Easy Motion Tourist

by Leye Adenle

Knockout pointed the gun at Amadi and took a couple of steps backwards. ‘Don’t try any games,’ he said.

  Amadi walked to the boot of the car and opened it.

  ‘Come and help me with this,’ he said.

  Knockout approached slowly. He took one look in the boot and withdrew. ‘What is this?’ He brought his gun back up, level with Amadi’s head.

  ‘What does it look like? Put that thing away and help me carry her inside.’

  Amadi went to the house and began to open the locks on the door. Knockout stood by the trunk. Was he about to witness a money ritual?

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Amadi said. ‘Let’s get her inside.’ He reached in and placed his arms under Amaka’s armpits.

  ‘What about my money?’

  ‘Get her legs.’

  Knockout hesitated. He tucked his gun into his belt and grabbed Amaka’s bound legs. Together they lifted her out of the car and half-carried, half-dragged her to the house.

  They stepped into a narrow corridor with three doors off it. Stacks of heavy-duty car batteries were lined up against one wall, all connected by thick cables that led into a metal box. Amadi was in front; he kept them moving towards a door that he pushed open with his back. They carried Amaka inside. What looked like a hospital bed stood in the middle of the room. Aluminium cabinets lined the walls.

  ‘We are putting her on the bed,’ Amadi said.

  ‘Untie her.’ He turned and walked to a cabinet by the wall, took a syringe and returned to the bed. Placing his fingers on her neck, he found a vein and pressed the needle into it. Her body shuddered. He returned to the cabinet with the spent syringe.

  Knockout looked at the girl before him. Her face held his eyes. His hand glided over her. He put a finger under her nose and felt her warm breath. He placed his palm on her breast and squeezed. He thought of rescuing her from the hands of this evil man. He undid the cloth used to bind her feet then turned her on her side to work on her hands tied behind her back.

  His body jolted suddenly and his muscles contracted involuntarily. Amadi kept the taser pressed to Knockout’s neck, sending fifty thousand volts through the crook’s little body until his feet gave way and he collapsed.

  Amadi walked back to the cabinet and picked out a sterile knife. He shoved Knockout’s body away from the bed then he knelt across him. With his fingers, he felt between his ribs then he lifted the blade and brought it down in a strong blow that tore through Knockout’s chest cavity and lodged in his heart. He pulled the knife out and stabbed again. He continued until he had exhausted himself then sat away from the dead body and wiped away the blood that had sprayed onto his face. He turned the butchered corpse over, took the gun tucked into the belt, then stood up and spat onto Knockout’s lifeless body. ‘Bastard,’ he said.

  60

  Ade’s car wailed as he tried to get us out of the sand and we attracted the attention of some teenage boys. They were mostly bare-chested, skinny, but toned, and they had planks and sticks.

  ‘Ade,’ I called his attention to the approaching gang. He handed them some money and they began to dig us out, placing their planks under the rear tyres so we could reverse out of our trap. The boys pointed out safe paths to take and we were off; but the green car was gone. Ade drove fast at the edge, close to grass, onto another sandy road; the forest grew larger around us. He slowed down and gazed ahead, then without warning, he downshifted and the car leapt forward.

  We followed the road to a compound and pulled up behind the Peugeot. The trunk was open, as was the door to the house. We went inside. I led the way. A door in the corridor was open. I went to it and called out Amaka’s name. Nobody answered. Suddenly, a loud bang erupted from inside the room. Ade yanked me away from the open door and onto the ground. He had a pistol in his hand. He signalled for me to stay down, then he crept towards the door, fired two shots into the room and withdrew. There was no response. He stood up and approached the door holding his gun in front of him. ‘Drop it,’ he said. Silence.

  I thought of Amaka. I got up and joined him at the door. A largish man – it must be Chief Amadi – was holding her to his body. He had a knife pressed against her neck. Her eyes were shut. He had a gun in his other hand, pointed at Ade. A bed and a bleeding body on the ground separated us.

  ‘Let her go, you bastard,’ I said. I ran at him and he fired. I dived the rest of the distance, crashed onto the bed and rolled to the ground before reaching him. I saw Ade fall backwards. He had been hit. The man dragged Amaka with him through a door.

  I scampered to my feet and followed. The next room was like the first – a crude kind of surgical suite. I dashed past an operating table in the middle and sidestepped a trolley with medical instruments set on top of it. A door leading out of the room swung shut and I bounded towards it. Two shots splintered the wood. I ducked, waited a couple of seconds then launched through the door. It led to a passageway and on to an open door at the end. Beyond that I could see the forest. I ran forward hoping his next shot would also miss its mark.

  I stepped into the backyard and saw only trees. A branch snapped back to hide a flash of colour. I ran towards it. My feet sank into vegetation. I grabbed at shrubs and pulled. Amadi levelled his gun at my head. I fell forward and he shot. He had Amaka with him: her torso drooped over his arm. He fired two more shots. I hid behind the nearest tree and he started to move again but Amaka was slowing him down. By now he was dragging her by her neck. He looked over his shoulder, tripped and Amaka fell away from him. I bounded forward and launched at him. We rolled around in the foliage. He elbowed me in the neck. I coughed, choking. He pushed me off and reached for his gun but I caught his leg and dragged him backwards. He grazed the side of my face and I grabbed his belt, pulling him onto his back. I forced my hands under his shoulders and looped them back to clasp my fingers over the back of his neck. With all the strength I had left, I pressed his head forward and straightened my elbows. I wanted to dislocate his shoulders if I could.

  Amaka staggered to her feet. She put a hand to her head. She looked like she was going to fall.

  ‘Run!’ I shouted. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold him. He pushed with his feet, rolling his body until he was on top of me, crushing my back into the thick undergrowth. I couldn’t see Amaka.

  ‘Run,’ I shouted.

  He headbutted me. The pain seared through my face. He freed himself and rolled into the bushes, crawling towards his gun. Amaka was trying to steady herself, her hands searching empty space for support.

  ‘Run!’

  But she just stood there, looking at him, not me. By now he had picked up the gun and was climbing to his feet. I rolled over and kicked his leg as hard as I could. He fell and his gun fell away.

  ‘Amaka, run!’ I shouted again. I jumped onto him and felt his fist in the side of my belly. I wrapped my arms around him before he could manage another punch. Amaka picked up his pistol, almost falling over as she did. She held the gun in both hands and tried to aim. The pistol waved dangerously from my head to his head and back.

  ‘Drop it,’ someone shouted. I turned to look but I didn’t loosen my grip. It was Inspector Ibrahim, dressed in his uniform, holding a sub-machine gun, which was aimed at Amaka.

  ‘No!’ I screamed. I let go and launched at him.

  He let out a burst of shots before I wrapped my arms around his legs and tackled him to the ground. He had shot her. I screamed so loud that I didn’t hear the sound of my own voice. I was on top of him laying my fists into his face. Someone caught my arms from behind and yanked me away. I kicked at him then the barrel of a gun pressed against my temple. I didn’t care. I kept kicking. They dragged me away. Ibrahim was getting to his feet. I lurched forward then a pistol was placed sideways against my head and a shot was fired. My head felt like it had exploded, then there was silence. I couldn’t hear a thing. I saw Ibrahim stand upright and straighten his uniform.

  ‘You bastard!’ I screamed ‘You bastard!’

  He sp
oke to the person holding me. I couldn’t hear but I read his lips: ‘Let him go.’

  I did not want to look but I turned to see what he had done to Amaka. She was still standing, pointing her gun at Amadi. He was sprawled face down, his head at her feet, a tiny pistol in his open palm, blood turning the leaves red around his body.

  61

  Police officers were all around us. I recognised them. They were the men of Fire-for-Fire I’d seen at the police station. An officer gave his weapon to a colleague, and with the cautious movement of a bomb disposal expert, he slowly took the weapon from Amaka’s hand. She swayed and I moved towards her but someone stepped in front of me and pointed his rifle at my belly. It was a face I would never forget: Sergeant Hot-Temper.

  ‘Let him go,’ Inspector Ibrahim said. Although my ears were buzzing, I heard him this time. The killer cop lowered his gun, grinned toothily and winked, as if he had been joking with me. I stepped past him and reached Amaka, catching her just as her knees crumpled. She looked at me through almost-closed eyes.

  ‘Guy,’ she whispered, and her lids shut before she collapsed into my arms.

  I lifted her off the ground and looked at her face. She was breathing.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Ibrahim said to his men, then to me: ‘Mr Collins, it’s time to leave.’

  An officer moved to help me but I didn’t let him take Amaka from me. I carried her out of the forest and back to the bungalow.

  Armed officers stood everywhere. The chatter of police radios was going off all around. About five police vans were parked in front of the building, their doors open. I saw Ade getting his arm bandaged by an officer. The body I’d seen inside the house was being wheeled out on a trolley.

  Two men came to take Amaka from me.

  ‘They are doctors,’ Ibrahim said. ‘They will take care of her.’ He had been walking by my side all the time. I watched as they lay her on the ground. They crouched, one on each side of her. One of them held her wrist in his fingers and watched the face of his clock.

  ‘That bullet was meant for you,’ Ade said. I turned and saw his smiling face.

  Ibrahim saluted him. ‘Guy, meet Commander Mshelia.’

  ‘Did you think we’d let a foreign journalist go chasing after killers? I’m with the DSS,’ Ade said. ‘You know, like the FBI. Ibrahim asked me to keep you out of trouble. I thought it was going to be a walk in the park, as you say.’

  It took a second for what he said to sink in. ‘You are a policeman?’

  ‘You could say so. Undercover, but my cover is blown now.’

  ‘You are a policeman?’

  ‘Yes.’ He winced as the officer tending to him wound another length of bandage round his arm. ‘I’m not Ade. But I wasn’t spying on you or anything like that.’

  ‘So, where is Ade?’

  ‘Oh, Ade, he sends his apologies. He had to jet off to Abuja.’

  Mshelia explained that Ibrahim was in his office inspecting my phone when the real Ade called. As Ade’s number was the only contact stored on the phone, Ibrahim figured he could use him to flush me out. He sent Ade a text message supposedly from me, asking to meet at the Eko Hotel lobby. He found Ade there, looking impatient, and he calmed him down by showing him his badge and placing him under arrest.

  Ibrahim wasn’t sure what to do with the journalist so he took him to the Navy Dockyard, to his friend in the secret service, Commander Mshelia. Together, the two officers began to interrogate Ade but the journalist was just as eager to impress them with his knowledge of his rights and what the law was pertaining to those rights. Commander Mshelia offered him a deal: spend the next few days in detention at the Navy Dockyard while the police continued investigating the murder that the Briton might be involved in, or, cooperate and help us find the foreigner before he gets himself into even more trouble.

  Weighing the charge of conspiracy in a murder against his freedom and some time in a crowded cell, Ade chose the latter. He confided in the officers that he had never trusted the man’s story, anyway. A UK-based Nigerian journalist, an old acquaintance, had found Ade through the Associated Press and offered him the task of looking after the British journalist, but as far as Ade knew, the entire setup could be a CIA thing. For this reason he had stayed away from Guy from day one: this reason and the fact that only once Guy was airborne did he learn that he wasn’t even getting paid for the job. He had never even met the man before. He didn’t even know what he looked like.

  Ibrahim took over. According to him, Mshelia was first to get the idea of impersonating Ade, but he, Ibrahim, preferred a different approach. Ade had told them that he was in touch with Guy’s boss. They made him call England and explain to Guy’s boss that he could not find Guy. Ibrahim wanted Guy to come to him. Amaka, he could only assume, was still with him; she just might suspect something if Mshelia turned up pretending to be a journalist. Ade gladly made the call but soon started ad-libbing. Guy’s boss swore and shouted when he learned that Guy had not bothered to meet up with his guide, and then he asked Ade to do him a favour and tell the fool that he was fired – if he managed to speak to him.

  ‘That’s how the call ended,’ Ibrahim said.

  They both paused to look at me, unsure if they’d just given me bad news. I nodded and Ibrahim continued.

  They released Ade, who said he had to return to Abuja, and Mshelia became a journalist. My phone showed that I’d sent several messages to Ade and tried to call him a few times. They decided to gamble on me getting in touch again; that way, I wouldn’t be suspicious when Ade suddenly became available to meet.

  ‘Ibrahim wasn’t sure how you got yourself mixed up in this mess,’ Mshelia continued, ‘but he was afraid you were sniffing around and endangering yourself. My job was simply to steer you clear of trouble so that he could do his job without having to worry about a white boy getting himself killed on his watch. By the time you told me your girlfriend had gone to the suspect’s house, we were already aware of Amadi’s involvement in the crime. I called Ibrahim from the hotel and updated him. We agreed that he should go to the suspect’s house to make sure Amadi knew that he knew Amaka, and that he knew she was at his place. That way, we believed, he wouldn’t dare harm her. I guess we were wrong.’

  ‘Commander Mshelia texted me the flight numbers Amaka found and he told me what you came up with,’ Ibrahim continued. ‘I obtained the flight manifests from the airline and requested the medical records of everyone on board who wasn’t based in Nigeria. He was updating me by phone as both of you tailed Amadi’s car. It appeared as if the man was making a getaway and taking Amaka as hostage, so we decided to strike.’

  ‘It looks like you might have exposed an international syndicate, Guy,’ Mshelia said. ‘You and your girlfriend, Amaka. From the way that this place is setup,’ he pointed his good hand at the bungalow, ‘it appears they were probably doing operations in there. Very crudely.’

  ‘So, you are with the secret service?’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you followed us?’ I was looking at Ibrahim.

  ‘Yes. I had enough evidence to make an arrest. And I was concerned over your safety, and Amaka’s.’

  ‘So you didn’t want to kill me?’

  ‘Oh no. Why would you think such a thing?’

  ‘So I’m not under arrest?’

  They both laughed.

  ‘By the way,’ Ibrahim said, ‘take your phone. I’ve been trying to return it to you since yesterday.’ He held it out to me.

  I hadn’t expected to see it again.

  ‘Where are they taking her?’ Amaka was being placed in the back of a police car.

  ‘She needs medical attention. They are taking her to the clinic. Maybe you should go with her.’

  ‘I should.’

  He looked past me at her. ‘She’s made quite an impression on you,’ he said.

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. I got the feeling she’d made quite an impression on him too.

  Mshelia groaned to re
mind us he was still there. He waved away the hand of the officer seeking to inspect his bandage. ‘Well then, go,’ he said. And as I turned to leave: ‘And listen, if you break her heart, you’ll have us to answer to.’

  I stopped to shake hands with both men. ‘Sorry about that,’ I said to Ibrahim, holding my hand to the side of my face. He smiled.

  Amaka was still out of it. I got in the back with her, placed her head on my lap and began pulling shreds of clingfilm off her neck. Sirens went off as we left the little house in the bush.

  We went to the medical clinic at Wilmot Point, the naval base on Ahmadu Bello Road, close to Inspector Ibrahim’s police station. Navy nurses took her and wouldn’t let me follow them. I waited in the corridor, breathing in antiseptic cleanser. A woman in a naval uniform brought me a chair. I thanked her but continued pacing the corridor. Men and women in military or medical gear walked past me, coming and going through double doors, but not from where they had taken Amaka. Then, about an hour later, three women and two men, all in white coats, hurried to the room she was in. I froze in front of the door.

  Fifteen minutes later a doctor appeared.

  ‘Are you Guy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please come with me.’

  I was afraid to ask him anything. He took me into the room and asked the nurses standing round Amaka’s bed to excuse us. They had been taking tubes out of her arms. Her eyes were closed and she wasn’t moving.

  ‘She’s still slightly sedated but she asked to see you,’ he said.

  ‘She’s OK?’

  I walked up to her side and placed my hand on hers. Her fingers curled around mine and squeezed. Her eyes opened and I felt tears burning behind mine.

  She didn’t talk. She stared into my eyes and held my fingers even tighter. The doctor drew a chair up to me and I sat by her side. Her eyes closed.

  Aunty Baby arrived with Flavio by her side. She asked the nurse at the reception to take her to Amaka.