“But good, yes?” the commander said.
Brixton ignored the banter over the drink and pressed his concern about why they were there. “What are you going to do to help my friend face the guy who killed his son?”
The commander thought for a moment before saying, “Mr. Fournier is not an easy man to confront. He controls a powerful security force that protects him at all times. I know of what I speak. Not that we are friends. I detest the man and everything he stands for. He and his security forces have killed many of our people, gunned them down, threw their bodies away in the swamp like fetid meat, all in the interest of the oil companies that pay their bloated salaries and further line their pockets with bribes, dirty money stolen from our people. Yes, sir, I know the Frenchman Alain Fournier, well enough to want to see him dead.”
When Brixton and the others didn’t respond, the commander added, “You see, sir, Fournier murdered my son, too.”
CHAPTER
56
PORT HARCOURT, NIGERIA
Portland, Brixton, and Chambers spent an additional hour with the commander of the militia unit, who seemed to enjoy having them as an audience and took advantage of their presence, railing against the oil companies and the destruction they’d inflicted on Nigeria. He was especially incensed about the culture of graft and greed that permeated the nation, particularly in the Niger Delta where the abundant oil made the companies and their backers rich while impoverishing his people. He frequently downed shots of paraga, which fueled his rhetoric. His three guests pretended to join him in consuming the potent beverage but left most of what was in their glasses untouched. Brixton was hungry. He’d tasted the food on the tray but decided to forgo it. It was like biting into a tennis ball.
They were interested, of course, in the commander’s tale of how his son had been murdered by Alain Fournier. While he wasn’t certain that it had been Fournier who’d pulled the trigger, he was adamant that the Frenchman had been present when it happened and whoever wielded the weapon did so upon Fournier’s orders.
“My son had been part of a unit that attacked one of the oil companies’ refining operations,” the commander said. “He had taken part in many such raids.”
“MEND raids,” Portland said.
“We are not MEND,” the commander explained. “We are one of many independent groups that act on behalf of MEND when it is necessary to take action.”
Hired guns, Brixton thought. Don’t take these guys lightly no matter how scruffy they are.
“It’s been a long day,” Portland said to the commander during a lull in his diatribe. “Where’s Ms. Gomba? Time for us to leave.”
The commander dispatched his aide to round up Jeffy, who appeared from inside the building.
“We’re ready to go,” Portland told her.
“Whenever you say,” she said. She’d applied makeup that enhanced her natural beauty. Brixton noticed her ample bosom, which pressed against the tux jacket she wore, but quickly averted his eyes, not wanting to offend her by staring. He was glad that they’d finally be heading for some hotel where he could take a shower and get something to eat. Mosquitoes had become increasingly aggressive and plentiful and he’d been bitten a half-dozen times—Did they carry some sort of rare African terminal disease? he wondered.
It occurred to him that the meeting with the so-called commander hadn’t enlightened anyone on how his militia would be helpful to Portland’s need to confront Fournier. That was on Portland’s mind, too, and the Brit asked directly, stressing that his only motive was to challenge the Frenchman and his role in Trevor’s murder.
The commander said in response, “Alain Fournier is a formidable man, sir. The SureSafe security forces he leads are ruthless, criminals without a conscience who think nothing of murdering our people who dare to challenge the oil cartels. Fournier is never without armed guards. They are with him day and night.” He paused, and the hint of a smile crossed his chiseled face. “Except, of course, when he is with one of the many ashawos he enjoys.” His guests’ blank expressions prompted him to add, “Prostitutes. Whores.”
“So you’re saying that you’ll help me confront Fournier?” Portland said.
“I have already discussed it with Jeffy,” said the commander. “She will talk more specifically with you about it.” He stood. “Thank you for visiting us. You are, of course, not to discuss anything about this meeting, including its location.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Portland said, offering his hand.
The three men and Jeffy were escorted back to the boat. They said nothing to one another as they sat hunched over during the trip back to the jetty where she had parked the car. The three Nigerians manning the boat were effusive in their farewell to Jeffy, who was obviously well known and respected.
“Where to now?” Brixton asked once they’d settled in the car.
“To your hotel,” Jeffy said.
A half hour later, after turning onto the Port Harcourt–Aba Expressway, they pulled up to a white building surrounded by a high white wall. An armed guard stood sentry duty at a gate leading into the complex.
“This is it?” Chambers asked.
“You will be comfortable here,” Gomba said, “and quite safe.”
“I need a bathroom,” Chambers said.
“Yes, of course,” Jeffy said.
She got out, opened the liftgate, and they retrieved their luggage. She reached into the cargo area’s recesses and emerged with a large package wrapped in brown paper, which she handed to Portland.
“What’s this?” Portland asked.
“Things you will need,” Jeffy said. “I will return at ten tomorrow morning to brief you.”
“Brief us?” Brixton asked. “Brief us about what?”
“How we will dispose of Mr. Fournier.”
“Hold on a second,” Portland said. “Who said anything about disposing of him? I just want to—”
She held up her hand. “Please, sir, I know what you are saying. We can discuss it further tomorrow. Have a good rest. I will see you at ten.”
They watched her get back into her Mercedes and drive away.
“What do you figure is in it?” Brixton said, referring to the package.
“Let’s check in and we’ll find out,” Portland said, leading the way to the gate where, after explaining that they were guests, they were allowed to enter the lobby. Registering was quick and easy, and they soon found themselves in their assigned rooms, small by U.S. standards but not unpleasant. This time Portland ensured that each would have his own room in deference to what he knew Brixton was thinking.
They later met in the hotel’s small bar next to a swimming pool. They were the only patrons. After ordering drinks, Portland held up the package.
“Open it,” Brixton said.
In it were three compact Pamas-BU9 Nano handguns, magazines holding eight rounds of 9mm ammunition, and ankle holsters.
“Boy, it’s small,” Brixton commented as he examined one of the weapons.
“Put it away,” Chambers said. “We don’t need people seeing it.”
“Guns make you nervous?” Brixton asked.
“Put it away,” Portland told Brixton, sensing another conflict brewing with Chambers.
“I’d think that a cop would—”
“Put it away, Robert,” Portland repeated, steel in his voice.
Brixton rewrapped the three handguns and placed the package on an empty chair next to him.
They sipped their drinks without saying much until Chambers broke the silence.
“I know that this isn’t my business,” he said, “but I get the feeling that we’re going beyond why David wanted to come here in the first place. That commander makes it sound like we’re about to become part of his group’s assault on the Frenchman and his people. If that’s the case, count me out. I didn’t come here to end up in a war.”
“Why did you come?” Brixton asked.
“Because—because I believe i
n what David is trying to do here and…”
“And what?” Portland asked.
“And—and because I came to realize that the people I work for aren’t interested in the truth about what happened to your son. They’re trying to cover up the truth by tapping phones and sending me to spy on you. Look, deciding to give up my job wasn’t easy. It was a good job, paid well, came with lots of perks. But when Walter Cale told me to have Elizabeth Sims’s phones tapped, too, that went over the line as far as I was concerned. I know that the killing of your son affected her deeply, too. After all, she was his stepmom and raised him by herself for the most part.” Portland stiffened and Chambers sensed it. He said to him, “You decided to come to Nigeria to face the man who took your son’s life. I guess it was important to me to be able to tell her that I was a part of it.”
“Tell Elizabeth?” Portland said.
“Yes.”
“You sound like you’re in love with David’s ex,” Brixton said, glancing at Portland, whose expression was blank.
Chambers ignored the comment and continued. “Look,” he said, “I know that neither of you particularly likes me, especially you, Robert, and I understand why. I wish it were different. I just want to see a wrong righted, that’s all. I haven’t had many opportunities in my life to do that.”
Brixton and Portland took in Chambers and saw that he was on the verge of tearing up.
“Let’s see what the restaurant is serving and get some sleep,” Brixton said. “Tomorrow’s shaping up to be busy and I’m beat.”
They went to their rooms following dinner, and Chambers was relieved to be away from them. He feared that he’d offended Portland by his comments about Elizabeth, and Brixton’s animosity toward him was becoming wearing. He sat by the window and reflected on what his life had become.
His decision to accompany them to Nigeria might have been a boneheaded one, but now that he was here he’d rise to the occasion and help Portland achieve his goal.
His final thought as he turned off the light was that Elizabeth would be proud of him.
CHAPTER
57
PORT HARCOURT, NIGERIA
After dropping her wards at the hotel, Jeffrey Gomba, aka Ms. Jeffy Gomba, drove to her house on the outskirts of Port Harcourt, where she whipped up a late supper. She had the house to herself. Her sisters were seldom there; their busy social lives occupied their time away from the various office jobs they held, as well as having to keep their husbands happy.
Jeffy had shared the house with her aging father until his death. It was one of the better homes in the modest neighborhood, purchased and maintained with money that Jeffy earned from her variety of ventures, supplemented by what her sisters and father could contribute. He was a poorly educated but intelligent man, who had worked hard at myriad jobs to provide a better life for his family, his efforts appreciated by his now-deceased wife and their daughters. He’d been brought up in poverty. The first house in which they’d lived lacked indoor plumbing; the better ones featured outhouses, others open ditches. Their current home had all the amenities, including a flush toilet.
The Gomba family’s patriarch had succumbed to a terminal lung condition. He’d made his living on the streets of Port Harcourt after having dropped out of the Catholic school he’d attended until the eighth grade. Although uneducated, he was naturally bright and ambitious and always seemed to find a way to generate income, even when some of those ways involved illegality. Some said it was his charm that carried him. Others pointed to occasional contacts he’d managed to nourish in high places. But the reasons for his modest success weren’t important. Jeffrey Gomba knew his way around the system, and his street smarts had rubbed off on his daughter Jeffy.
Unlike her sisters, Jeffy had followed a rebellious path since her teen years. No one debated that she was the most beautiful of the Gomba sisters; it had been suggested more than once that she pursue a career as a model or actress, and she had entered a teenage beauty contest when she was sixteen. After coming in second she announced to her family that she felt humiliated at parading in front of drooling male judges and would never debase herself that way again.
She’d turned down a scholarship to college and proceeded to forge a life with various anti-government groups, which turned out to be surprisingly profitable. Her activities were of concern, of course, to her father, but at the same time he admired her dedication to righting wrongs in the Niger Delta and being paid for those efforts. In a sense he lived vicariously through her, enjoying her tales of clashes with government or oil company security forces, and wishing that he were a young man again. At the same time he feared for her life and hoped that her activities wouldn’t result in her premature demise.
* * *
After cleaning up she settled at a table in a small room and went over notes she’d been making since agreeing to sign on with the project involving the Brit David Portland. She’d enjoyed meeting his friends Robert Brixton and Cameron Chambers but had found herself especially drawn to Portland, whose rugged good looks appealed. She’d never spoken directly with him until their meeting at the airport; initial planning had come through his friend at the British Embassy. That phone call had been fortuitous, and Jeffy immediately recognized what it could mean not only to her but also to certain friends, especially the militia commander with whom she’d forged a close relationship.
Portland’s embassy friend had made it plain during that initial phone conversation that his pal’s sole interest in coming to Nigeria was to confront Alain Fournier about the death of his son. He needed a pathway to gain access to the Frenchman and had asked if Jeffy could help bring that about.
“Yes, I think so,” she had replied, “but it will not be easy. Fournier is well aware of how much he is hated, and is never without armed men to protect him.”
“I understand,” said Portland’s friend, “but our mutual friend at the embassy in Washington assured me that if anyone could come up with a plan, it was you.”
Jeffy Gomba feigned embarrassment at the compliment but quietly concurred. She prided herself on being a problem solver of the first order—provided the price was right.
They ended the call with Jeffy agreeing to meet Portland’s flight in Port Harcourt and act as his guide, put him in touch with the right people, and see to it that he and his friends had everything they would need.
“Your friends will need handguns,” he said, “unless they will have brought weapons with then.”
“Carrying them on their flights will be too difficult,” Jeffy said, “so, yes, they will need handguns. I assume that Mr. Portland’s colleagues will want them, too.” She gave Portland’s friend the price for three handguns and added it to the fee she was charging.
Later that night two of Jeffy’s sisters stopped in and toasted Jeffy’s new lucrative assignment.
“You’d never before met this Brit Portland?” Jeffy was asked.
“No, nor the two men he is traveling with.”
“He certainly is generous,” a sister commented after being told the fee Jeffy was charging.
“He gave me half when we met at the airport,” Jeffy said, “and the other half will be mine after I have put him in touch with the Frenchman.”
“You trust he will pay the second half of the money?”
Jeffy grinned. “Of course he will. The commander’s people will make sure that he does. More scotch? It is very tasty.”
After refilling their glasses, Jeffy said, “It is a fair price he is paying, but there is more to it.”
“Oh?”
“My friend the commander has wanted to rid the country of the Frenchman for a long time, ever since his own son was killed by Fournier’s people. I have no doubt that he will happily join this Portland fellow in accomplishing that goal.”
“Portland wants to kill Fournier? You said he wanted only to talk to him about what happened to his son.”
“Talk to him?” Jeffy said mockingly. “Everyone I know wants to
see Alain Fournier dead and buried. The commander has been planning an attack on him since his son was shot but has not found the right moment. Now, with this British fellow leading the way, the time might have arrived.”
“You will not be involved in any killing, Jeffy?”
“Of course not. I will only work with the Brit and the commander to help them achieve their goal. That is what I do, yes? I help others do what they need to do.”
She smiled and grasped her sister’s hand, who said, “And you are so good at doing that, Jeffy. You are so good.”
CHAPTER
58
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Walter Cale received a call from Rufus Norris in the UK.
“What have you learned?” he asked SureSafe’s British head.
“A great deal. Portland has gone to Nigeria.”
“Chambers?” Cale said. “What about Chambers?”
“Are you ready for this?” Norris asked.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that Chambers has also gone to Nigeria. He’s traveled there with Portland and with that American private detective Brixton.”
“Chambers went to Nigeria with them?” Cale said, his voice mirroring his disbelief.
“That’s right,” said Norris. “You’ll also be interested to learn that Matthew Kelsey, the former SureSafe operative who was shot up in the delta, has been murdered, stabbed to death.”
“Chambers?”
“What about him?”
“Did he make contact with Kelsey before he was killed?”
“I have no idea,” replied Norris. He was tempted to express his fanciful thought that Chambers might have killed Kelsey but thought better of it.
“Does Manford Penny know this?” Cale asked.
“Yes. I called him just before I called you.”
Cale’s silence allowed him time to process what he’d been told.
Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger Page 27
