Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger

by Margaret Truman

  “MI6 wants you to look into the death of this young lad.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “It should be obvious, David. You have a direct connection with what has happened to the young man because of your own experience with your son.” He sighed. “There’s more to it than that, however. This message from SIS is only the latest of correspondence I’ve had with them. They’re keenly interested in what’s going on with our oil interests in Nigeria, including the role of SureSafe, the private security firm charged with protecting our citizens there.”

  “SureSafe?” Portland spit out. “I worked for them. So does the Frenchman Alain Fournier who ended up with my son’s bracelet.”

  A small smile crossed Lester’s lips. “Precisely,” he said. “They want you back in London to tell them what you know about how SureSafe operates in the delta.”

  “I just recently got settled here,” Portland protested. “Besides, I never worked for SureSafe in Nigeria.”

  “But you have firsthand knowledge of some of its activities there. Look, David, I certainly don’t want to lose you. But let’s be frank, shall we? While having you as part of my security team pleases me, you can’t deny that it’s—well, let’s just say that it doesn’t tax your brain and draw from your experience in security matters.”

  “Which is why I like it,” said Portland. He managed a small laugh. “You’ve said it yourself, Conan. After years on the run in godforsaken places where you get up every morning hoping that you’ll manage to get through the day, keeping people safe here at the embassy is a welcome change.”

  “True, but this situation in Nigeria has captured the interests of our friends back in London.”

  Portland chewed on his cheek before asking, “How long would I have to be there?”

  “Not long. They’ll probe what you know about the Nigerian situation, perhaps ask that you help them create a task force to get to the bottom of it, and that will be that. Just a few days.”

  “And when I’m finished there I can return to this job?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Your word is always good with me, Conan. When do I leave?”

  “They want you there day after tomorrow.”

  They shook hands after some less weighty conversation and Portland left Lester’s office buoyed by what had transpired. Being placed in a quasi-official position to look into SureSafe’s operations would give him the opportunity to pursue the truth about what had happened to Trevor.

  CHAPTER

  15

  “So you’re leaving Washington,” Brixton said after Portland had finished his recounting of the meeting with Conan Lester.

  “For a while.”

  “I’ll miss you, David.”

  “It’s always nice to be missed. But I’ll be back before you know it, hopefully with some answers about what really happened to my son.”

  “Here’s to a successful trip,” Brixton said, touching the rim of his glass to Portland’s. As he did his cell phone rang. He glanced at it and said, “It’s Will Sayers. I’d better take it.”

  “Am I taking you from something important?” Sayers asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m in the Watergate bar enjoying a drink with my friend David Portland.”

  “Ah, give him my best.”

  “He’s heading back to London in a few days, a special assignment.”

  “Wish him God’s speed and safe travel. I’m calling to let you know that I’ve made contact with Ammon Dimka.”

  “Oh?”

  “It took considerable persuasion on my part, but he has reluctantly agreed to meet with you.”

  “That’s great, Will.”

  Sayers gave him Dimka’s phone number and address in Virginia.

  “I’d like to bring Mac Smith with me when we meet.”

  “Not a good idea, Robert. Ammon is apprehensive enough without introducing another party.”

  “I hear you,” said Brixton. “What’s a good time to call him?”

  “The evening. He has two adorable young daughters who he and his wife dote on. Try him about nine after the children are in bed. And Robert, I’ve given him my sacred word that he will never be mentioned by name in my book, nor will you reveal him as a source. He is strictly to provide background.”

  “Okay, Will. Many thanks. I’ll let you know after I’ve spoken with him.”

  “Sounded serious,” Portland commented after Brixton had clicked off.

  “I’m getting together with someone who knows a lot about how Nigerian money scams work. I’ve told you that Mac Smith has a client who got caught up in one of them.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “That both you and I are involved in something having to do with Nigeria.”

  That night Brixton replayed for Flo the conversation he’d had with Portland. He also filled her in on his phone conversation with Will Sayers and that he’d be making contact with the Nigerian expat in Virginia, Ammon Dimka. He considered mentioning what Sayers had said about people from Bright Horizons possibly being hit men for the Nigerian government but thought better of it. No sense in unduly worrying her.

  “I’m not sure I like you becoming involved with a foreign government,” she said, “especially one like Nigeria. These groups I read about every day in the paper, like Boko Haram that kidnaps and kills anyone in their path, and this MEND organization that David has mentioned, aren’t exactly the sort of people you want to cross.”

  “Not to worry, Flo,” he said as he sliced a fresh loaf of bread to accompany dinner. “All I’m doing is gathering facts for Mac.”

  Later that night as they lay in bed and prepared to sleep, Flo repeated her concerns about his making plans to meet with the Nigerian Ammon Dimka. Brixton kissed her lightly on the lips and repeated, “Not to worry.”

  Which didn’t reassure her.

  CHAPTER

  16

  VIRGINIA

  Ammon Dimka walked in his house after a day of work and was met with shrieks of joy from his daughters, ages six and eight. The younger insisted on being lifted into the air, which her father accommodated while her sister wrapped her arms around his sturdy leg.

  “Easy now,” he said, joining their laughter. “Give Daddy a few minutes to get into some different clothes.”

  After disengaging he went to the kitchen where his wife, Abiola, called Abi by her husband and friends, was preparing dinner. Abiola and Ammon had earned college degrees, Ammon’s in finance and economics from the University of Benin, Abiola’s Master’s Degree in social work from the highly competitive University of Ibadan.

  After a kiss and hug, Ammon went up to the bedroom to change into jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “Ready for a game?” he asked his daughters when he came downstairs. Although it was cold outside, their backyard was dry, perfect for an impromptu game of soccer to work up their appetites. After a half hour of kicking a ball back and forth they were called inside for dinner. Ammon helped Abi clear the table and clean the kitchen, and then sat with his daughters to help them with their homework. When bedtime was announced the girls uttered their usual protests, but their pleas were disregarded and both parents got them ready for bed, tucked them in, joined them in prayers, and returned downstairs, where they settled in matching leather recliners to pick up where they’d left off in books they’d been reading.

  At a few minutes past nine Ammon’s cell phone rang.

  “Mr. Dimka?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Robert Brixton. I believe that a mutual friend, Will Sayers, mentioned me to you.”

  “Yes, he did, Mr. Brixton.”

  “Will told me that you’d be willing to speak with me—strictly off the record—about how money scams originating in Nigeria are conducted, and to what extent an organization like Bright Horizons might be involved.”

  Ammon glanced over at Abi, whose expression mirrored the displeasure she’d voiced when he’d told her about
his conversation with Sayers.

  “Mr. Sayers said that you are a private investigator, Mr. Brixton.”

  “That’s right. I work with a leading attorney in Washington, Mackensie Smith. He has a client whose father was caught up in one of these schemes, and took his own life as a result after having sent hundreds of thousands of dollars to Nigeria, some of it through Bright Horizons.”

  Ammon checked his wife again before saying, “I suppose it will be all right for us to get together, but you do understand that I’m in a delicate position.”

  “I certainly do understand, Mr. Dimka, and I can only hope that you believe me when I say that whatever you tell me will be strictly off the record to help me and Mr. Smith get a handle on how these things work. There’s no reason for your name to ever be raised.”

  “When would you like to meet?”

  “Would tonight work for you? I’ll be happy to come to your house. I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but—”

  “When can you be here?”

  “In an hour?”

  “That will be fine. You have directions?”

  Brixton asked for more detailed directions than Sayers had given him and headed for Virginia.

  “I wish you hadn’t agreed to meet him,” Abiola said. “You don’t know him.”

  “I didn’t know the journalist Mr. Sayers either,” Ammon countered, “but he seems like a trustworthy person. So does this Mr. Brixton.”

  “I just don’t like to see you involved with telling tales out of school, Ammon. They were very upset when you left Bright Horizons after six months and told them that you were disappointed in the way it was being used.”

  “I still feel that way, Abi. I accepted the job and the relocation it involved to the States because I believed what they told me. It was a lie, and innocent people are being bankrupted because of them. Besides, it’s not as though I’m going public and condemning them. I just want the right people to know the truth.”

  They returned to reading for another half hour until Abiola announced that she was going upstairs. He kissed her good night and watched her leave the room.

  He wished that she understood his need to share what he knew about Bright Horizons with those who would benefit from that knowledge.

  At the same time he was respectful of her concerns.

  They’d moved to Virginia from Lagos, Nigeria, in search of better opportunities for themselves and their children, and it had worked out after a rocky start. Upon graduating from college Dimka had accepted a post in Lagos with the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission. He’d soon become disenchanted with the agency, whose stated mission was to ferret out and bring charges against those in government or industry who manipulated the financial system for their own gain. It was an agency in name only, and he launched a series of complaints with high-ranking members of its hierarchy. He was soon branded a troublemaker, and meetings were held to discuss what to do with him. It was decided that to fire him from his position would only fuel his apparent need to expose the agency’s misdoings. One of the top officials, who’d become friendly with Dimka and his family, knew that he harbored a dream of relocating to the United States. That’s when Ammon was offered the job of running Bright Horizons, which he eagerly accepted.

  But after less than a year with that alleged charitable group he saw that it was no better than the EFCC. He resigned and became the chief financial officer for the construction company, drawing upon his degree and experience in economics. It paid well, and Abiola’s position as social media director for a nonprofit also produced a decent paycheck. Things were good, so much so that they were able to buy their home in Virginia and send money to their families in Nigeria, not large sums but enough to help assure that they could live a decent, albeit modest, life.

  But despite her husband’s perpetual positive outlook, fear lurked in the back of Abi’s mind that their newfound success would one day come crashing down around them.

  Brixton found the Dimkas’ tract home in a Virginia subdivision and was greeted at the door by Ammon. After preliminary banter and the shaking of hands Brixton was invited to join Ammon in the home’s small study, whose walls contained multiple photographs of the Dimkas’ extended family in Nigeria. Brixton also saw, to his surprise, a framed color portrait of former U.S. president Franklin Delano Roosevelt. He asked about it.

  “I’ve always been interested in history,” Dimka said, “including the history of the United States. President Roosevelt did remarkable things to create a stronger, fairer nation, the sort of leadership that I wish was at work in Nigeria.”

  “FDR had a lot to overcome,” Brixton said.

  “And so does Nigeria, unfortunately. Please, sit. Coffee? A cold drink?”

  “Got a Coke?”

  “I have Pepsi.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  Ammon disappeared to fetch their sodas, and Brixton took the opportunity to peruse a collection of carved wooden African masks, fetishes, and animal figures proudly displayed on shelves. A photo of Ammon and his wife at their wedding in Nigeria showed the handsome young couple beaming while other family members and wedding guests stood behind and shared in their joy. He was more closely examining one of the wood sculptures when Ammon returned.

  “Salud!” Dimka said, raising his glass.

  Brixton returned the toast.

  “Now,” Dimka said after they’d taken chairs, “what would you like to know about the now infamous financial scams that originate in Nigeria, and the role Bright Horizons plays in it?”

  Brixton had decided while driving to Dimka’s home that he wouldn’t take notes or use a recorder. He didn’t want to give the appearance of amassing information that might be traced back. He started by asking who controls the scams in Nigeria.

  Dimka thought before answering. “There isn’t one person,” he said. “As you may know, Nigeria is a fragmented nation, with various tribes controlling specific areas of the country. The south and southeast are primarily Christian; the northern part is Muslim. That’s where Boko Haram has been slaughtering men, women, and children. They consider the only legitimate form of Islam is one ruled by Sharia law.”

  “They’re like this MEND group that attacks people working for the oil companies in the Niger Delta?” Brixton asked.

  “No, not really. MEND has a just cause. It fights for the thousands of natives who are kept in poverty while the oil companies—as well as too many government officials—reap the financial rewards while raping and polluting the land. Boko Haram’s only cause is to create a society in which Sharia law is not only practiced, it is used as an excuse to brutalize its citizens. ISIS is much the same.”

  Brixton listened carefully as Dimka gave him a capsule explanation of the situation in Nigeria. He waited until the Nigerian paused to finish what was left of his drink to ask, “But what about these financial scams? Is the government involved, or is it a bunch of freelance operators who see a way to make a quick buck?”

  “Freelance operators?” Dimka repeated, smiling. “I suppose you could call them that. A better term is ‘warlord.’”

  “What the hell is a warlord? Sounds to me like a high-ranking military guy.”

  Dimka shook his head. “No,” he said, “a warlord is simply someone—almost always in a nation in chaos—who commands a group of people, usually a militia or a gang of thugs. Bright Horizons ostensibly reports to a Christian-led charity group connected with the government, but the real power behind it is a man, Agu Gwantam.”

  “He’s Nigerian?”

  “Yes. He functions in the south, in the Niger Delta where the oil fields are located. He controls other financial scams besides Bright Horizons and has become rich in the process. He’s headquartered in Port Harcourt.”

  Brixton continued to take in Dimka’s explanation of how the scams work, and the role that Bright Horizons has played in them. “Don’t get me wrong,” Dimka concluded. “Some of the money that Bright Horizons raises actually goes
to its Christian charity in Lagos. But the majority of it is funneled straight into Agu Gwantam’s pockets. I wasn’t aware of that when I accepted the post with Bright Horizons and uprooted my family and moved to Washington. Had I known I never would have accepted the offer. Once I discovered what was going on I voiced my objections to those in the Nigerian government.”

  “I bet they must have loved that,” Brixton said, laughing.

  “They suggested that I find work elsewhere. Fortunately, I’d made friends with a man who runs a construction company here and was looking for someone with my financial background. I have a good job with him, and my wife is happy with her position with a nonprofit agency in the city. She’s not pleased that I’ve told these tales to Mr. Sayers, and now to you, but I suppose it’s a way for me to cleanse my conscience.”

  “I’d say that you’re a gutsy guy, Mr. Dimka.”

  Brixton shifted conversational gears and asked whether Dimka knew anything about the security firm SureSafe, which provided security for the oil companies in the Niger Delta. He also mentioned his friend David Portland.

  Dimka’s expression told Brixton that Dimka did know something, but he didn’t respond.

  “That’s really not my reason for being here,” Brixton said, “but David is a close friend. He’s going back to London to help investigate the murder of the British son of a well-placed executive with Shell-BP. His own son was murdered in the Niger Delta while working there for a different oil company, XCAL.”

  Brixton had the feeling that Dimka was debating whether to say what he was thinking. He finally decided to and said, “You mention SureSafe, the security firm.”

  “Right,” said Brixton. He went on to explain how Portland had come into possession of his son’s prized bracelet that was being worn by a Nigerian who worked for SureSafe in Nigeria. “This Nigerian told my friend that he’d won it in a card game from the head of SureSafe’s operation in the Niger Delta.”

  Dimka shook his head. “I really know little about SureSafe—except that it is involved in providing security for Agu Gwantam, the warlord I mentioned. Bright Horizons is also involved with SureSafe.”