They found their seats in the coach section of the Nigerian Arik Airbus A330, the aisle for Brixton, Portland at the window. Chambers’s assigned aisle seat was four rows away. The man occupying the middle seat between Portland and Brixton was an XCAL oil worker with bloodshot eyes and alcohol on his breath who quickly made it known that he didn’t like being squeezed in between them.
“We have a friend with an aisle seat,” Portland told the man in the middle. “Maybe he’ll swap with you.”
“Sounds good to me,” said the man.
“Leave him where he is,” was Brixton’s comment, referring to Chambers. He wasn’t eager to sit next to him on the long flight.
Portland ignored Brixton, got up, and went to Chambers. Brixton hoped that Chambers would balk at giving up a more comfortable aisle seat for a middle one, but Chambers got up and accompanied Portland to where the man in the middle struggled to his feet and took the seat Chambers had vacated.
Chambers settled in and searched for his seat belt. Brixton ignored him and perused printed material in his seat pocket. His innate fear of flying had begun to fester on the way to the airport and had now intensified to the point where he had started to perspire and his heart beat faster. The cramped, confining coach seat didn’t help, nor did the raucous banter and laughter coming from the many XCAL oil workers surrounding him, some of whom had broken out miniature bottles of booze. Adding to his discomfort was being on a Nigerian plane. Did Nigerians know how to fly and maintain their aircraft as well as American or British airlines did? That question remained there along with imagined scenarios of crashing.
He squeezed his eyes tightly shut as the aircraft taxied into position for takeoff, received clearance, and roared down the runway, smoothly lifting into the air and climbing to its assigned cruising altitude, destination Lagos, Nigeria’s largest city. He ignored Chambers during the early portions of the flight but was aware that Portland and Chambers had engaged in what sounded like a pleasant conversation, which galled him. He tried to occupy his time by going through the airline’s in-flight magazine but found little of interest. Even the crossword puzzle failed to provide distraction. He was never very good at doing them; Flo invariably came to the rescue.
But while he struggled to take his mind off his fear of flying and the easy rapport that Portland and Chambers had forged, he was also acutely aware of what was going on around him. The oil workers had become increasingly raucous, and some were overtly drunk. They’d abandoned their seats and congregated in the aisle; one kept bumping into Brixton’s shoulder with his hip. Brixton tried to ignore him, but after another particularly hard bump he tapped the man on the leg. “Hey, take it easy, okay?” he said.
The man glared at him.
“You keep bumping into me,” Brixton said.
“You got a problem?” the man asked.
“I just don’t like to be hassled,” Brixton said. “Why don’t you sit down and—?”
The man said in a loud voice to his buddies, “Hey, this guy wants us to sit down.”
“I don’t care whether you sit or not,” Brixton said angrily, “but stop hitting me.”
“I got a right to stand here,” the man said. “Who the hell do you think you are tellin’ me to sit down?”
“I didn’t tell you to sit,” Brixton said. “I just said—”
The man laughed and swigged down what was left in a miniature bottle of whiskey. Brixton looked to a flight attendant who was busy placating another male passenger and decided she was too busy to intervene. As the large man in the aisle continued to crowd into Brixton’s space he considered challenging him more forcefully. But a flight attendant asked over the intercom that passengers resume their seats to allow the meal to be served, and the oil workers obeyed.
Portland and his two traveling companions ate in silence, Portland’s attention on a film on the small screen in front of him, Chambers juggling a paperback book for space on his crowded meal tray. Brixton silently stewed. His anger bubbled near the surface, exacerbated by the passenger in front of him who’d reclined his seat into the already cramped quarters.
Chambers turned to him. “Airline food leaves a lot to be desired, doesn’t it?” he said.
“I thought it was pretty good,” Brixton replied, not meaning it. He wasn’t about to agree with Chambers about anything.
“We never had a chance to work together,” Chambers said, “even though you and your agency are on the payroll.”
“That’s okay by me,” Brixton said.
“I just meant that—”
“Look,” Brixton said, checking that Portland was engaged in his onboard film and wore earphones, “I’m not happy that you’re here with us and I’ve made that clear to David. It’s his trip, so he’s the one to make the decision, but as far as I’m concerned it was a mistake.”
“Why do you feel that way?” Chambers asked in his pinched voice. “What have I ever done to you to make you angry? You didn’t express those feelings when you signed the agreement that put money in your agency’s pocket every month without having to do anything to earn it.”
“This has nothing to do with money,” Brixton countered. “It has to do with you working for the same people who killed David’s son, and who thought nothing of breaking into his apartment to find ammunition for those people.”
“I understand why you feel that way,” Chambers said. “I would, too. But people change. I asked to come on this trip because I want to help David achieve peace with his son’s death and I assume that’s your motive, too. I’m sorry that you think so poorly of me, but maybe you’ll have a change of mind when it’s over.”
He turned from Brixton, adjusted his small pillow beneath his head, and closed his eyes.
Brixton wasn’t in the mood to accept anything that Chambers said, nor was he interested in establishing a bond with him. But he put his attitude toward Chambers aside and thought of Flo, wondering how she was doing at the fashion shindig in Los Angeles. He should have offered to go with her instead of signing on with Portland to travel to Nigeria. He’d made many rash decisions in his life but couldn’t shake the feeling that this one might have been the worst of them all.
He eventually fell asleep and awoke when they were about to land in Lagos, a bumpy arrival due to crosswinds. There wasn’t any conversation as the three men—The Three Musketeers, he mused—gathered their belongings and joined the line of other passengers heading for the exit. The international terminal at Murtala Muhammed International Airport was teeming with people, the noise deafening; Brixton’s stomach was already upset by the aircraft’s bumpy landing, and the din made it worse. Portland led them into a line at the head of which uniformed men, military or perhaps law enforcement officers—their uniforms didn’t indicate—checked passports of arriving passengers. As Brixton pulled his from his jacket pocket a pen came with it and rolled away. By the time he’d picked it up the passenger behind him in line, the XCAL worker with whom he’d had a verbal altercation on the plane, had taken his place.
“Excuse me,” Brixton said as he tried to slide in ahead of the man.
“Wait your turn,” the man said.
“I was there, but I dropped something and—these are my friends I’m traveling with and—”
“Shut the hell up,” the big oil worker growled.
“Watch your mouth,” Brixton said as he pressed his attempt to rejoin Portland and Brixton.
The man pushed his bulk against Brixton, forcefully shutting off his attempt to move ahead of him. Brixton placed his hand against the man’s chest and pushed, sending him off-balance. He righted himself and swung at Brixton, who eluded the blow and raised his fist to the man’s face.
“Hey, stop it!” someone behind them shouted.
The man grabbed Brixton by the neck.
Another oil worker wedged himself between them. Portland, too, interceded by coming up behind Brixton and wrapping his arm around his neck. “What the hell are you doing?” Portland said into his
ear. “Cool it. We don’t need trouble.”
Chambers stepped out of line and joined Portland and Brixton. Two uniformed Nigerian security guards suddenly appeared and led the men from the fracas and into a small room with windows overlooking the terminal.
“What is this about?” one asked.
“Just a misunderstanding,” Portland said, smiling. “The other fellow had too much to drink on the plane and—”
Another Nigerian officer entered the room. Judging from the array of insignias on his uniform, he was of higher rank. “What is the problem here?” he asked in a deep voice tinged with a British accent.
“Just a misunderstanding with another passenger,” Portland repeated.
The ranking officer responded by dismissing the other two. Their superior took a seat behind a small, bare desk, looked up at the three men, and smiled. “Your passports, please.”
Portland handed his document to the officer and Brixton and Chambers followed suit. The officer made a show of carefully scrutinizing each one, his only comment an occasional grunt. When he’d finished he laid them on the desk and asked, “What is your purpose for coming to Nigeria?”
Portland had anticipated the question. “We’re looking for work with one of the oil companies in Port Harcourt,” he said.
“I see. You have job interviews scheduled?”
“Not yet,” Portland answered, “but we expect to set up appointments soon.”
“I see,” the officer said, running his fingers over his chin. “You have visas, I presume.”
Brixton was surprised when Chambers entered the conversation. “We left at the last minute, sir,” he said, “and didn’t have time to apply for visas. But we don’t intend to stay in country long, just a few days.”
Chambers, Brixton, and Portland waited for the response.
“It might be possible to allow you to enter Nigeria without the proper visas for a short stay,” he said, “but there is paperwork to be done, a great deal of paperwork.” He sighed deeply to reinforce how difficult it would be. “Of course,” he continued, “there is a cost involved in preparing that paperwork, a cost that you will have to pay. It is the law.”
Brixton started to protest, but Portland shot him a look that would have silenced a chorus. He said to the officer, “We understand perfectly, sir. How much will it cost?”
The officer frowned and mumbled to himself as he did the calculation. Finally, he came up with a figure.
“That’s a lot of money,” Portland said.
“It’s too much,” Chambers chimed in.
Portland ignored Chambers, pulled what Nigerian naira bills he had from his pocket, and handed them to the officer. “That should be enough,” he said.
The officer carefully, slowly counted the money. He scowled.
“I have British pounds, too,” Portland said, extracting some of that currency from his jacket.
The officer counted those bills, too. When he’d finished, he said, “I will allow you to enter the country for a limited time and for the purpose of applying for work with the oil companies.”
“That’s generous of you,” Chambers said.
The officer stood, shook their hands, flashed a wide smile, and left the room.
“What a rip-off,” Brixton muttered.
“Yeah, it is,” agreed Portland, “but we’re here.” To Chambers: “Let’s grab your bag and get the hell out of here before he changes his mind and wants more.”
As they left the room and headed to the baggage claim area they saw the officer hand some of the money to the two officers who’d preceded him, and who laughed heartily as they pocketed the bills.
Portland exchanged more British pounds for Nigerian naira while Chambers retrieved his luggage. They navigated the crowd to the front of the terminal, where a line of taxis waited.
“Where are we going?” Brixton asked.
“A hotel ten minutes from here,” Portland said, “depending on traffic. Gomba recommended it.”
“What about this guy Gomba?” Brixton asked. “You trust him?”
“For now,” Portland said.
Chambers waved for the first cab in line to approach, but Portland said, “No, no taxi. There’s the shuttle van from the hotel.” He waved it down.
A sign on the side of the van read: GrandBee Suites.
“GrandBee Suites?” Brixton said. “Is that a chain like Marriott or Hyatt?”
“Beats me,” Portland said as the van came to a stop and the driver opened the door. “You’re paying guests?” the driver asked.
“That’s right,” Portland replied, leading the way onto the van.
The ten-minute drive took a half hour because of a clot of traffic that crawled slowly along the rutted road leading from the airport to the hotel. Portland tipped the driver, and they entered the brightly lit, attractively decorated lobby. A pleasant young African woman behind the desk welcomed them and asked if they had a reservation.
“Mr. Gomba reserved for us,” Portland said, and gave their names.
“Yes, I see that you do have a reservation but only for Mr. Portland and Mr. Brixton. I don’t see a Mr. Chambers here.”
“I was a last-minute addition,” Chambers explained.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but we have only two available rooms. The hotel is full.”
“Gomba didn’t know you’d be with us,” Portland said.
“But they are executive rooms,” the clerk said, “with a bed and a pullout couch. Two people will be quite comfortable.”
Portland looked to Chambers, who shrugged. “Whatever you say,” he said.
Now Portland looked to Brixton, his question obvious. Would Brixton be willing to bunk in with Chambers?
Brixton picked up on Portland’s intent and said, “You two will get along fine in the same room. Like the lady says, it’s an executive room.”
Portland put aside the question of who would room with whom and said, “That sounds fine. We’ll take both rooms.”
He slapped an American Express card on the counter and they were registered.
“Let’s drop the luggage and get something to drink,” he said, looking past the lobby to the busy bar. “Can you recommend a good restaurant?” he asked the clerk.
She reeled off a half dozen, including a Domino’s Pizza.
“Pizza,” Brixton said.
“That steak place appeals to me,” Chambers said.
“No, I want pizza,” Brixton said, unwilling to subject himself to an unknown Nigerian restaurant. “They can’t screw up pizza.”
CHAPTER
52
PORT HARCOURT, NIGERIA
Pizza wasn’t on the menu at Max Soderman’s house that night.
The XCAL COO hosted his weekly poker game for a few select executives from the oil company, men who shared his jaundiced views of the Niger Delta and particularly its native inhabitants. It was a gathering of like-minded bigots; “The Klan’s got nothing on us,” one quipped.
Soderman had enjoyed a solitary dinner of lobster tails, a salad, and fresh-baked bread before the others arrived, its dishes lovingly prepared by household servants. Now, in his den, he and four others sat around a custom poker table with green felt, and channels for their chips. The stakes were high for a seemingly friendly neighborhood game. Some pots exceeded five hundred dollars.
One of the players was William Jessup, Soderman’s vice president of purchasing. He was the youngest man at the table and had become Soderman’s most trusted lieutenant. The tall, lithe Brit with an affable personality had become Soderman’s eyes and ears within the company, his antenna always up to intercept someone’s disparaging remarks about his boss and his ironfisted running of XCAL. The executive rank and file were well aware of Jessup’s allegiance to Soderman and knew that whatever they said in Jessup’s presence at the water fountain or in the cafeteria would be dutifully reported back to him. It was office politics as usual, practiced in every company and corporation in the world. But the rami
fications of someone spouting negative thoughts about Soderman in front of Jessup were sometimes harsh, resulting in a denial of promotions and raises, and in certain instances termination.
The game was less spirited than most had been, thanks to Soderman’s sour mood. He usually reveled in the hands he was dealt and didn’t attempt to disguise his glee at taking the other players’ money. But he was noticeably glum this night, going through the motions and anxious for the game to end. His mood didn’t improve as one of the executives had a run of good fortune and pocketed much of Soderman’s stake. The game broke up at eleven; the players stayed behind for a while to continue their bashing of Nigeria and its people. “They have to take off their shoes to count to twenty,” one particularly prejudiced man said with a hearty laugh.
Finally, Soderman and Jessup were alone in the den after the other players had departed and staff members had cleared away their food and glasses.
“Sorry you’re in a foul mood,” Jessup commented.
“You’d be, too, if you had these clowns from London descending on you,” Soderman grumbled, pouring another shot of bourbon. “What do you hear about the audit?”
“Not a lot, Max. I saw a communiqué from the high commission in Lagos that the contingent from London is expected any day.”
Soderman guffawed. “That bunch of weak-kneed bureaucrats should stay the hell away from here. They come from their cozy lives in the UK and think they can understand what’s going on in Nigeria. This is a hellhole, Bill, a real hellhole. MEND hit another of our facilities this morning.”
“So I heard. I was told that they overran the SureSafe chaps and killed two of them.”
“So much for security. Penny and I talked about that.”
“Fournier was part of that discussion?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t mind if the Frenchman did his job and kept the facilities safe, but his people are idiots. Not only that, most of them are on the take, too.” He muttered something under his breath. “And while all this goes on Agu Gwantam sits back and keeps collecting his vig. I’ve had it.”
“Are you still talking about packing it in and getting out of here?” Jessup asked, hoping the answer would be negative.
Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger Page 24
