Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger

by Margaret Truman

  “You bet they did. Those MEND bastards shot me up good. Had to be evacuated back to the UK and spent too many bloody weeks in hospital.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Portland said. “What if I come to your home and we can spend a few hours swapping war tales about working for SureSafe? You tell me what to bring and I’ll be there with it.”

  Portland waited for Kelsey to shoot down that suggestion. Instead, he said, “It might be okay. Where are you?”

  “London.”

  “Be a hell of a trip.”

  “Not so bad, four, maybe five hours. How about tomorrow? I have your address.”

  “Where did you get that?” Kelsey rasped.

  “A friend. Tomorrow. If I leave early a.m. I can be there in time for lunch. Sandwiches? Beer? Something stronger?”

  “You bring me some good whiskey and fat sandwiches.”

  “Count on it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Portland reserved a rental car for six the following morning. Having connected with Kelsey and the promise that the crippled SureSafe veteran might be able to provide knowledge about Trevor’s murder energized him. He knew that he should get to bed in anticipation of the early start, but he was too wired. He glanced at the day’s newspaper and saw that the Jamaican jazz pianist Monty Alexander was appearing with a trio at Ronny Scott’s club, an iconic London jazz venue. Brixton was a fan of the pianist and had played some of his CDs for Portland.

  He hailed a taxi—one of the things he missed about London while living in Washington was the cabs, spacious and immaculate and driven by courteous drivers who’d spent years learning London’s streets in order to qualify for a license. Once settled at a table at Ronny Scott’s he nursed a glass of wine during one set, thinking of Brixton and how much he looked forward to telling his Yank friend that he’d caught the pianist in person. Brixton would be envious.

  After a few hours’ sleep and a fast shower, he was at the car rental agency and drove off in a sporty new red Renault Captur with a stick shift, which he always enjoyed driving. He’d packed a few items in a small bag in case he decided to stay overnight in Barrow-in-Furness, although he intended to drive back to London after the meeting. His early start avoided the worst of London’s traffic and Portland was soon speeding on the highway heading north to the Lake District.

  He stopped an hour outside of Barrow-in-Furness to top off his gas, stretch his legs, and enjoy a cup of coffee and a cinnamon Danish. An hour later he entered a section of the city not far from the sprawling waterfront. He popped into a food shop and ordered sandwiches, which he added to a bag containing a bottle of Scotch whiskey he’d picked up on his way home from Ronny Scott’s. He drove slowly and took in his surroundings, the GPS’s female voice directing him to Kelsey’s address. As he neared Kelsey’s street he became aware of people eyeing him and his fancy red car. A trio of young men slouched against a boarded-up building, dragging on cigarettes and assuming tough-guy postures. Portland was sorry he hadn’t rented something less flashy; the Renault was an inviting target in such a neighborhood. He drove past Kelsey’s four-story building and went around the block in search of a parking garage. There wasn’t one. Resigned to parking on the street, he found a space not far from the street corner lobos, locked the car, and walked the short distance to Kelsey’s address. The door was encircled with crude graffiti; the smell of urine from the foyer was noticeable even without opening it. Portland glanced back at the street toughs before stepping into the foyer and looking at crudely scribbled names next to flat numbers. Kelsey was on the first floor, Number 2. Portland tripped on the hallway’s broken tiles as he went to the door and knocked. He heard noise from inside, as though someone had tipped something over. When the door wasn’t opened he knocked again. A chain was disengaged. The door opened. Kelsey, in a wheelchair, rolled backwards to allow it to fully open.

  “Matthew?” Portland said.

  Kelsey glared at him through bloodshot eyes. He needed a shave; his whiskers grew haphazardly, mostly white, flecked with stray black ones. He was a heavy man dressed in a blue-and-yellow flannel shirt, stained chino pants, and sandals.

  “David Portland. I called and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Come in.”

  Portland entered the small room. It was piled with old newspapers, cardboard boxes, and heaps of clothing. The smells of burned grease and alcohol were strong. He noticed a bottle containing an inch of whiskey, as well as four stained water glasses lined up on a small table next to the room’s only stuffed chair. The blue haze of stale cigarette smoke hung over everything.

  “Welcome to paradise,” Kelsey said. “It’s not as posh as my digs in Nigeria, but it’ll have to do.”

  Portland held out the bag containing the food and booze. “I bought these,” he said.

  “Good. Put ’em in the kitchen.” He pointed to a door at the rear of the room.

  Portland went to the kitchen and was appalled at its squalor. He opened a rusted fridge, which contained leftovers that had seen better days, and put the sandwiches in. He returned to where Kelsey sat in his wheelchair in front of the small TV set on which a rugby match was being telecast.

  “I appreciate you taking the time to see me,” Portland said, looking for a place to sit.

  Kelsey sensed his confusion. “Throw the junk off that chair,” he growled.

  Portland removed newspapers from it and placed them on the floor. He handed the bottle of scotch to Kelsey, who eagerly opened it and poured some in one of the used glasses. “Grab a glass,” he told Portland.

  Portland eyed the stained glasses. “No thanks,” he said.

  “Suit yourself,” Kelsey said, taking a long swig and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “So Trevor Portland was your kid, huh?” he said.

  “That’s right. You knew him?”

  “Knew him? Nah. Not like we were friends or anything. But I knew about him, was there when he got it.”

  Portland stiffened. He hadn’t expected that Kelsey would be so quick to indicate what he knew about Trevor’s death.

  “You say that you were there when Trevor—when he ‘got it,’” Portland said, wanting to keep the conversation on track.

  “You ever been to Nigeria, to the Niger Delta?” Kelsey asked.

  “No. You were saying that—”

  Kelsey poured more scotch into his glass. “Sure you don’t want some?”

  Portland shook his head.

  “What sorta sandwiches did you bring?” Kelsey asked.

  “An assortment,” Portland replied, frustrated at Kelsey’s penchant for changing the subject. “You were saying that you were there—”

  “In the delta. I sure as hell was, three bloody years in that hellhole.” He cocked his head and said, “You say you worked for SureSafe.”

  “That’s right, a few times, but never in Nigeria.”

  “I signed on for two years but stayed an extra one. That was my mistake, it was, a big mistake. If I’d cut outta there after two years I wouldn’t be sitting in this goddamn wheelchair on the dole from the bloody welfare agencies. You know what it’s like to have your legs shot out from under you, Portland?”

  “No.”

  “You never forget it when it happens, I’ll tell you that. One minute you’re walking around and the next you’re laying in a bloody heap, your legs not moving because the bullets cut right through your spine. Happened just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that, Portland.”

  “I don’t envy you,” said Portland.

  Kelsey lit a cigarette and directed a stream of smoke into the air. “My doc says I should quit smoking ’cause it’ll kill me.” His laugh was a snort. “Hope it does. Might as well be dead sitting in this damn chair.” He leaned forward. “But I can still take any man with my arms. Come here. Put your elbow on the table.”

  “All right,” Portland said, surprised that Kelsey wanted to arm wrestle. They clasped hands. Portland immediately realized that he could defeat Kelsey but al
lowed the disgruntled former security operative to win.

  “See?” Kelsey said.

  “I’m impressed,” Portland said.

  Kelsey dragged on his cigarette and exhaled, saying as he poured more scotch, “They knew not to mess with Matt Kelsey when I was in the delta.”

  “They?”

  “MEND, that’s who I’m talking about,” he snapped, obviously annoyed that Portland had to ask. “Course, you could never tell who was with MEND and who was working for them. That’s the way they operate, rake in money and hire local yobbos, gangs, to do the dirty work. Can’t say that I blame MEND. Let me tell you something, Portland; the oil companies are the bad actors in what’s going on there in the delta, polluting the streams and swamps so that any man in his right mind won’t even dip a finger in them. The oil companies get rich. So do the government whores who get paid off by the oil companies to look the other way.” He suddenly brightened. “I got me a few before they got me.”

  “Got who?”

  “Some of those MEND bastards or the ones working for them. Not long before they shot me full a’ holes they tried to sneak up on a post I was manning near a swamp, came in a speedboat—they’ve got dozens of those boats—but I saw them and was faster than they were. Nailed two of them before the rest took off like scared rabbits. Got a commendation for that, I did. Only commendation I ever got from SureSafe.”

  Portland grew impatient. “I’m sure that you deserved those commendations,” he said, “but I’ve driven here from London to learn what you know about how my son, Trevor, died. You said that you were there when it happened.”

  Another cigarette, more scotch, his face scrunched in thought.

  “I was told that he was killed by members of MEND, or others acting on MEND’s behalf. Is that what happened?”

  Kelsey sat in silence for what seemed an eternity. Finally, he ran a large hand over his scraggly beard, closed his eyes, opened them, and said, “Your son was like every young lad looking to make the world better. Hah! As if they could do that. Hah! Silly dreamers, that’s what they are. You don’t change the world. All you can do is watch out for yourself, get the bastards before they get you.”

  Portland quietly debated whether to share with Kelsey his having found the bracelet that Trevor had worn, and that had been obtained by the security guard in a card game with Alain Fournier. Instead, he said, “I really need to know how Trevor died, Mr. Kelsey.”

  “‘Mr. Kelsey’! Do I look like somebody who likes formality? Can your ‘Mr. Kelsey.’ It’s ‘Matt.’ Got it? ‘Matt.’”

  “Okay, Matt, how did my son die? Was it MEND that killed him?”

  Kelsey slumped back in his wheelchair and vigorously rubbed his face with both hands. He said through his splayed fingers, “Froggie killed him.”

  “Froggie?”

  “Fournier. The frog. The Frenchman.”

  “Fournier killed my son?”

  Kelsey lowered his hands and held Portland in a hard stare.

  “You saw him do it?”

  “I sure as hell did.”

  Portland was at a loss for words.

  “What are you, shocked?” Kelsey said with disdain. “You know Froggie. Scum of the earth. Rotten to the core. That’s what he is.”

  “What happened?” Portland asked angrily. “Everything, tell me everything.”

  “Have a drink,” Kelsey said.

  Portland grabbed a dirty glass, poured two fingers’ worth of scotch, but didn’t drink. “How did it happen?” he demanded again.

  “Happened at night,” Kelsey said, shifting to a more comfortable position in his wheelchair. “Your kid—”

  “Trevor,” Portland said, annoyed that Trevor was referred to as his “kid.”

  “Yeah, right, Trevor. You know that he was involved, right?”

  “Involved in what?”

  “The war. MEND’s war against the oil companies.”

  Portland moved to the edge of his chair. “Trevor wasn’t involved with that,” he said.

  “The hell he wasn’t. I was there, mate, saw it go down. I was on post one night, worst shift to catch. Post Seventeen it’s called, right in the middle of the swamp. Hot as Hades and the bugs’ll eat you alive.” He lit a cigarette; the smoke drifted in Portland’s direction.

  “You mind putting out that stinking cigarette?”

  “Bother you, does it?” He took another drag but sent the smoke to the ceiling.

  “You were saying you were on post the night Trevor was killed?”

  “The night he was captured.”

  “Wait a minute,” Portland said, unable to keep pique from his voice. “Trevor was captured? Who captured him?”

  “The boys who work for SureSafe, like me, like you. Hired guns.”

  “Who was he with when he was captured?”

  “Some of the MEND boys. They slithered in that night intending to blow up one of our pipelines at Seventeen.” He took a ragged map of XCAL’s facility from the table next to his chair and tossed it at Portland. “See that red mark? That’s where it happened. Post Seventeen. Hell of a gun battle took place, Portland, hell of a gun battle. That’s when I got cut down, took three slugs in my belly and groin, damn near cut my spine in half.”

  Kelsey went into a coughing spasm and Portland used the distraction to pocket the map. “What about Trevor?” he asked after Kelsey’s coughing fit had subsided.

  “They took him in, delivered him to the floating barracks a hundred feet or so from where the battle happened.”

  “SureSafe took him in?”

  “Dragged me there, too, all bloody and screaming in pain. Took us both there along with a couple of MEND savages.”

  Portland reached into the pocket of his safari jacket and withdrew a color photo of Trevor, and the bracelet the boy’s grandmother had left him. He held them out for Kelsey to see.

  “Is that the young man you saw captured by SureSafe?” Portland asked.

  Kelsey nodded.

  “You ever see this bracelet before?”

  Kelsey became more animated. “That’s what the kid was wearing when they grabbed him. I remember it, wondered why he was wearing some fancy woman’s bracelet. I figured maybe he was—”

  Portland was glad that Kelsey didn’t finish his thought. He replaced the picture and bracelet in his pocket and looked absently around the room, swimming in confusion, waylaid by what he’d just heard.

  “What say we have some of those sandwiches you brought?” Kelsey said.

  Portland returned to the here and now.

  “How did Trevor, my son, die?”

  Kelsey shrugged. “They roughed him up some. Maybe ‘tortured’ is more like it.”

  Portland shuddered.

  “Who killed him?” Portland yelled.

  “Froggie.”

  “Fournier?”

  “Yup.”

  “He what, shot him?”

  “Yup.”

  “Just like that? He decided to shoot Trevor?”

  “He got a call on his mobile. After he took the call he shot him. Not the first time Froggie got rid of people he thought was against him and the oil companies.”

  “Who gave the order?”

  “Beats me. I never heard who he talked to. He took the call, muttered something, clicked off, turned, and shot the kid in the head.”

  Portland had to fight against a welling up of bile, and tears.

  “What did they do with his body?”

  “Dumped it along with the MEND savages they killed, out in the swamp. They don’t do proper burials in the Niger Delta, no sir, they do not. How about those sandwiches? All this talk works up an appetite.”

  Portland was furious with the callous way Kelsey had recounted what had happened to Trevor. At the same time he was grateful for the information the former SureSafe security guard had given him.

  Now he knew. Trevor hadn’t been murdered by MEND, no matter what he’d been told during the phone call from SureSafe’s CEO. It had
all been a lie.

  He looked at Kelsey, who’d poured more scotch into his glass. Portland’s glass remained untouched. He steadied himself before saying, “I appreciate everything you’ve told me.”

  “Not sure I should have,” Kelsey said, now tipsy. “Those bastards at SureSafe and XCAL wouldn’t take lightly me shooting my big mouth off like this. They’re not a pretty bunch.”

  “No one will know what you’ve told me, Matt,” Portland said, “at least not from me.”

  He went to the kitchen, found a reasonably clean plate, unwrapped two sandwiches and put them on the plate, and brought them to Kelsey, who was focused on the TV screen.

  “I’d better be going,” Portland said.

  “Stay awhile, Portland. I don’t get many people to talk to these days.”

  “No, I have to get back to London.”

  Portland shook Kelsey’s hand and started for the door.

  “You wouldn’t have a couple of quid you could spare, would you?” Kelsey asked.

  “Sure,” Portland said, handing Kelsey some pound notes. “You take care, Matt. Thanks again.”

  He left the building. As he approached his rental car two of the yobbos were sitting on its hood.

  “Get your asses off that car before I shoot them off,” Portland said.

  They looked at each other deciding whether to take him seriously. His tone of voice, and his hand stuck into his belt at the rear of his safari jacket, convinced them. They muttered four-letter words as they slid off the hood. Portland got in, started the engine, and knew that if he did have a handgun he might have been tempted to use it.

  He roared away and headed for the highway leading back to London. A year earlier he would have checked into a cheap hotel, bought a bottle of gin at an off-license shop, and drunk himself into a boozy oblivion.

  But this was a year later. All he wanted to do was get back to London and to his flat, away from Barrow-in-Furness, and decide what to do next.

  CHAPTER

  24

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Mackensie Smith was an inveterate tennis player. Not that he had any illusions about his performance level. He’d aged, although was still in decent shape for a fifty-plus-year-old man whose job was mostly sedentary; brief workouts on the treadmill and lifting light weights in his Watergate apartment mitigated that. He was also the proud owner of a bad knee; bone-on-bone the orthopedist said after the most recent X-ray. “You ought to consider a replacement,” the doctor counseled.