Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger

by Margaret Truman

  “Let’s call it a night,” Portland said as the owner placed the bill in front of them.

  “I’ll get it,” Brixton said, grabbing it before Portland had a chance. “You got the cab fare from the airport.”

  “We’ll have to pick up some Nigerian naira at the airport,” Portland said.

  “Local Nigerian currency?”

  Portland nodded. “This character Gomba prefers British or U.S. money,” Portland said, “but there’ll be others to pay, like the passport inspectors when we arrive in Lagos.”

  “They’re that corrupt?” Brixton asked. “Everybody’s on the take?”

  “Hey,” Portland said as he scooped up his last bit of his plum crumble, “I only know what I’m told. Remember, I’ve never been in Nigeria.”

  “And you think we can get into the country without the proper visas?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  Once outside, Portland drew in a deep breath of the chilly air. “Enjoy this weather,” he told Brixton. “It’ll be hot in Nigeria.”

  They walked to Portland’s street, where they paused to allow cars to pass before crossing.

  “It’s clear,” Brixton said, stepping from the curb, mindful that he was in the UK, where traffic approached from a direction opposite from in the States. He was aware that Portland wasn’t crossing with him, stopped, and turned. “What’s the matter?” he asked, retracing his steps to the curb.

  “The window,” Portland said absently.

  Brixton looked up at the apartment building. “What window?”

  “The one facing the street. The blinds are drawn.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “They were open when we left.”

  “They were? You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Looks like the overhead lights are on, too. It’s bright behind the blinds.”

  Brixton grunted.

  “Come on,” Portland said, checking traffic before quickly crossing the street, with Brixton at his heels. Portland paused at the front door.

  “You think somebody’s up there?” Brixton asked.

  “Maybe, maybe not, but somebody’s sure as hell has been there since we left.”

  Portland unlocked the door and he and Brixton stepped into the foyer, silently pausing to better hear. The only sound was the barking dog.

  “That dog barks all night,” Portland said, slowly starting up the stairs, one by one, with Brixton close behind. They reached the second-floor landing and Portland pressed his ear against the door.

  “Hear anything?” Brixton asked in a whisper.

  Portland shook his head, put his finger to his lips, and pressed his ear closer. He heard someone move inside, as though whoever it was had stumbled and uttered a muffled curse. Portland pulled the key to his flat from his pocket and said to Brixton in a muted voice, “Somebody’s in there.”

  “They might be armed,” Brixton said.

  “Let’s hope not.”

  With that Portland slid the key into the lock, paused, turned it, flung open the door, and barged into the room. Chambers, who’d been struggling with the broken desk chair, pulled back in shock at the unexpected intrusion and flailed his arms to regain his balance. Portland was the first to reach him. He grabbed an arm and twisted it behind Chambers’s back while Brixton did the same with the other arm.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Brixton snapped, recognizing Chambers.

  “What?” Portland said, looking to Brixton.

  “I know this guy,” Brixton said. “Cameron Chambers. He heads up the investigation unit for the law firm your ex works for.”

  “Take it easy,” Chambers said weakly. “You’re breaking my arm.”

  Portland echoed Brixton’s question as to why Chambers was in the flat.

  “Let go of me and I’ll tell you,” Chambers said.

  “You armed?” Portland asked.

  “No.”

  They released their grips and allowed him to stand, giving Portland a chance to pat him down. “He’s clean,” he told Brixton.

  “How did you get in?” Brixton asked as Chambers manipulated his arms and shoulders.

  “I used a—what difference does it make?” Chambers asked.

  “What I want to know is why you’re here,” Portland said.

  When Chambers didn’t respond, Portland asked, “Who sent you?”

  “I—look, I apologize for having broken in, but I wasn’t looking to steal anything, nothing like that.”

  “Then why?” Portland said, bringing his face closer to Chambers’s. “The law firm you work for send you?” Brixton added.

  “Can we sit down and discuss this?” Chambers asked.

  “Sure,” said Portland, “but your explanation had better be bloody damn good.”

  CHAPTER

  49

  Portland launched a heated interrogation.

  “I could call the police and have you arrested,” Portland said. “You realize that.”

  “I know that,” Chambers said quietly.

  “You broke in here and went through my personal things, including papers my son left me. What were you looking for?”

  “I was looking for—does it really matter?”

  “It matters to me,” Portland said.

  “Who sent you?” Brixton chimed in.

  “My—my former employer,” Chambers replied.

  “Former employer?” Brixton said. “You don’t work for that law firm anymore?”

  “I did work for them when I came here. I don’t now. What I mean is I intend to resign when I get back to Washington.”

  “You mean you’ll resign after you deliver to your employer what they’re looking for,” Portland said.

  Chambers didn’t answer.

  “What were you looking for?” Portland pressed.

  “They—the senior partner, Walter Cale, wants to know what proof you have that Trevor Portland, your son, wasn’t killed by a Nigerian rebel group.”

  “Why is that important to him?” Portland asked.

  “He’s protecting his client XCAL and the security firm that works for them in Nigeria, SureSafe. He knows that you’ve been going around claiming that the Frenchman who heads up SureSafe murdered your son on orders from someone at XCAL. He wants to disprove that.”

  “And did you find anything that disproves it?” Portland asked.

  “No. I mean, your son obviously had sympathy for the rebel groups that are fighting the oil companies, but I didn’t see anything that indicates he joined them on a raid.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether he did or not,” Portland snapped, “but even if he did he was captured and executed. You want proof? Talk to a guy named Matthew Kelsey. He lives in a town a few hours from here and was there when my son was shot by the Frenchman, Alain Fournier, on orders from someone who, by the way, I’m convinced worked for XCAL.”

  “I never got a chance to speak with Mr. Kelsey,” Chambers said.

  “You intended to see him?” Brixton asked.

  Chambers said, “I was told to get together with him but never did. He was dead when I got there.”

  Portland and Brixton looked at each other before Portland said, “That’s news to me, Chambers. You say he’s dead?”

  “Murdered, stabbed to death.”

  “Who killed him?” Brixton asked.

  “How would I know?” Chambers replied with more energy than he’d exhibited earlier. “He was dead when I got there. A young punk was leaving just as I arrived, so I suppose it was him. Frankly, I don’t care who did it.”

  “A robbery?” Brixton asked.

  “I assume so,” Chambers said.

  “You called the police?” Brixton asked.

  “No. I didn’t want to get involved.”

  Brixton wanted to criticize him for not having reported the murder but decided to not bother. He hadn’t liked Chambers from the first time they’d met, and the past half hour hadn’t changed his opinion. He sized him up as a weak,
ineffectual man lacking a moral and ethical compass.

  Chambers turned to Portland. “I’m sorry about what happened to your son,” he said.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Portland said.

  “I know how much his murder affected Elizabeth.”

  The mention of Elizabeth Sims brought Portland up short. “What about Elizabeth?” he said.

  “I was just thinking about her,” Chambers answered. “She’s a lovely woman—and a good lawyer, too.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Portland.

  “I think it’s terrible that—”

  “What’s terrible?” Portland asked.

  “That the firm—well, look, Walter Cale—he’s the senior partner at Cale, Watson and Warnowski—he arranged to have her phones tapped.”

  “Elizabeth? Her phones are tapped?”

  Chambers nodded. Two thoughts had entered his mind. The first was that since he intended to resign anyway, there was nothing to be lost by revealing the phone taps ordered by Cale and installed by Marvin Baxter.

  But along with that decision, it also occurred to him that since Portland’s and Brixton’s phones were also tapped, Cale must have known that they would be in London at the same time that he, Chambers, was breaking into Portland’s apartment. Why hadn’t Cale or anyone else warned him? The more he pondered it the greater his disillusionment and anger with the law firm.

  “Your phones are tapped, too,” he said flatly.

  Brixton said, “Cale ordered taps on our phones?”

  Another nod from Chambers.

  “Did you arrange for the taps?” Portland asked.

  “I was the liaison with the man who did the taps, a former cop named Baxter.”

  “And you knew about the taps on Elizabeth’s phones and didn’t do anything about it, never told her?” Portland asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Chambers. “I’ve spent lots of sleepless nights over it.”

  Portland fought the urge to scoff at Chambers. Instead, he said, “So, you’ve broken into my flat, read everything that my son left me, and are salving your conscience by admitting these things to me. Why? Do you think that by telling me you’ll make me let you walk out of here like nothing has happened?”

  Chambers stared at the floor while gathering his thoughts. Finally, he said, “Look, Mr. Portland, and you, Brixton, you can do with me whatever you like. I never wanted to come to London, didn’t want to contact Mr. Kelsey, and certainly wasn’t keen on breaking in here and violating your personal space. But that’s irrelevant. It’s been done. It’s over with. There’s nothing to gain by holding me here, or turning me over to the local police. But that’s out of my hands. It’s your decision what happens next.”

  They’d been talking for two hours and everyone was tired. Brixton knew that the next move was up to Portland. It didn’t matter to Brixton what Portland decided to do. Chambers’s candor about phone taps, and having walked away from the scene of Kelsey’s murder without notifying the authorities, hadn’t mitigated Brixton’s negative view of the former Washington MPD cop. But he was surprised at what Chambers said next.

  “Is there anything I can do to help you get to the bottom of your son’s death?”

  Neither Portland nor Brixton had a ready answer, but Portland said, “Robert and I are leaving tomorrow morning for Nigeria.”

  “To find out more about how he died?”

  As far as Portland was concerned, he already knew all he needed to know about Trevor’s murder. But he answered, “Yes.”

  “Does Elizabeth know that you’re going?” Chambers asked.

  “Yeah, she does,” Portland said.

  “I’m sure she wants to get to the bottom of it as much as you do,” Chambers said.

  “I assume so,” said Portland.

  “And you’re going, too?” Chambers asked Brixton.

  “That’s right.”

  “What if I joined you?” Chambers said.

  The questioning expressions on Portland’s and Brixton’s faces mirrored their confusion.

  Portland asked, “Why the hell would you want to come to Nigeria with us?”

  Chambers made a show of gathering his thoughts before answering. “Maybe I want to make amends for coming here and breaking into your apartment,” he said. “Maybe I need to prove that Cale and the law firm are not only wrong about the way your son died; they’re lying to cover up the truth. Maybe—well, maybe I’d like to do it for Elizabeth.”

  Portland cocked his head. “You sound like you have a thing for my ex-wife,” he said.

  “A thing? Let’s just say that I admire her greatly.”

  When neither Portland nor Brixton responded, Chambers said, “Well? Can I come with you?”

  “Sure,” Portland said. “Why not?”

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER

  50

  “Are the three of you traveling together?” the Arik Air ticket agent asked Portland at London’s Heathrow Airport.

  “Yes, we are. Mr. Chambers is a last-minute addition to our group.”

  She glanced at Chambers, who had just scored the last coach seat on the Arik flight to Lagos.

  “You each have one bag to check?”

  “Just Mr. Chambers,” Portland said. “Mr. Brixton and I each have a carry-on.”

  The agent pulled Chambers’s checked bag from the scale and deposited it on the moving belt behind her. She flashed a wide smile and said, “Welcome to Arik Air. Have a good flight.”

  Chambers subscribed to a service called Priority Pass, which allowed him access to a wide variety of airport lounges. He and his two traveling companions found one not far from where they’d checked in, and after signing the guest book they settled by a large window overlooking one of Heathrow’s active runways.

  “What does it cost you to join a club like this?” Brixton asked after returning from a coffee bar with a steaming cup.

  “Not much,” muttered Chambers, his attention focused on planes landing and taking off.

  There had been little conversation between the men since awakening that morning. After showering and dressing they’d taken a taxi to the airport, stopping on the way at Chambers’s hotel for him to retrieve his belongings. It was obvious that the decision Chambers had made the previous night after a long discussion with Portland and Brixton weighed heavily on him, and the other two men wondered whether he’d change his mind at the last second.

  CHAPTER

  51

  The boarding of the Arik Airbus A330 at Heathrow, destination Lagos, Nigeria, was chaotic. The Nigerian airline’s gate agents did their best to maintain order, but a large contingent of XCAL oil workers in Nigeria’s Niger Delta, who’d spent their vacation days in Europe blowing their salaries on wine, women, and song, especially wine, were already in their cups and had become boisterous.

  Brixton and Portland sat together in a section of the waiting area far removed from the noisy oil workers. Chambers had chosen a chair away from his new traveling companions, which suited Brixton.

  “I don’t like him coming with us,” he said to Portland.

  “Why?” Portland asked.

  “Why? Because I don’t trust him. He’s like a supervisor I had when I was a cop in Savannah, all talk, no action. He’s a quarter inch deep.”

  “He’s all right,” Portland said. “Besides, it can’t hurt to have an extra body with us. The more the merrier, I say.”

  Brixton grunted and turned away, his glum expression mirroring his mood.

  Portland’s embrace of Chambers accompanying them disappointed Brixton. He considered his British friend a pragmatic, no-nonsense kind of guy, which was part of his appeal. He wasn’t a man who did things on a whim, and accepting Chambers’s suggestion that he accompany them to Nigeria smacked of that, an inexplicable whim. It didn’t make sense to Brixton. After all, Chambers worked for those who were determined to undermine Portland’s claim about how his son had actually died, and here was Portland inviting him to join forces.
Brixton didn’t like it any more than he understood it.

  But while he was critical of Portland’s decision to invite Chambers, he had to admit to himself that his own decision to accompany Portland to Nigeria had also been rash and impetuous, certainly not well thought out. He’d joined hands with Portland as a commitment to their friendship and to feed into his own emotional need to take a stand on behalf of Ammon Dimka’s wife and her murdered husband. On top of that there was the visceral need to do something proactive to honor the death of his own daughter at the hands of people who, he felt, were represented by those in Nigeria who’d murdered Trevor Portland.

  Terrorists! It didn’t matter where they lived or who they killed; they were all the same.

  He was deep into his retrospection when Portland said, “Lighten up, Robert.”

  When Brixton didn’t respond, Portland added, “Not too late to change your mind about coming with me.”

  Brixton started to say something, but Portland cut him off. “Look, Robert, I never did understand why you insisted upon coming with me to Nigeria, but I didn’t argue. Frankly, I welcomed your company. I like you, consider you a good friend. You seemed determined to make the trip and I understand why. But Trevor was my son, and I’m going to Nigeria to make those responsible for his murder come clean, look me in the eye, and admit what they did. I appreciate you joining me, but it’s probably better that you don’t.”

  Brixton looked to where Chambers sat reading a newspaper. “You tell me I can bail out,” he said, “but you’ll travel with the guy who works for the ones who killed Trevor.”

  Brixton hesitated to add what he’d started thinking moments earlier: Was Portland taking Chambers with him with the goal of making him pay, too, for Trevor’s demise? Could Portland be that Machiavellian? That train of thought was interrupted by a gate agent’s announcement that boarding was about to commence.

  “It’s your call,” Portland said, standing and picking up his carry-on. “I’m happy to have you with me, Robert, but I’ll understand if you change your mind.”

  Brixton considered shaking Portland’s hand, wishing him well, and walking away. Instead, he said, “Time for us to board.”