Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger

by Margaret Truman

  Before booking his flight he’d called Freddie Tompkins at M16 to see whether he was free to leave, and to report to him the result of his meeting with Matthew Kelsey in Barrow-in-Furness.

  * * *

  “Kelsey is a mess,” Portland told Tompkins.

  “I’m well aware of that,” said Tompkins.

  “He confirmed that Alain Fournier killed my son. He was there when it happened.”

  Tompkins’s silence said something.

  “You have doubts?” Portland asked.

  “Don’t you? You’ve spent time with the man. He’s unbalanced, along with being a raging alcoholic.”

  “He is both those things,” Portland agreed, “but that doesn’t mean he’d lie about something this serious.”

  “Lie? Probably not. But all that alcohol eats away at the brain. Maybe his memory isn’t what it should be.”

  Portland didn’t buy Tompkins’s reason for not giving credence to what Kelsey had told him about Trevor’s demise but left his thoughts unstated. Instead, he said, “Let’s just say that Kelsey has given me reason to believe that SureSafe was behind the murder of my son.”

  “And you may be right, David. Look, what you do with what Kelsey has told you is your call. But before you leave London have you given any thought to how we might proceed in establishing what happened in Nigeria to the Leicasters’ son, and how we can better protect our citizens from meeting a similar fate? The situation there is deteriorating. British workers are being kidnapped, or worse.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t been thinking about it, Freddie. My heart goes out to the Leicasters. Know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “The answer to your question lies with SureSafe. British oil interests, along with others, hire SureSafe to protect their workers. They’re security experts who are supposed to lay down their lives to protect their clients. Instead, they’re a bunch of thugs headed by a French scum named Fournier. You want to protect your citizens, Freddie? Get rid of Fournier and SureSafe and bring in a legitimate security force.”

  “I appreciate your honest input, David, and I’ll take what you’ve suggested under advisement. But I have one more question. Why would SureSafe, and especially this Frenchman you mention, kill your son and the Leicasters’ son?”

  “I don’t know” was Portland’s answer.

  Matthew Kelsey had claimed that Trevor had joined forces with MEND in its war on foreign oil companies, and had been involved in a raid that led to his death. Portland thought back to having read some of Trevor’s diary entries in which he expressed his anger at the oil companies for raping the Niger Delta and its people. Could what Kelsey had claimed be true, that Trevor had actually joined forces with MEND in an attack on XCAL? While that possibility existed, Portland couldn’t accept it. Yes, his son had been a typical idealistic dreamer of making the world a better and fairer place, a youthful fantasy that Portland understood.

  But would he have gone to the extent of joining with MEND and physically attacking an oil company’s facilities and maybe killing people in the process?

  CHAPTER

  30

  Portland called Elizabeth at home. The machine answered, and while he was disappointed at not reaching her he enjoyed the sound of her voice on the outgoing message.

  A call to her office resulted in her secretary informing him that Ms. Sims was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Tell her that her former husband, David, called.”

  Having struck out connecting with Elizabeth, he called Brixton’s office and had better fortune.

  “David,” Brixton said. “Great hearing from you. Where are you?”

  “In Washington.”

  “You devil, sneaking back without telling me. How are things?”

  “I decided at the last minute to catch a flight. What’s new here?”

  “Not a lot. Was your trip a success?”

  “Yes, I’d say it was, although I’m still trying to figure out why. Free for dinner?”

  “Sure. It’s Flo’s late night at the shop.”

  Brixton was glad that Portland was back in D.C. He’d bonded with the Brit, something that didn’t happen often in his life. That the two men were engaged in roughly the same sort of vocation played a role in cementing their friendship, as did their shared cynicism of the world and its people. Both had lost a child in a dramatic, brutal way. But equally important for Brixton was Portland’s unwillingness to compromise his values and beliefs in the interest of expediency. Taking the easy way out was anathema for both men.

  Mac Smith had been away from the office taking a deposition. He returned at four.

  “Got a few minutes?” Brixton asked.

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “I got hold of Ammon Dimka. He’s agreed to see me tomorrow at noon.”

  “Did you raise with him the possibility of coming forth and telling what he knows about Bright Horizons and its role in Nigerian financial scams?”

  “Yeah, I did. He didn’t promise anything, but he didn’t rule it out either.”

  “That he even agreed to discuss it with you is positive.”

  “That’s the way I read it. I asked if he’d be willing to sit down with you.”

  “And he said?”

  “He said he’d think about it. I’m a little leery about getting him too much involved.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a good guy with a nice family. I’d hate to see anything bad happen to him.”

  “He obviously knows the risk of going public about Bright Horizons.”

  “Sure he does. I just hope it doesn’t backfire on him.”

  Brixton checked in with Flo at Flo’s Fashions before leaving the office to meet Portland at Legal Sea Foods on Seventh Street, N.W.

  “When did David get back?” she asked.

  “Earlier today. How’s things at the shop? Selling lots of dresses?”

  “No. The weather is keeping people from shopping.”

  Brixton laughed. “That’s D.C. for you. A few snowflakes and everybody panics.”

  “Say hello to David for me.”

  “Shall do. See you at home.”

  Portland seemed edgy when he joined Brixton at a table in the bar area, and Brixton mentioned it.

  “I suppose I am a little edgy,” Portland said. “My time in London this trip was informative. It was also unsettling.”

  “How so?”

  He told Brixton of his meeting with Matthew Kelsey, and Kelsey’s claim that he saw Alain Fournier shoot his son.

  “Just like that?” Brixton said. “He shot him?”

  Portland sighed and picked at his crab cocktail. “According to Kelsey,” he said, “Trevor had joined forces with MEND to attack an oil facility.”

  Brixton hesitated before asking, “Is that—well, is that a possibility?”

  “It’s possible.” Portland went on to tell Brixton about Trevor’s diary entries.

  “You think your son was capable of joining the rebels?” Brixton asked.

  Portland shrugged. “Trevor was an idealist like most young people. If he did join up with MEND it was the wrong way to make his point.”

  They fell silent and ate. Brixton’s thoughts were with his daughter Janet, who’d been killed by a terrorist bomb in a D.C. outdoor café. She, like Portland’s son, had navigated her young life on her own terms, although her premature death was not the result of a decision she’d made. She and her father had met for a drink after he’d left work at the State Department. She’d wanted financial support to launch a project with her current boyfriend, an idea that Brixton thought was stupid. But what did that matter? He’d sensed a problem was brewing and walked away. She remained just long enough to be blown up by a young Arab woman at an adjacent table.

  What a world.

  Brixton brought up his appointment with Ammon Dimka the following day and explained the reason for meeting.

  “You think this guy is wil
ling to blow the whistle on Bright Horizons?” Portland asked.

  “Yeah, I think he might,” said Brixton.

  Portland sat back and shook his head.

  “What’s the matter?” Brixton asked.

  “I was just thinking how we both have an interest in Nigeria. For you it’s because some gullible people get suckered into a Nigerian financial scam. For me it’s because my son was killed there.”

  “Maybe there’s a way we can work together,” Brixton said.

  They ordered coffee and a slice of lemon cheesecake: “Two forks, please.”

  Before they left the restaurant Portland asked about Ammon Dimka.

  “He’s a nice guy, family man, couple of daughters.”

  “I’d like to meet him.”

  “I’ll give him a call and see if he minds if I bring you along.”

  Brixton used his cell phone and reached Dimka. “I mentioned my friend David Portland the last time I was with you,” he said, and reiterated why Portland had a vested interest in what was happening in Nigeria. “He’d like to meet you when we get together tomorrow.”

  Dimka’s silence said that he was considering Brixton’s request. Finally, he said, “Yes, please bring him. I’ll make an extra sandwich.”

  CHAPTER

  31

  Dimka took the call in the small room that he used as his study, where he’d been reviewing bids for a prospective client. He was glad that his wife hadn’t been present. As much as he hated being dishonest with her about his plans to meet again with Brixton—and now with his British friend as well—he was only too aware of her concerns, and had decided that it was better to keep her in the dark. He’d come to the conclusion that it was his moral obligation to expose Bright Horizons for what it really was, a conduit for millions of dollars bilked from naïve people around the world. It had also, he knew, functioned as an enforcer for various government interests, a strong-arm extension of warlords such as Agu Gwantam. But while he was aware that exposing these aspects of Bright Horizons carried with it a certain danger, he simultaneously felt that nothing bad could come out of it. He was no longer living in Nigeria, where violence was commonplace. This was the United States of America, a nation in which he’d been allowed to forge a decent life for his wife and daughters. If he could help in some way to right a wrong, it was his duty to do so.

  He turned off the lamp on his desk and quietly went upstairs to join his wife where she’d fallen asleep in a chair while reading a book.

  “Let’s get to bed, sleepyhead,” he said softly, kissing her cheek. “I love you.”

  CHAPTER

  32

  WASHINGTON—VIRGINIA

  Mac Smith had spent a portion of the previous night researching means of bringing a lawsuit against a foreign government and its entities in the United States. It was complex, as one would imagine. Foreign governments enjoy immunity, and trying to bring legal action against them is like trying to slam a revolving door. As least that’s how Mac characterized it to Annabel over breakfast that morning.

  “But an organization like Bright Horizons is fraudulently bilking U.S. citizens of millions of dollars,” Annabel offered, trading her chef’s hat for her legal one.

  “True,” Mac said, “but the question is whether Bright Horizons is an official extension of the Nigerian government, or is run as a private enterprise. Trying to trace the organization’s roots is like—well, it’s like my revolving door analogy.”

  “From what you’ve learned it’s basically run by some warlord in southern Nigeria,” she said.

  “That’s also true,” Mac said, finishing up his scrambled eggs, “but the government in Nigeria uses at least some of the money to fund various charitable projects.” He patted his mouth with his napkin and sat back. “I haven’t finished researching it, but I have the sinking suspicion that Mr. Borilli doesn’t have a chance in hell of recouping any of the money his father sent them. Sad but true.”

  Annabel didn’t say what she was thinking. While she wanted to help her husband forge a case for Borilli, she was, at once, not unhappy that he might choose to drop it.

  “I’m also thinking that by bringing a case, no matter how weak it might be, we can raise public awareness of these Nigerian scams and head off other tragedies like the one the Borilli family has suffered,” Mac said.

  “Use the press?”

  “Right.”

  “I’d think twice before doing that,” she counseled.

  “Or three times,” he said.

  He took his plate and coffee cup into the kitchen, rinsed them, put them in the dishwasher, and offered to do the same for Annabel.

  “I have it,” she said, “but thanks. You’re off for the day?”

  “Duty calls. I have a few things to go over with Robert this morning.”

  “What’s he up to these days?”

  “I’ll find out when we meet.”

  Annabel’s concerns about her husband’s involvement with the Borilli case stayed with her as she left their Watergate apartment and headed to open her pre-Columbian gallery in Georgetown. That Mac would become immersed in what was obviously a losing battle didn’t surprise her. Besides being an astute and savvy attorney, he was a man for whom injustice and human suffering dictated his approach to law, and to life in general. Lately, he’d been consumed with the growing gap between the haves and the have-nots in the country, which he often cited as having been the cause of the collapse of past societies.

  But those thoughts were soon replaced by more pragmatic ones, on this morning preparing for the arrival of a potential buyer of two painted baked clay tripod plates from the Mayan culture, circa 600–675. She’d purchased the plates from a collector in San Salvador and was anxious to find a buyer. She felt that she’d paid too much for them and was anxious to recoup her investment. Knowing what to pay for pre-Columbian items, and setting a price for buyers, was always the most difficult decision she had to make.

  As Annabel pondered how to price the plates, Mac Smith met in his office with Brixton.

  “So you’re going back to meet with Mr. Dimka,” Mac said after his secretary had delivered coffee and a plate of freshly baked lemon cookies.

  “Yeah,” Brixton said. “I was surprised that he agreed. I was up front with him, said that I wanted to discuss his going public with what he knows about Bright Horizons.”

  “And he didn’t balk?”

  “No. I also asked if I could bring you along, but he nixed that idea.”

  “But he said okay for David Portland to accompany you.”

  Brixton nodded. “I think he’s a very confused guy when it comes to revealing what he knows about Nigerian financial scams. He has family back in Nigeria; I saw them in his wedding pictures.”

  “What about his wife?” Smith asked.

  “I’ve never met her, but I get the feeling that she might not be too keen on him talking to me. Can’t blame her. She’s got two little kids and is building a life here in the States. She doesn’t need her husband getting involved in controversy.”

  “Interesting that he agreed for you to bring David with you,” Smith said.

  “I told him about David’s son being killed in Nigeria, and that maybe the same people who killed him might be involved with the financial scams. Whatever the reason, he agreed.”

  Their meeting ended when Smith left for an appointment. Brixton went to his office and went over a list of questions he’d formulated to ask Dimka. An hour later Mrs. Warden announced that Mr. Portland had arrived.

  As they drove to Virginia in Brixton’s Subaru he was aware of the funk that his friend had fallen into. Portland said little while at Brixton’s office and continued his relative silence during the trip. It was obvious to Brixton that his friend’s recent trip to the UK, and his meeting with the man who claimed to have seen Trevor Portland gunned down, was occupying his mind, no surprise. Brixton, too, spent a portion of the drive thinking back to when his daughter had been blown up in the outdoor café b
y a young, misguided Middle Eastern woman, and he wondered as he drove whether that memory would ever fade far enough into the distance to not hurt anymore. Probably not. That sort of pain imbedded itself into your DNA, and you’d better learn to live with it.

  They turned onto Dimka’s street and Brixton pulled up to the curb. The driveway was empty. Brixton had noticed on his previous visit that the Dimkas had two vehicles and that both had been parked in the driveway. Why didn’t they use the attached two-car garage? he wondered. Maybe, like many garages, it was chockablock full of things other than what it was designed to hold—cars. He assumed that Dimka’s wife had taken one of the cars to work this morning. Did the absence of the second car mean that Dimka wasn’t home, perhaps had forgotten the meeting?

  “Tell me more about this Dimka character,” Portland said, breaking into Brixton’s train of thought. “You trust him?”

  His question surprised Brixton. “Trust him? What’s not to trust?”

  “I don’t know,” Portland said. “I’m gun-shy when it comes to Nigerians. Maybe what happened to Trevor has turned me against anyone from that place.”

  “I can understand that, David, but Dimka is a really nice guy. He’s evidently willing to use what he knows from firsthand experience to help put a stop to these Nigerian scams. I admire him.”

  “Then let’s go,” Portland said, undoing his seat belt and opening the passenger door. Brixton turned off the ignition and followed. They stood in the empty driveway and took in their surroundings. Portland commented on how every house on the block had a neatly manicured lawn and nicely trimmed shrubs. He peered around the side of the house and saw that the yard, with an elaborate yellow-and-red jungle-gym structure, abutted a small wooded area.

  “Nice neighborhood,” Portland commented.

  “The American dream, huh?” Brixton said. “I hope he’s home.” He approached the front door and had just reached to ring the doorbell when a loud explosion came from the rear of the house.