“I think about it all the time. Christ, you’d think that my benefiting from the siphoning of some of their damn oil was like holding up a bank. How much do I benefit from it? Chump change, that’s how much. It’s not worth it. And now I have to deal with the auditors.”
“It’ll be just like the other probes,” said Jessup. “They’ll arrive, make a show of their so-called investigation, and hightail it back home. What’s new with Sir Manford Penny?” He spoke his name with exaggerated awe.
“He’s a real weak sister, Bill.”
Jessup finished his drink. That his boss, Soderman, had benefited from Agu Gwantam’s largesse in spreading around the money that oil bunkering produced was no secret. He knew it because not only had Soderman taken him into his confidence; he’d also begun to cut him in on the spoils.
Jessup had taken the job in the Niger Delta with XCAL after having spent a half-dozen years as a buyer of auto parts for a major British automobile manufacturer. As with Soderman, a romantic relationship gone bad had propelled his decision to leave the UK and to experience the adventure of living in a country whose culture was vastly different from his. He hadn’t been on the new job long before the opportunities to enhance his already generous salary became evident. In Nigeria few business transactions were conducted without bribes being included in the bottom line, and he became adroit at eliciting them.
“This will all blow over,” Jessup said, hoping it would raise his boss’s spirits.
“Will it?”
“You need a night out on the town,” Jessup said.
“I need a lot of nights away from here.”
“How about tomorrow?” Jessup suggested. “We can go down to the beach, suck up a few cocktails, and maybe hook up with a pretty ashawo,” he said, using the Nigerian slang for “prostitute.”
“Yeah, maybe. Let’s see how tomorrow goes. Another drink?”
“Thanks, no, Max. Time to get to bed. See you in the morning.”
Jessup left Soderman but didn’t go home. Instead, he drove to the posh neighborhood in which Agu Gwantam, the Nigerian warlord, lived. Gwantam welcomed him warmly and led him to a secluded patio where a servant served cordials. Their meeting resulted from Jessup having called Gwantam a few days earlier to inform him that London’s Serious Fraud Office of the Attorney General’s Office was in the process of dispatching auditors to the Niger. Gwantam had thanked Jessup profusely and invited him to the house for a drink after the poker game.
Jessup didn’t like Gwantam—he didn’t like any of the black Nigerians with whom he interacted—but he recognized the warlord’s power to distribute his share of the profits from oil bunkering and bowed to that power, especially since he benefited from it.
“And how was your card game?” Gwantam asked the young executive. “I hope you left it a richer man.”
Jessup laughed. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “I’m not a very good poker player.”
“Perhaps you should take up a game at which you excel,” said Gwantam, smiling.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Jessup said.
“I appreciate very much, Mr. Jessup, your confiding in me things in which I am naturally interested.”
Jessup found Gwantam’s studied correct English annoying.
“And I appreciate your generosity, Mr. Gwantam.”
The big Nigerian shrugged. “It is just a matter of rewarding those who do favors for others. Knowing what Mr. Soderman is thinking and feeling is important to me. I’m sure you understand that.”
Jessup nodded.
“And I must admit that I have grown tired of Soderman’s complaints about the size of his share from the oil bunkering. To be truthful, his lack of gratitude for the money I have provided him distresses me.”
“Of course,” said Jessup. “He should be grateful.”
“So,” Gwantam said, “what came out of your regular poker evening?”
Jessup dutifully recounted what had been said about things that might interest Gwantam, ignoring, of course, the racist comments that had passed around the table along with the cards.
They spoke for another half hour before Jessup took his leave and returned to his home in Ikoyi, considerably smaller and less opulent than Soderman’s but perfectly suitable for a single young man. On his way out of Gwantam’s house the Nigerian warlord handed him an envelope filled with Nigerian naira notes. “Remember, Mr. Jessup, that Agu Gwantam is always ready to reward his friends,” Gwantam said, his smile wide and bright enough to light the path to Jessup’s car.
CHAPTER
53
LAGOS, NIGERIA
They’d agreed to meet for breakfast at eight.
Brixton, who’d had trouble sleeping, arrived at the hotel restaurant at seven and perused the buffet in search of simple dishes that didn’t involve Nigerian culinary creativity. He’d heard about that nation’s fondness for hot, spicy ingredients and wasn’t eager to start the day with heartburn. He’d wondered at dinner whether the Nigerian penchant for spicy foods would extend to pizza. It hadn’t. His sausage slices tasted the same as they did back in D.C.
After a glass of orange juice, a buttered bagel, and coffee, he strolled outside and scoped out a patio at the side of the hotel, away from the main entrance where a succession of cars came and went, and street hawkers had begun to gather. Portland and Chambers found him.
“Sleep well?” Portland asked cheerily.
“So-so,” Brixton said.
“Looks like a nice buffet in there,” said Chambers. “I think I’ll make a pass at it. I’ll catch up with you later. I have an errand to run after breakfast.”
“What errand?” Brixton asked Portland after Chambers had left.
“He wants to buy some new clothes before we head for the delta. He’s hardly dressed for an expedition into the bush.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” said Brixton.
“There’s a men’s clothing store a few blocks from here. I’m sure he’ll find something to wear there.” He laughed. “Maybe he’ll come back dressed like the great white hunter. Let’s go inside. I need something to eat.”
As they came around to the front of the hotel, street vendors and beggars harassed them before they could reach the entrance, selling everything from watches (“Genuine Rolexes”) to a small white puppy cradled in the arms of an old, toothless woman. Some hawked crude hand-carved figurines, others fruit from burlap bags. A few simply begged, their cupped hands shoved in front of passersby. Portland waved them off and navigated the throng, Brixton close behind. But Brixton stopped when confronted by a young girl he judged to be no older than twelve or thirteen. She had a board around her neck on which crude letters said: Deaf-Dumb. She looked at him with large, brown eyes and gestured toward her mouth with her fingers, which he took to mean that she was hungry. He fished in his pocket, pulled out some Nigerian naira notes, and handed them to her. Portland watched the exchange with interest. When the girl had bowed repeatedly to Brixton and left to find another person willing to respond to her plight, Portland said, “I didn’t know you were an easy touch, Robert.”
“I felt sorry for her,” Brixton said defensively.
“I thought you might buy the puppy,” Portland said.
“I would if I knew what to do with it.”
When they were settled in the restaurant and Portland wolfed down the dishes he’d chosen from the buffet, he said between forkfuls, “You still have a thing about Chambers, don’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Brixton replied, peeling a banana. “He’s here. You wanted him here. End of story.”
“Mind a suggestion?” Portland asked.
Brixton cocked his head.
“I don’t know what the next couple of days will bring,” Portland said, “but it could get uncomfortable. Carrying your dislike for our friend on your sleeve won’t help matters.”
“‘Our friend’?’He’s your friend, David, not mine. Sorry, but I’ll never understand why you took him up on coming with us
.”
“It doesn’t matter why I did,” Portland said, “but I know one thing. Your animosity toward him had better not get in the way of why I’m in Nigeria.”
Had he continued with his thought he would have said that he was sorry that he had allowed Brixton to accompany him, and was second-guessing having bent to Chambers’s wish that he, too, join them. What was happening to him? Was he turning soft? Had he lost his ability to analyze a situation and take a stand based upon pragmatic conclusions? It didn’t matter. They were here, and he’d better make the best of it.
“I hear you,” said Brixton. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Good.”
Portland checked his watch. “Our flight to Port Harcourt leaves at two. Mr. Gomba will meet us when we arrive. I left a message on his cell phone in response to one of those outgoing messages recorded by a professional announcer. I said that we had a third party traveling with us.”
“Why should it matter?” Brixton asked.
“He should know how many items to bring with him.”
“What items?” Brixton asked. Then, realizing what Portland meant, he said, “Weapons?”
“That and a few other things.”
“What’s the drill when we get to Port Harcourt?” Brixton asked.
“First we meet up with Gomba,” Portland said. “He’ll take us from the airport to a group that he works with.”
“That rebel group MEND?” Brixton asked.
Portland shrugged, said, “Maybe.”
“I don’t understand why MEND would be involved,” Brixton said. “I thought you wanted to confront the Frenchman Fournier about your son’s death.”
“Look,” said Portland, “I don’t know if Gomba is involved with MEND, or how he plans to put me in touch with Fournier. We’re just visitors here. He knows the territory and how to navigate it. That’s good enough for me. Let’s get ready to leave.”
As Portland signed the check, Chambers arrived wearing the clothing he’d purchased, two typical African outfits, a dashiki pants set in shocking blue with ornate white and yellow embroidery, another set in plain white, and what he said was called a buba, a loose-fitting pale green shirt that went halfway down his thighs. He wore his blue ensemble.
“Look at you,” Portland said. “You’ve really gone native.”
“When in Rome,” Chambers said. “Comfort. It’s all about comfort.”
Brixton thought that Chambers looked foolish but kept his thought to himself.
“It does look comfortable,” Portland agreed.
They packed their belongings and went to the lobby, from which they intended to take the hotel’s van to the airport, but were told it wouldn’t be available for an hour. “Let’s grab a cab,” Portland said after having exchanged British pounds for Nigerian naira.
A lineup of taxis of various types waited outside the entrance. They chose a Mitsubishi minivan driven by a young man who looked to be in his teens. There was no meter in the cab, so they haggled over a price until they’d reached an agreement. The driver, who announced that his name was Tom, pushed through the knot of street sellers, reached the road in front of the hotel, and roared away, the vehicle’s wheels digging into the road’s ruts and tossing his passengers against one another in the backseat. They were flanked right and left by okadas, motorbike taxis whose drivers seemed oblivious to other vehicles and the mass of pedestrians crossing the road. Tom lit a cigarillo with one hand while navigating the traffic and pedestrians. A man herding a solitary goat with a stick crossed in front of them and Tom came to a screeching halt, swearing in pidgin English.
They eventually turned onto the road leading to the terminal at Murtala Muhammed International Airport and pulled up in front of the domestic terminal. Tom took the bills that Portland handed him, smiled, pointed to his wristwatch, and said, “Very fast trip, yes? You pay extra for the fast trip.”
“No, nothing extra,” Portland said as he and the others pulled their baggage from the cargo area.
“Everybody’s got his hand out,” Brixton grumbled.
“Don’t give him anything extra,” Portland said as Brixton fumbled in his pocket for money.
They pushed through the legion of people inside the terminal and stood in a long line for the Arik Air flight to Port Harcourt. The line moved slowly, causing Portland to frequently check his watch.
“This is taking forever,” Chambers said. “We’re liable to miss our flight.” He’d received many stares because of what he wore, the tall white man dressed in typical Nigerian native garb. He seemed to enjoy the attention.
They eventually reached the ticket agent, and twenty minutes later were strapped in the seats of an aircraft considerably smaller than the one they’d taken from London. This flight, too, was filled with oil workers from the delta, and Portland hoped that Brixton wouldn’t get into another tussle with one. He didn’t. After waiting a half hour for takeoff clearance they were airborne, and an hour later were on their final approach into the Port Harcourt International Airport, ranked by frequent fliers as one of the world’s dirtiest and most chaotic.
Portland looked out the window and felt his stomach muscles tighten. Until now the idea of confronting Alain Fournier had been just that, an idea, a goal that was with him day and night, waking him from sleep, stabbing him at odd moments. He’d had moments of doubt since leaving Washington and setting out on this revengeful venture but never to the extent that he considered canceling his plans. He wouldn’t let Fournier go unscathed for having murdered his son. He couldn’t, not if he intended to live with himself for whatever days he had left.
For Brixton, their arrival at Port Harcourt spawned an intense feeling of wanting to be home with Flo, in bed with her, enjoying her feminine charms and protective embraces. He glanced at Chambers in the middle seat and wondered what he was thinking.
Their thoughts were interrupted by the flight attendant who announced over the PA, “Welcome to Port Harcourt, ladies and gentlemen. Enjoy your stay.”
CHAPTER
54
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Walter Cale, senior partner of the law firm Cale, Watson and Warnowski, made a series of phone calls. The first was to Rufus Norris, SureSafe’s British chief.
“Have you heard from Cameron Chambers?” Cale asked.
“No, I haven’t,” Norris replied. “He was supposed to stay in touch but hasn’t.”
“The hotel he was staying at says he checked out,” Cale said.
“That’s news to me,” said Norris.
“You were supposed to keep a tight rein on him.”
“I can’t babysit him day and night,” Norris countered. “He’s probably on his way back to the States.”
“He would have called. Go by the hotel and see what you can learn.”
Norris’s sigh reflected his annoyance. “All right,” he agreed.
“And what about this Matthew Kelsey character?”
“What about him?”
“Did Chambers make contact with him?”
“The last time I spoke with Chambers he was in the process of doing that.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Did he? Make contact with Kelsey?”
“I assume that he did.”
“Assume?”
“I’ll check out Kelsey and see if Chambers spoke with him.”
“You do know that Portland intended to go to Nigeria,” Cale said.
“Yes, I heard that.”
“Can you ascertain whether he has?”
“I suppose I can try and check airline records, but that won’t be easy.”
“And while you’re at it check out David Portland’s apartment in London. Chambers was supposed to do that. Maybe there’s something there that will indicate where he’s gone. Get back to me!”
Norris took a minute or two to get over his pique at the way Cale had spoken to him. He called the phone number he had for Kelsey in Barrow-in-Furness. It didn’t
ring. He then called a friend in the City of London Police force.
“What’s up, Rufus?” his bobby friend said.
“I need a favor,” Norris said. “Can you check with the police in Barrow-in-Furness to see if there’s been any report concerning a man who lives there, Matthew Kelsey?” He provided the address.
Fifteen minutes later his call was returned.
“Your Matthew Kelsey is no longer with us,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“He was murdered. He’s the subject of a homicide investigation.”
“Who—are there any suspects?”
“Not at the moment. He was knifed to death. Probably some addict looking for a few quid. He was a down-and-outer, a cripple in a wheelchair. Nasty business, these murders. An addict will do anything for his fix. What else can I do for you, Rufus?”
“Nothing at the moment,” Norris said. “Thanks. I owe you one.”
The officer laughed. “Got me less than a year till retirement, Rufus. I’ll be looking for a job once I turn in the uniform.”
“Call me when that time comes,” Norris said. “I might be able to find you a spot here at SureSafe.”
“Much obliged, Rufus. Much obliged.”
Norris was not eager to try to persuade the various airlines serving Nigeria from the UK to reveal their passenger manifests. As far as he was concerned, Walter Cale’s obsession with David Portland and Cameron Chambers was just that, an obsession. His time spent with Chambers, which was minimal, caused him to dismiss the law firm’s investigator as ineffectual, a lapdog for his employer. Still, XCAL was an important client of the law firm, which meant that it was also an important source of income for SureSafe. He’d go through the motions.
But as he pulled up contact information for the airlines he wondered whether Chambers had, in fact, made personal contact with Matthew Kelsey. It was a devious thought. Was it possible that Chambers had killed Matthew Kelsey? Couldn’t be. It was too far-fetched.
But contemplating it gave him his first smile of the day.
Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger Page 25
