Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger

by Margaret Truman

  “I’m listening.”

  “No, in person. A drink later, say at five?”

  “Sure. The bar in the Watergate?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Portland said.

  Brixton’s phone call caught Will Sayers as the journalist emerged from the shower.

  “You’re alive,” Sayers said.

  “Why would you think otherwise?”

  “Just a nasty rumor that your Miss Flo had had enough of you and laced your dinner with cyanide.”

  “If she wanted to get rid of me she wouldn’t use poison. She’d just take my handgun and shoot me.”

  “Women dislike shooting people, Robert. Too messy. Poison is a female’s preferred means of murder. But now that I know that you’re alive, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m doing work for one of Mac Smith’s clients, a guy named Borilli. His father got caught up in one of those Nigerian money scams and lost a fortune before he blew his brains out.”

  “A sad story, but how can I contribute to your investigation?”

  “You’ve spent a year learning about Nigeria, haven’t you?”

  “Nigeria along with other places like Afghanistan and Iraq, where private security companies get rich protecting our military.” He laughed. “Imagine that, our mighty military having to be protected by armed civilians.”

  “Yeah, I know the book that you’re writing deals with private security firms, not Nigerian scam artists, but I figured that you’d run across information about them.”

  “And what if I admitted that I had?”

  “Then I’d want to pick your large brain.”

  “Well, I have learned a great deal about how those infamous Nigerian scams work.”

  “I knew you would. Let me ask you a question. Has your research touched upon a Nigerian charitable organization here in D.C. called Bright Horizons?”

  “That sounds familiar. Tell me more.”

  “I don’t know any more except that Mac Smith’s client’s father mentioned them in notes he left behind and Mac has done some preliminary looking into it. I thought you could fill in a few blanks.”

  “Happy to, Robert, provided you’re offering to buy lunch.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Sayers’s laugh was hearty. “No, you don’t. I’m in the mood for some authentic British grub. Despite the bad rap British food has always gotten, pubs here rise above it, especially The Queen Vic on H Street, Northeast. Know it?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re in for a treat. Their sticky toffee pudding is sublime. See you there. Oh, I’ll wear a name tag to help you recognize me.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I’m a shadow of my former self thanks to a special diet I’ve been on. Ciao!”

  Brixton had to laugh when they ended the call. For as long as Brixton had known Sayers—which went back to Brixton’s days as a detective in Savannah, Georgia, when Sayers edited the local paper—the journalist had been grossly overweight, a whale of a man. Although Sayers had never told Brixton how much he weighed, it had to be in excess of three hundred pounds, give or take twenty or thirty. Sayers had toyed with various diets over the years, but they’d been quickly abandoned. If the corpulent journalist was serious this time about shedding weight Brixton was all for it. Sayers was a heart attack waiting to happen, or was inviting a terminal case of diabetes. “Good for you, Will,” Brixton said aloud as he read through the papers that Borilli had left.

  Sayers was already at the bar when Brixton arrived, a mug of stout from the tap in front of him. While Sayers’s weight loss wasn’t immediately apparent, what the journalist wore was different. Instead of his usual wrinkled chino pants secured by multi-colored striped suspenders, striped shirt, oversized sport jacket that looked as though it had just gone through the wash cycle, and leather boots broken down from having carried too much weight, his friend sported a new wardrobe, not exactly high fashion but a cut above his usual garb—a plaid blazer, gray slacks, and an open-neck white button-down shirt.

  “Well?” Sayers said after Brixton had taken an adjacent barstool.

  “Well what?”

  “Me. My new svelte look.”

  “It’s ah—it’s impressive, Will. How much have you lost?”

  “As of this morning, my scale says that I’m down eleven pounds.”

  “That’s great, Will. What does that represent, two, three percent of your weight?”

  “I don’t think in terms of percentages—Bobby!—and if you meant it as a snide attack on my valiant effort to slim down you’ve succeeded in hurting my feelings.”

  He let Sayers’s use of his nickname pass despite how much he disliked being called it and said, “No, no, no, Will, I’m really impressed at what you’ve accomplished.” His eyes went to the large mug of stout. “Is that on your diet?”

  “In moderation. All things in moderation. That’s the key to healthy living. Join me? I’m having Wells Bombardier. Oh, say hello to Noel, the establishment’s extraordinary bartender.”

  “Hello, Noel,” Brixton said, shaking the barkeep’s hand. “Will you whip me up a cold, dry Beefeater martini with a twist, straight up, and shaken, please.”

  “You never change,” Sayers said.

  “Change is bad,” said Brixton. “So, you say you know something about this Nigerian group Bright Horizons.”

  “I had run across them in my research on private security firms, nothing extensive unfortunately, but maybe enough to pique your appetite. Speaking of that, let’s take a table. I’m in the mood for chicken tikka.”

  “Sounds like a kid’s dish.”

  “Hardly,” Sayers said, motioning to Noel for a check. “It happens to be an Indian creation that was voted the UK’s most popular restaurant dish, a bit like marsala only spicier. You’ll love it.”

  As Brixton ascended to an upstairs dining room behind the slow-moving Sayers he was able to get a better look at the allegedly slimmed-down journalist. You’ve got a long way to go, he thought.

  After Sayers had been served a second stout—Brixton declined a refill—Sayers pulled a folded sheet of paper from his sport jacket and laid it on the table.

  “What’s that?” Brixton asked.

  “Everything I know about Bright Horizons. First of all, Robert, the Nigerian Bright Horizons is not to be confused with a wonderful organization here in the States that provides early education, preschool programs, and employer-sponsored child care. That such a sterling educational endeavor shares the same name as this Nigerian outfit is unfortunate.”

  “Who came first?”

  “Oh, the educational group by far. The Nigerian Bright Horizons was established here only four years ago.”

  “What does it do? The Nigerian one.”

  “What it purports to do and what it actually does are not necessarily one and the same. Its mission, according to its Web site, is to raise money for Nigerian orphans and the impoverished.”

  “Motherhood and apple pie. Sounds like a worthwhile goal.”

  “Yes, doesn’t it? The problem is that no one can be certain where the money goes. That’s not unusual for many alleged charitable organizations. I’m inundated with requests for money from dozens of groups who hire professional fundraisers and end up with a small percentage of what they raise going to the charities they claim to support. But Bright Horizons has an additional layer of opaqueness. Although they claim to be a private agency, their ties with certain powerful interests in Nigeria say something else.”

  “What powerful interests? Government?”

  “Probably not officially but connected in some way. I recently read a survey about the most dangerous places in the world to visit. Nigeria ranks number one on that list.”

  “From what I read in the papers this fellow Borilli left behind,” Brixton said, “a lot of the money he squandered was sent to Bright Horizons. He listed those payments as charitable contributions.”

  Sayers guffawed. “‘Charita
ble contributions’? The only charity benefiting from suckers like this Borilli fellow is some warlord. Speaking of warlords, Robert, I have managed to trace where Bright Horizons is located in Nigeria. It’s a city called Port Harcourt, in the Niger Delta.”

  “Where David Portland’s son was murdered.”

  “I thought about your British friend while I was looking into it.”

  “I’m seeing him later today.”

  “I’d like to get together with him again. I’m just starting writing about a security firm called SureSafe. As I recall, your Brit pal worked for them.”

  “That’s right. It’s also the firm that provides security for the oil companies in the Niger Delta in Nigeria. There’s a Frenchman there who runs things, name’s Alain something-or-other.”

  “Alain Fournier. Quite a controversial figure.”

  “You’ve learned a lot.”

  “I have to learn a lot, Robert, if my book is to have any credibility. Let’s eat, shall we? Order the chicken tikka.”

  Brixton didn’t ask how two large steins of stout and an exotic Indian dish fit in with Sayers’s diet but kept the question to himself. He was pleased when Sayers eschewed dessert and finished off the meal with black coffee.

  “I appreciate what you’ve told me,” Brixton said. “Anything else you’ve dug up about Bright Horizons?”

  Sayers replied by handing Brixton another piece of paper. On it was written: Ammon Dimka.

  “What does this mean?” Brixton asked.

  “It’s a name.”

  “Okay, so it’s a name. Who does it belong to?”

  “Ammon is a Nigerian who lives in Arlington. He’s a nice guy, educated, married, two little tykes.”

  “So?”

  “Note that I refer to him by his first name. We’ve recently become friends. He’s been a useful source in my research.”

  “About private security firms?”

  “About security firms as well as Nigerian money scams. Ammon returned to Lagos after receiving his degree in economics and landed an important post with the so-called Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC). From what he’s told me, the commission is more interested in committing financial crimes than riding herd over them.”

  “A whistle-blower.”

  “And not a popular one back home. He bucked the system too many times and his request for a transfer to the United States was happily granted, anything to get him out of their bureaucratic hair.”

  “What’s he do here in the States?”

  “Right now he’s working for a construction company in Virginia. But what should pique your interest is that when he was transferred here he was put in charge of—ready for this?”

  “Bright Horizons.”

  “Among many things I admire about you, Robert, is your quick uptake. Ammon didn’t last long at Bright Horizons. According to him, the charity it purported to represent was a complete sham. The agency reports to a warlord in Port Harcourt and is a handy conduit for funds illegally generated by the scam masters. Don’t misunderstand. It’s but one of a number of Nigerian organizations that prey on desperate, naïve people, like your Mr. Borilli.”

  Brixton sat back and speared the last piece of chicken on his plate.

  “There’s another aspect of Bright Horizons that you might find interesting,” said Sayers. “I don’t have anything to prove this, at least not yet, but certain evidence indicates to me that Bright Horizons might have a function besides stealing life’s savings from widows and the mentally feeble. It’s said that the agency has also been known to provide—how shall I say it?—to provide muscle when needed.”

  “Muscle? You mean they can play rough?”

  “Exactly. A Nigerian gentleman working for the embassy here in D.C. six months or so ago was allegedly telling tales out of school about his government’s involvement in political assassinations in Nigeria. Poor chap. He was found garroted to death in his apartment.”

  “Bright Horizons was behind it?” Brixton asked.

  “They didn’t make the decision, Robert, but it’s rumored that someone from that organization carried out the deed.” Sayers wiped his mouth with his napkin and discreetly belched behind it. “You do realize what a bargain this lunch has been,” he said.

  “Yeah, it’s been helpful,” Brixton said, “but how about giving me more for my bucks.”

  “Such as?”

  “Put me in touch with Mr. Ammon Dimka.”

  Sayers pondered the request. “I’m not sure I should do that,” he said. “Ammon has crossed many people, Robert, and I’m confident that there are some who would like to see him—well, see him eliminated. His discussions with me have been strictly off the record.”

  “But you’ve shared it with me,” Brixton said.

  “A testimony to my faith in your discretion. I will, however, contact him and see if he’s willing to speak with you—off the record, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And now that you know his name you won’t do an end run around me and contact him yourself.”

  “You know me better than that, Will.”

  Brixton paid the tab and they parted in front of The Queen Vic.

  “Your Ms. Flo is well?” Sayers asked.

  “Doing fine. We’ll have to get together soon for dinner.”

  “A splendid idea, hopefully with your friends the Smiths.”

  Brixton watched Sayers waddle up the street and disappear around a corner. As annoying as the overweight journalist could be, Brixton always knew that he was someone he could always trust, a man who stood by his friends.

  “Ammon Dimka,” he said to himself as he went to where he’d parked his car.

  This was getting interesting.

  CHAPTER

  13

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Like most people, Brixton couldn’t set foot in the Watergate complex without thinking of the scandal that shares its name, the infamous break-in and the resignation of President Nixon, the only time in our history that a president has resigned from office. He entered the bar, took a seat at a small table, and waited for Portland to arrive, who bounced into the room moments later. Their orders given, Brixton asked his British friend what had transpired during his meeting at the embassy.

  “First, let me say that your snarky remark about my being fired was also on my mind when Conan summoned me to his office, saying that he had something urgent to discuss.”

  “Conan’s your boss, right?”

  “That he is, a prince among men. I never would have been hired at the embassy were it not for Conan Lester’s insistence that my checkered background be ignored by the higher-ups.”

  “It’s always good to have someone like that in your corner,” Brixton said.

  “Indeed it is. Anyway, Conan closed the door after I arrived at his office. He had a grim expression on his face, and I had the sense that he wasn’t sure what to say first, so I broke the ice. I straight out asked him, ‘What is this urgent thing you want to discuss?’”

  “And he said?”

  “He said…”

  CHAPTER

  14

  “You’re well?” Lester asked after Portland was seated across the desk from him.

  “Quite,” Portland replied.

  Conan Lester was a few months shy of sixty. He’d had a long, unblemished career in British security and intelligence, the quintessential British civil servant who wore that badge with honor. He’d been stationed in a variety of overseas assignments during his years serving the Crown; his posting to the embassy in Washington was considered a plum position for someone nearing retirement. Married, their children grown and off on their own, Lester and his wife, Celia, had accepted the transfer to Washington with enthusiasm. He was aware, of course, from having spoken to others who’d served on Massachusetts Avenue, that little happened to challenge the embassy’s security staff, which was okay with him. His overseas postings had provided enough excitement to last the rest of his days. S
lender, and with an angular face beneath an impressive shock of snow-white hair, he didn’t fit the popular conception of someone who’d spent his life in the intelligence and security game—call it the spy game if you wish.

  He nodded wearily. “You do know, David, the high esteem in which I hold you.”

  “Which I’ve always appreciated.”

  “When they approved you coming here to join the security team I was delighted.”

  Portland now began to worry about what would come next. It smacked of the time-honored technique of issuing praise before lowering the boom.

  “Take a look at this,” Lester said, handing Portland a communiqué labeled: “TOP SECRET.”

  Portland rearranged himself in the chair, crossed his legs, and read. It was a message written to MI6, the British Secret Intelligence Service (SIS) in London, from someone named Paul Goad in the British High Commission in Lagos, Nigeria. While the text included the usual amount of government jargon, it was the underlying message that jumped out at Portland. He pressed his lips tightly together and handed the paper back to Lester.

  “An interesting coincidence, wouldn’t you say, David?”

  “‘Shocking’ would be a more apt term,” Portland said.

  The communiqué reported on the killing of the son of a high-ranking executive at Great Britain’s Shell-BP refineries in the Niger Delta.

  “Similar to the situation in which your son found himself.”

  Portland could only nod. Reading the message brought back vivid memories of Trevor, his golden boy, allegedly slaughtered by members of Nigerian’s MEND, the Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta.

  “This piece of correspondence says that the son was killed by members of MEND,” Portland said.

  It was Lester’s turn to nod.

  “That’s what they said about my son.”

  “Which you have good reason to challenge,” Lester said.

  Portland had previously filled Lester in about having come across the bracelet worn by Trevor, and how the French boss of SureSafe’s operation in Nigeria had lost it to a Nigerian security guard in a poker game.

  “Thanks for sharing this with me, Conan,” Portland said, “but I’m not sure why you did.”