say anything or wave at him.
Abeson walked slowly, her AK hanging harmlessly in her hands.
Justin kept his eyes on her and backed away, taking slow and measured steps toward the gate. The pistol inside his pocket was at all times pointed at Abeson.
Once she crossed through the gate and was beyond the line of sight of her mother, Carrie pointed her pistol at Abeson. Justin hurried to disarm her, then Carrie gave the woman a quick pat-down. Her search turned up no weapons, but only Abeson’s BlackBerry and a thick wallet.
“She’s clean,” Carrie said. She held the woman against the wall and twisted her arms back to snap a pair of plastic handcuffs on her.
“You, front passenger seat,” Justin said to Abeson. “Where are the keys?”
Abeson pointed at the man Carrie had shot in the chest.
Justin rummaged through the man’s pockets and produced a set of keys. He unlocked the doors then tossed the keys to Carrie. “I’ll take care of the bodies.”
“Let’s go.” Carrie held Abeson by the arm.
Justin dragged the dead men to the back of the SUV. He waited for a couple of moments for Carrie to unlock the trunk, and cast his gaze at the nearby houses. Two men were peering from the balcony of the house three doors down and across the street. Justin wondered how many more were observing the scene from behind their windows. If they haven’t called the police yet, it will be just a matter of minutes.
He loaded the bodies inside the trunk, along with their weapons. He rifled through their pockets and collected two cellphones. Then he climbed into the backseat.
Carrie hit the gas before Justin even had a chance to close his door. The Lexus roared forward as Carrie wrenched the steering wheel hard, making a tight right turn. They rounded the corner and drove for a few moments through the back alley behind Abeson’s mother’s house. Then Carrie cut to the left and they merged with traffic on a three-lane thoroughfare. The Lexus fishtailed, almost crashing into a van, but Carrie was able to jerk the steering wheel to the right and so avoided the collision.
“Abeson, perhaps you could help us?” Justin faked a British accent. He was not doing a good job, but it would suffice for the task at hand. “We’re looking for a foreigner, a Canadian diplomat.”
Abeson’s frown told Justin she was not amused at his antics.
“And a million dollars,” he continued. “I’m ready to make a trade: I want Duncan and the money in exchange for your head.”
Chapter Ten
Lagos, Nigeria
March 21, 1:15 p.m.
“You’re crazier than I had thought,” Abeson said in a calm tone. She did not seem worried about the turn of events, and her face wore a mildly annoyed expression, as if the latest development had forced her to cancel her lunch plans. “What makes you think that’s even possible?”
“You run this show; you give the orders,” Justin said.
Abeson shook her head. She turned her body slightly toward him. “I’m afraid you give me more credit that I deserve. I’m just a little insignificant cog in this gigantic bribery and corruption system that is the driving force of the Nigerian oil industry.”
“No, I’ve seen you in action. I know what you are capable of, and I know you can make this happen.”
“No, sorry, can’t help you.” Abeson shifted in her seat and looked out the windshield.
Justin caught Carrie’s glance in the rearview mirror. She gave him a small nod, and he gestured for her to go ahead and try to convince Abeson to cooperate with them. She said, “We already know where Duncan is: Makoko. We have the location of the speedboat and how many men are guarding him, and a team is on their way to the target.”
Carrie was bluffing, but Abeson did not know that. The bluff served her tactic of making Abeson feel desperate and without much hope.
Abeson looked at Carrie, pursed her lips, and gave her a shrug. “So you don’t need my help.”
“No, we don’t. Just wanted to tell you how we got that intel. We have one of the gunmen who attacked Le Petit Café last night, and we’ve been extracting this and other intel from him. He’s more than willing to give us everything we ask for, to save himself a great deal of pain.”
“Again, I don’t see why you need my help. And I’m not scared of your torture threat.”
Carrie turned the steering wheel and passed around a couple of slow-moving sedans. Then she spoke without looking at Abeson. “I told you we don’t need your help. But we want to save your life and the lives of many of your soldiers. It’ll all be much easier if you agree to hand over Duncan and the money.”
Justin said, “Then you can go back to living this . . . this life of yours.”
“You’re either very naive or very stupid if you believe things will go back to normal if I give you the hostage, my only bargaining chip. The people I deal with, they’ll not give it a second thought before killing me and my mother like dogs.”
“Duncan is no longer your bargaining chip. Your life is. It’s not worth throwing it way for Duncan, the man who lied to you and betrayed you.”
Abeson cocked her head toward Justin. “You’re right. That son of a bitch deserves to die a slow and painful death for what he did to me.”
Justin knew he had pushed the right buttons. He decided to switch strategies. “When did he decide to break it off? The affair, I mean.”
Abeson gave him a stern head-shake. “It wasn’t an affair. I loved Marty, I truly did. And the prick said he loved me too. He hated his wife and he wanted to divorce her. He said more than once he was very miserable with her, feeling like his life was a trap, a never-ending nightmare. But I made him feel alive, happy, cheerful, giving him hope there was much more to life than a nagging bitch harassing him every time he returned home. That’s why he traveled so much; the liar hated returning to his pathetic home and life with that witch of a wife and the three spoiled, ungrateful brats of children.”
“When did you first meet Marty?” Carrie asked in a soft voice, trying to make a connection with Abeson.
“In Vienna, eight months ago. We met for a round of negotiations about new oil exploration contracts. Marty is very smart, a great negotiator, and quite the charmer. We went out for supper that evening and the next one. Then he invited me to go see Paris with him.”
“Paris, the city of love,” Carrie said.
“Yes. Marty was always the gentleman; caring, thoughtful, loving. The money was not a problem as he had pocketed millions from oil contracts, not just in Nigeria but all over the world. He offered me a ‘consulting’ position with CanadaOil and I started to rake in more money than I had ever dreamed of, while I still kept my job with the NNPC,” she said in a passionate voice, a lively spark glinting in her eyes.
“We went to Paris on a regular basis, for huge shopping sprees, fancy dinners, shows. We lived the good life for a few weeks. Then it all changed.” Abeson paused for a moment and let out a low sigh.
“What happened?” Carrie asked.
They had stopped for the red light at an intersection.
“Marty’s wife began to grow suspicious. She wanted to go along with him on his trips, and they fought constantly. He thought she had hired a private investigator to follow him around and collect evidence of his indiscretions. Marty freaked out and I could do nothing to calm him down. He cut off my consulting job and dumped me in Paris at La Tour d’Argent, right after our fabulous dinner. I vowed to make him pay.”
Abeson clenched her teeth and a deep crease formed in the middle of her forehead.
“That’s when you quit your job at the NNPC and joined the Delta armed groups?” Carrie asked.
Abeson nodded. “Yes. It was relatively easy, as we had used some of those groups in the past. They knew me and I knew them. We had a history, so I was able to gain their trust. Whenever Nigerian officials want more money from the foreign oil companies, they fuel trouble among the militia groups. Oil companies cough up a few million dollars—the cost of
doing business in Nigeria—and the trouble goes away for a little while, until the next time, and the cycle repeats again and again.”
“Was it your idea to kidnap him?” Carrie asked.
“Yes. I knew he was coming for the conference and I knew he was traveling light. I picked the best gunmen in my group and we made it happen.”
“So you kidnapped him because he dumped you?” Justin asked.
Abeson shook her head. “No. We had a relationship and a business deal. The prick broke them both. So he had to pay for the choices he made. He paid with tears and screams, then the time came to pay in cash also.”
“Were there other offers on Duncan’s head?” Carrie said.
“No. The threats were supposed to motivate you to pay the ransom without delay.”
“And the attack at Le Petit Café?” Justin said.
“We believed someone inside the NNPC was working with the rescue team. Nailah was one of the suspects, so we tapped her phones.”
A short pause followed, then Justin asked, “Now what? You’re going to have Duncan killed?”
Abeson shrugged, then straightened up in her seat. “If the ransom is not paid, then you didn’t keep your side of the deal. My men will deliver Duncan’s head in a basket,” she said in a cold, emotionless voice.
“There’s another option,” Justin said. “An option in which Duncan pays for his crimes and the way in which he treated you, and you also get to save your life and your reputation.”
Abeson looked at the rearview mirror and locked eyes with Justin. “What would that be?”
“If Duncan dies, he’ll be hailed as a hero back home in Canada. He’s already considered a brave man, courageous enough to come to Nigeria and to work with the government here, to offer hopes and prosperity to the poor in this country. His death will just reinforce that, cementing his image as a man who gave his life for others, unselfish until his very last moment.”
“He’s a selfish, pathetic prick,” Abeson blurted, and clenched her hands into tight fists. “That’s what he is.”
