Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger

by Margaret Truman

  “That’s all I have,” Norris said.

  “Do you know why Portland has gone to Nigeria?” he asked.

  “It has to do with the death of his son,” Norris said. “The phone taps confirm this.”

  “You’d better let that French guy in Nigeria with SureSafe know that Portland will be there.”

  “Alain Fournier? I’ve already alerted him, too.”

  Cale muttered, “Chambers! Damn fool!”

  “What?” Norris asked.

  His question was met with the sound of a phone being slammed down.

  Cale called the tech expert Marvin Baxter.

  “Has there been anything of interest on Ms. Sims’s line?”

  “No,” said Baxter.

  “She hasn’t received any calls from her former husband, David Portland?”

  “No. There are lots of other calls. I was going to bring you a list later today.”

  “Don’t bother, but if there are calls from Portland I want to know about it immediately.”

  CHAPTER

  59

  Elizabeth Sims had been putting in her usual long days at the law firm, but she’d found that her ability to concentrate on legal issues had been compromised.

  On this morning a rumor circulated around the law firm that Cameron Chambers, its head of investigations, had traveled to Nigeria with David Portland, Elizabeth’s ex. Could it be? Why would he do that? She knew that David intended to go to Nigeria because he’d told her after their dinner at Aquarelle, but she’d had no idea that Chambers would be with him. The scuttlebutt was that Chambers wouldn’t return to his job. Some said that he’d probably be killed in Nigeria, a few of those doomsday types not masking their pleasure should that happen.

  CHAPTER

  60

  Brixton’s decision to accompany Portland to Nigeria had blindsided Mac and Annabel Smith.

  “Why the hell would he do that?” Smith asked his wife over breakfast.

  “You know Robert, Mac. He shoots from the hip.”

  “Yeah, but Portland has a good motive for going there. Well, at least he has a reason, his son’s murder. What’s Robert doing, riding shotgun for him?”

  “Maybe he saw it as an opportunity to cement their friendship,” Annabel offered. “Besides, he was really impacted by what happened to the Nigerian in Virginia, Mr. Dimka.”

  “Impacted is one thing,” Mac countered, “but—”

  “Don’t forget how Robert’s daughter died,” Annabel said. “He’s been looking for a way to avenge her death ever since the day it happened.”

  “The terrorist who blew up his daughter wasn’t Nigerian.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Annabel. “He’s been seething with anger since that day. The people who killed David Portland’s son represent to him the same sort of people who blew up his daughter. I wish he hadn’t gone, and I hope he comes back in one piece, but I do understand.”

  “Do you think Flo understands it?” Mac asked.

  “I hope so,” Annabel said. “I hope so.”

  CHAPTER

  61

  LONDON

  Rufus Norris’s call to Sir Manford Penny, chairman of XCAL UK, had upset the UK chairman and he pondered how to react before calling Max Soderman, XCAL’s COO in Port Harcourt, Nigeria.

  “Max, it’s Manford.”

  “Calling from jolly old England.”

  “David Portland is in Nigeria.”

  “Who? Oh, right, Portland. What’s he doing here?”

  “I don’t know. He’s traveling with an American private detective named Brixton and a Cameron Chambers.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Penny explained.

  “So, what do you expect me to do?” Soderman asked, his voice gravelly from having had little sleep after a night of carousing.

  “I just thought that you should be aware.”

  “Thanks. Does SureSafe know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything else, Manford? I’m due at a meeting.”

  Penny was sorry that he’d bothered to call. Soderman had worn thin on him, and his recent visit to Port Harcourt had been anything but pleasant and productive.

  “No,” he said, and hung up.

  CHAPTER

  62

  PORT HARCOURT, NIGERIA

  Alain Fournier was also bleary-eyed from having had too little sleep the previous night. On this morning he was forced to sit through what seemed an endless meeting with executives of XCAL to discuss the recent escalation of raids on their facilities by members of MEND or its surrogate militia groups.

  The meeting was chaired by Max Soderman, who’d had a brief talk with Fournier before the meeting started.

  “You heard from Penny in the UK that David Portland is here in Nigeria?” Soderman said.

  “Yes. Do you know what he plans to do?”

  “No, I don’t, but I suggest that you keep your guard up.”

  Fournier’s laugh was dismissive. “I am not worried about someone like Portland,” he said.

  “It has to do with his son.”

  Fournier shrugged. “That is old news, Max. I forgot about it long ago.”

  “Suit yourself, Alain. Let’s start the meeting. I want to get it over with.”

  Soderman’s foul mood extended into the conference room. He berated Fournier for not having stopped recent assaults by MEND on XCAL’s facilities, and chastised members of his staff for what he considered a gross dereliction of their duties. The gathering droned on, and Fournier had all he could do to not leave in a huff. Soderman’s comments infuriated him; murderous thoughts came and went. Eventually the meeting was concluded and its participants departed. Fournier buttonholed Soderman in the hallway.

  “I resent what you said in there about me,” the Frenchman said.

  “I’m under a lot of pressure to stop the losses the rebels are inflicting.”

  “It is impossible to stop every raid,” Fournier said. “The rebels come from all directions, in their speedboats, on land, impossible to predict. The black bastards are well armed and seem to know everything about us. They have their people working at the company who tell them where and when to attack.”

  “Then identify these people and root them out,” Soderman said. “That’s what you and your people are paid for.” He walked away, leaving an irate Fournier stewing in his anger.

  CHAPTER

  63

  Agu Gwantam had a meeting that morning with Blyds Okafor, the area commander of Nigeria’s Economic and Financial Crimes Commission. The subject was the arrival of a contingent from London’s Serious Fraud Office of the Attorney General’s Office.

  “They flew into Lagos last night,” Okafor told Gwantam over breakfast on the warlord’s patio. “One of the inspectors called me at my home.”

  “How many are there?” Gwantam asked between bites of toast slathered with marmalade.

  “A half dozen at least. They want to meet with me in the morning.”

  Gwantam took another piece of toast from the basket and buttered it as he said, “This does not concern me, Blyds. You say that they are here to investigate whether executives at XCAL benefit from the oil bunkering. I am not employed by the oil company.”

  “But you are involved in the oil bunkering, Agu. Their investigation will certainly trace payments paid to XCAL executives by you and your people. There is Soderman and Penny in London … and all the others.”

  Gwantam tossed the toast on the table and stood. “Enough of this,” he growled. “These high-and-mighty bureaucrats from England come here and investigate how things are done in Nigeria? How dare they? They know nothing except their comfortable lives in London. This is Nigeria! I spit on them and their arrogance.”

  Gwantam’s outburst took Okafor by surprise. He picked up his teacup and raised it to his lips, but his hand shook and some dribbled on his gold tie. He put the cup back down and asked, “What do you suggest I do about them, Agu?”

  Gwantam composed hi
mself and smiled. “I trust that you will do whatever is necessary to keep them away from me and my businesses. Finish your breakfast and join me in the house.”

  Thirty minutes later Okafor left Agu Gwantam’s house with an envelope containing five hundred dollars’ worth of Nigerian naira, and a pat on the back. “Do what you must, Blyds,” Gwantam said as he showed him to the door. “Send the Brits back to London with their self-righteous tails between their legs.”

  CHAPTER

  64

  Jeffy Gomba arrived precisely at ten to pick up Portland, Brixton, and Chambers. She’d substituted a black SUV for the silver Mercedes she’d driven the previous day. She’d also changed from her black suit and white tuxedo shirt to a bright yellow African dashiki.

  “What do you have, an auto dealership, too?” Brixton asked as they exited the hotel and approached the car.

  “I have friends,” Gomba replied. “Some of my best friends have nice automobiles, yes?”

  “Evidently,” said Brixton. “Where did you get the handguns? Your friends sell firearms, too?”

  She grinned. “The guns are nice, yes? Very small, easy to carry.”

  Portland pulled up his pant leg to display the ankle holster he’d strapped on. “Impressive,” he said.

  Chambers handed her an 8 × 10 envelope. “I put my weapon in here,” he said. “You can leave it in the car.”

  Brixton and Portland glanced at each other but said nothing as Jeffy slid the envelope containing the weapon into the glove compartment. “Ready?” she asked her passengers.

  “Let’s go,” said Portland, “but where are we going?”

  “To find your French friend.”

  As they drove, Jeffy launched into a travelogue, pointing out sites they passed and giving a capsulated history of Port Harcourt. Whether she felt it was necessary to do this as their paid guide or because she was naturally proud of her city, her running commentary began to rub Brixton the wrong way and he tuned it out.

  He was moved by the abject poverty that lived side by side with overt examples of wealth. As they drove through neighborhoods it occurred to him that the concept of architectural planning was absent from Nigeria. Some blocks had hastily constructed buildings that seemed to lean on each other; some faced other structures with only a narrow slit of land between them. The streets were filled with sidewalk vendors hawking their wares, some of whom approached the car and banged on the windows when Jeffy was forced to stop. Brixton occasionally looked over at Chambers, who was visibly uncomfortable with the chaos surrounding them. At one point three young toughs stood in front of the car and demanded money for it to proceed. Jeffy waved them off. When they didn’t move, she leaned heavily on the horn and allowed the SUV to creep forward until it bumped the young men, who grumpily moved out of the way, extending their middle fingers. Jeffy laughed it off and said, “Doing business. Everybody is doing business in Nigeria.”

  “We’d call it a crime back in the States,” Brixton grumbled.

  “But this is Nigeria,” she said.

  “Everybody’s got their hand out,” Brixton said.

  “Because everyone must eat and feed their families,” was her reply.

  The conversation ended when Gomba turned onto a narrow road that left the more populated areas and led into the swamps and rivers that defined the Niger Delta.

  Portland asked where the road would take them.

  “To where the Frenchman has his headquarters,” she said.

  “Why are we going there?” Chambers asked Portland. “You don’t intend to simply walk in and ask for an appointment, do you?”

  Portland didn’t answer, but his mind was racing. The truth was that while he had a clear vision of why he’d decided to travel to Nigeria, he hadn’t formulated a plan about what he’d do once he got there and confronted Alain Fournier.

  Jeffy answered Chambers. “I want you to see where he works, where his headquarters are. What is the word? We reconnoiter, yes? I show you everywhere the Frenchman and his people are and where they go. You must know these things.”

  She came to a stop on the fringes of a grove of baobab and obeche trees six hundred feet from a two-story concrete building perched on the edge of one of the delta’s myriad swamps. A sign above the front door read: SureSafe.

  “This is it?” Brixton said, surprised at the Spartan appearance of the building. He’d expected something grander based upon all he’d heard about SureSafe and its global reach.

  “It is where Mr. Fournier has his office,” Jeffy said. She reached beneath her seat, came up with a set of binoculars, and handed them to Portland, who trained them on the front entrance.

  “What are you looking for?” Chambers asked.

  Portland ignored him and continued to peruse people coming and going from the building. He was about to abandon it when Jeffy, who was also looking at the entrance, said, “There he is.”

  “Who?” Brixton asked.

  “The Frenchman.”

  Everyone focused their attention on the slight figure of Alain Fournier, who’d just exited the building and paused to light a cigarette. He wore a green double-breasted blazer, shirt, and tie and carried himself like men short in stature often do to appear bigger.

  “That’s him?” Brixton said.

  “You’re sure?” Portland asked Jeffy.

  “Yes. That is the Frenchman. You have never seen him before?”

  “Never,” said Portland, the binoculars still raised to his eyes.

  “Who are they?” Chambers asked, referring to two men carrying AK-47s who’d also emerged from the building and now flanked Fournier.

  “His armed guards,” Jeffy said. “See the one on his left? He is a friend of mine, a good friend. His name is Chimamanda. His friends call him Chima.” She pronounced it “Cheé-ma.”

  “Your friend protects that slimy Frenchman?” Brixton said.

  “He is paid well to do it,” Jeffy said. “It is better for Chima than working on his family’s farm.”

  “Everything here is about the money, huh?” Brixton said.

  “Is it not the same where you come from?” Jeffy said, annoyance in her well-modulated voice.

  Portland had to smile. Jeffy was right; money fueled almost everything, not only in a place like Nigeria but in more advanced nations, too.

  “How close a friend is this Chima to you?” Portland asked.

  Her smile was sly and knowing. “Let me just say, Mr. Portland, that Chima will do anything for me if asked.”

  They watched Fournier and his escorts walk to a SureSafe company car, get in, and drive away.

  “So,” said Jeffy, “now you have seen the man you must meet.”

  “He doesn’t look like much to me,” Brixton said.

  “No,” she agreed, “but he is evil, a very evil man.”

  “So, what do we do now?” Chambers asked.

  “See where he is going,” Jeffy said, slipping the transmission into Drive and falling in behind Fournier.

  Fournier, who drove the company car, was still in a combative mood after his meeting with Max Soderman and other executives from XCAL. Following that meeting he’d gone to his office at the SureSafe building, handled some paperwork, and was now returning to XCAL’s Niger Delta headquarters. Jeffy kept a safe distance to avoid alerting Fournier that he was being followed. Eventually the SureSafe car pulled into a parking lot in front of an imposing three-story white building with a large sign emblazoned across its façade—XCAL. Gomba chose a vacant parking space facing the main doors, turned off the engine, and they watched as Fournier got out and strode into the building, nodding at armed guards manning the entrance. The security men who’d accompanied him leaned on the car’s hood and lit cigarettes, their weapons propped up against the vehicle.

  After a half hour Chambers groused, “Are we just going to sit here for the rest of the day?”

  “What are our plans?” Portland asked.

  “That is up to you,” said Jeffy.

&n
bsp; As he said it Fournier reemerged from the XCAL building with another man, heavyset, with a sizable paunch and a shaved head.

  “You know him?” Portland asked.

  “Soderman,” Jeffy said.

  “Who’s he?” Brixton asked.

  “He is the big man at XCAL here in Nigeria, the boss.”

  “How do you know all these people?” Brixton asked.

  “It helps in my work to know such people.”

  “Your work,” Brixton said sarcastically. “Just what is your work?”

  Portland waved Brixton off and concentrated on Soderman and Fournier, who climbed into the car that had brought Fournier. His two guards took the backseat.

  Jeffy started her engine and after waiting a prudent minute fell in behind.

  “I really don’t see why we’re doing this,” Chambers said, “following cars like in some grade-B movie.”

  “Shut up,” Brixton said.

  “Wait a minute,” Chambers said. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  “Just stop complaining,” Brixton said. “I’m tired of your complaining.”

  Chambers mumbled a curse before saying aloud, “I never should have come here.”

  Brixton’s laugh was forced. “Finally!” he said.

  “Will you two stop it,” Portland snapped.

  “Ah,” said Jeffy.

  “What?”

  “Look where they are going.”

  Fournier had pulled up to the gate of a property on the outskirts of Port Harcourt surrounded by a high concrete wall topped with razor wire. She stopped on the well-tended suburban street far enough away to not be noticed.

  “What’s this place?” Portland asked.

  “Agu Gwantam’s home.”

  “The warlord?” Portland said.

  “Right,” said Jeffy. “A very powerful man here in the Niger Delta.”

  “Why would Fournier and this guy Soderman be coming to his house?” Brixton asked.

  “Gwantam has his finger in everything,” Portland said, thinking back to what he’d been told by Ammon Dimka and others about Gwantam’s grip on virtually everything that transpired in the delta, including benefiting from funds channeled through the bogus Nigerian charity Bright Horizons. “Fournier provides security for him, too.”