Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger

by Margaret Truman

Jeffy answered Portland’s question. “The Frenchman will be at his apartment,” she said.

  “How do you know that?” Portland asked.

  A smile crossed her cinnamon face. “A friend told me,” she said.

  “What friend?” asked Brixton.

  “Her name is Carla, but that is not important.”

  “‘Her’?” Portland said. “Another woman?”

  “And a very pretty one,” Jeffy said. “Ayana, the African word for ‘beautiful.’”

  “What does this other woman have to do with this?” Brixton asked.

  “Your French friend has an eye for beautiful women,” Jeffy said. “He will be with her when we arrive. She has arranged it.”

  They entered an upscale suburb of Port Harcourt, with homes set on manicured grounds. Ahead was a relatively new two-story apartment building, its circular driveway bordered by flowering plants and mature trees. Jeffy pulled to the curb across the street and turned off the engine and lights.

  “He’s in that building?” Portland asked.

  “Yes,” Jeffy said. She took a slip of paper from her pocket and read from it: “‘Apartment number six, second floor, end of the hallway, largest apartment in the building, two bedrooms, a kitchen, two baths, a small terrace faces woods at back.’”

  “Where did you come up with this?” Brixton asked.

  “Friends. I have friends.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot. You have lots of friends,” Brixton said.

  “And you know that Fournier is in there now?” Portland asked.

  “He is there.”

  “Who’s with him?” Brixton asked.

  “The beautiful woman.”

  “Just them? They’ll be alone?” Portland asked.

  Jeffy said, “There will be one of the Frenchman’s bodyguards. He will be sitting outside the door to the apartment. I will call him before you enter the building and he will find another place to be for as long as is necessary.”

  “Another friend of yours?” Brixton said.

  Jeffy ignored him and checked her watch. “It is time,” she said. “I suggest you do what you have to do, and do it quickly.”

  “Will Fournier be armed?” Portland asked.

  “I doubt if he will have his weapon with him. He will be busy doing other things.” She grinned. “It is difficult to possess a weapon when you are naked.”

  “What about the door?”

  “It will be unlocked. Go now. Hurry. It has not been easy to arrange this.”

  “You’ll wait for us here?” Brixton asked.

  She nodded.

  “‘Us’?” Portland said to Brixton. “This is my fight.”

  “Sorry, pal, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Brixton.

  “What about him?” Brixton said, referring to Chambers, who’d sat silently during the conversation.

  “You stay with Jeffy,” Portland told the former law firm investigator, which didn’t elicit a protest.

  Jeffy placed a call on her cell phone as Portland and Brixton left the car and approached the main entrance to the building; Portland was surprised that they were able to simply walk into the lobby without being challenged. A flight of stairs led to the second level.

  “Ready?” Portland asked.

  “Let’s go,” Brixton replied.

  They pulled the handguns from their ankle holsters, ascended the staircase, and quietly walked down the carpeted hallway to apartment six. An empty chair stood next to the door. Portland turned the door handle. The door swung open slowly, silently. They stepped into a foyer, focusing their attention on noise coming from a room at the end of the hallway whose door was partially open. Brixton looked at Portland and grinned. It was the sound of a couple making love, loud and urgent.

  Portland led the way to the open door, Brixton close behind. They stopped and looked into the bedroom where a naked man and woman were coupled. Neither Portland nor Brixton said anything, but the man, Alain Fournier, whose attention wasn’t totally consumed by the sexual act, sensed their presence. He climbed off the woman and turned to face them. Brixton and Portland leveled their handguns at him. He swore something in French and pushed himself up against the headboard. The woman scrambled from the bed and grabbed a blouse from the floor.

  “Who are you?” Fournier demanded.

  The woman scooped up the rest of her clothing and headed toward the bedroom door.

  “Carla!” Fournier yelled. “You bitch!”

  She went to the living room, finished dressing, and fled the apartment.

  Fournier called out again. “Chima!” he shouted to the young man who’d been standing guard just outside the apartment door. There was no response.

  “Get dressed,” Portland commanded.

  “You have no right,” Fournier said. “I will have you arrested and—”

  “And what, have me shot like my son?” Portland said.

  “Portland?” Fournier said.

  “Get dressed before I kill you here and now,” Portland said.

  Brixton, who stood behind and to the side of Portland, wondered what the next step would be. Here they were, confronting a helpless Alain Fournier. What would Portland do? Would he shoot Fournier on the spot? But that didn’t seem to be on the Brit’s agenda.

  Fournier rolled off the bed and slipped on his boxer shorts, accompanied by a string of French curses. He reached for a weapon on a night table, but Brixton was quicker. He grabbed the handgun and shoved it in his waistband. They watched as Fournier finished putting on his clothes. Portland came around behind him and pressed his Pamas handgun to Fournier’s temple. “You make one stupid move and you’re dead,” he said into his ear.

  “What do we do next?” Brixton asked.

  Portland responded, “Check out the hall and stairs.”

  Brixton did as instructed and reported that the way was clear. Portland placed a hand on Fournier’s shoulder while keeping his weapon pressed against his head and pushed him through the door to the hallway. With Brixton leading the way they retraced their route out of the apartment building to where Jeffy waited.

  The beautiful Nigerian’s large, wide eyes mirrored her surprise at seeing Fournier alive. She’d expected Portland to kill the Frenchman in the apartment, and had planned to drive him, Brixton, and Chambers to a safe place until they could be spirited out of the country.

  “Get in,” Portland told Fournier, indicating the backseat where Chambers sat.

  Fournier slid in next to Chambers, who moved away and pressed himself against the door. “Why is he here?” Chambers asked. “What are you going to do with him?”

  Portland sat next to Fournier, his gun still trained on him. Brixton took the front passenger seat; he was as confused as Chambers.

  “Where do we take him?” Jeffy asked.

  “Position Seventeen,” Portland said. “Here.” He handed her the map he’d taken from Matthew Kelsey. “Where that red mark is. Position Seventeen. We’re taking this slimy bastard to where he killed my son.” He pushed the gun hard against Fournier’s head. “That’s where it happened, right, Fournier? Position Seventeen?”

  Fournier swore.

  “Come on, let’s move,” Portland told Jeffy.

  She pulled from the curb and headed in the direction of one of XCAL’s extraction facilities, known as Position Seventeen. She drove faster than usual, her eyes fixated on the road.

  Fournier, who’d been verbally combative, shifted gears. “Why are you doing this to me?” he asked, his voice less angry.

  “Why?” Portland guffawed. “Because I want to take you to where you gunned down my son, that’s why.”

  “You are wrong,” Fournier said. “I didn’t kill your son. I am told by many people that you claim I did, but you are wrong. I swear on my mother, I did not kill him.”

  Portland’s reaction was to ram the muzzle of his gun against the side of the Frenchman’s head. “You’re a lying bastard, Fournier.”

  Fournier noticed that Chambers
was wearing an African outfit. “Who are you?” he asked.

  Chambers responded by turning from him and staring out the window.

  They ended up on a winding dirt road leading through mango groves and low-hanging bushes, the road’s ruts filled with stagnant rainwater. Jeffy had opened some of the windows and the oppressive, heavy humid air filled the car as it slowed to accommodate rocks and tree branches. Ahead was a dock that served one of the oil company’s extraction units. A single light affixed to it provided an eerie modicum of light. Jeffy came to a stop, allowing the vehicle’s headlights to provide additional illumination.

  “Why are we here?” Fournier asked, his voice belying his fear.

  “This is where my son died?” Portland asked.

  When Fournier said nothing Portland repeated his question, this time emphasizing the question with a nudge from his handgun.

  Fournier said, “You don’t know what you are talking about. I know nothing about your son.”

  “What about this?” Portland said, holding his wrist wearing Trevor’s bracelet in front of Fournier’s eyes.

  “What? What is it? I know nothing about it. A bracelet.”

  Fournier’s lies fueled Portland’s anger. “You took it from my dead son and lost it in a card game.” He took a series of deep breaths to calm himself. “Get out!” he said, opening the door on his side and sliding from the car. The Frenchman followed.

  Brixton and Chambers also exited. Jeffy, who’d remained behind the wheel, said to Portland, “I must speak with you.”

  “Make sure our French friend doesn’t get frisky,” Portland said to Brixton through the driver’s window. “Shoot him if he does.”

  “I must go now,” Jeffy said.

  “Go?” Portland said. “What, and leave us stranded out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “You will be all right,” she said. “You will be picked up soon.”

  Portland peered into the vast darkness of the delta’s swamp. “Who’s picking us up?”

  “The commander. He and his men will arrive soon in their boats.”

  “Why are they coming?”

  “To do what they must. Please, no more questions. Everything will be fine.”

  “I owe you money,” Portland said.

  “You have my card,” said Gomba. “You can wire it to me at my address. But if you do not, it is all right. I am just happy to see the Frenchman dead.”

  “Wait a minute,” Portland said. “I’m not sure that—”

  “You are a good man, Mr. Portland. It has been my pleasure to have been of help to you.” She opened the glove compartment, took Chambers’s weapon from it, and handed it to Portland before rolling up the window, shifting into reverse, backing away, turning, and disappearing into the hot, humid night, her red taillights fading in the swamp’s murkiness. The sudden absence of her headlights cast the dock and the people on it into virtual darkness.

  “Where did she go?” Chambers asked when Portland returned to the dock. “She’s leaving us here?”

  “Home, I suppose,” Portland said, handing Chambers his handgun. “She did what she said she’d do, brought me face-to-face with our French friend here. Don’t sweat it. Everything will be fine.” One of his thoughts at that moment was that he would have enjoyed spending more time with Jeffy Gomba. Her radiant beauty cut through the tense scene in which they were embroiled, and he wondered whether he would once again meet up with her. He hoped so.

  Fournier had returned to his earlier bravado. He sneered at Portland and said, “So, what do you intend to do, Mr. Portland, shoot me? It will not bring back your precious son. I suggest that you and your friends walk away and be grateful that the Niger Delta hasn’t become your final resting place. I hold no grudge toward you.”

  “Who gave you the word to kill my boy?” Portland asked.

  When Fournier didn’t answer, Portland said, “Was it that so-called warlord Agu something-or-other, or that British fop Penny in London? Come on, Fournier. I’m losing patience.”

  “Talk to Penny,” Fournier said. “He’s the boss.”

  “Penny gave you the word to shoot Trevor?”

  Fournier’s expression confirmed to Portland that it had been Sir Manford Penny, XCAL’s UK chairman, who’d issued the order to execute Trevor.

  Neither Chambers nor Brixton knew what Portland was thinking at that moment. Had they, they might have attempted to dissuade him from the decision he’d made to shoot Fournier and achieve the closure he so desperately needed. His hatred for the Frenchman was all-consuming, enhanced by Fournier’s defiant stance and the scornful expression on his face. But as he raised his weapon to aim at Fournier’s heart, he was distracted by a noise coming from the swamp. He and the others looked into the blackness in search of its origin but could see nothing. Then, the noise became louder. It was an engine, more than one. A moment later two speedboats appeared from the recesses of the delta.

  Simultaneously, behind them, headlights appeared. SureSafe’s headquarters had been alerted that people were at Position Seventeen and had dispatched three security guards to investigate. As they came to a stop and the security guards piled out of the vehicle, rifle shots rang out from one of the speedboats. Brixton and Chambers flung themselves to the deck as bullets flew over their heads. Fournier turned and ran toward the SureSafe vehicle, his hands in the air. But he had gone only a few feet when one of the bullets caught him in the back and sent him tumbling face-first onto the deck. Portland’s initial reaction was to go to him, but that lasted only a few seconds. He was about to join Chambers and Brixton, who’d remained prone on the dock, when a shot from one of the SureSafe security guards tore into his abdomen, bringing him to his knees. He clutched at his wound before pitching forward.

  “David!” Brixton said, crawling to his fallen friend.

  Portland looked up at him. “Fournier,” he rasped. “Where is he?”

  “He’s dead, David,” Brixton said.

  “Who?”

  “Who killed him? The rebels.”

  A dozen fighters from the two speedboats poured onto the dock. They’d killed one of the security guards; the remaining two managed to get back into their vehicle and sped away, bullets ricocheting off it and smashing the rear window. Members of the militia group came to where Brixton and Chambers hovered over Portland.

  “He needs a doctor,” Brixton said, “and fast.”

  Portland was lifted by the rebels and carried to one of the boats. Brixton and Chambers stayed with him while two rebel fighters rigged an explosive device on an XCAL pipeline. When they’d finished, they joined the others in the boats. One detonated the explosive charge. It wasn’t a terribly loud explosion, but the explosives were sufficient to blow a gaping hole in the pipe, and oil poured from it. There were celebratory cries as the boats left the dock and headed back into the dark cover of the Niger Delta’s swamps.

  It didn’t surprise Brixton that their destination was the rebel camp they’d visited upon arriving in Port Harcourt. He didn’t care where they went as long as Portland could receive medical attention. He asked a rebel who seemed to be in charge whether a doctor was at the camp.

  “One will come,” the rebel replied, “a very good doctor. He helps us many times.”

  Brixton sat during the trip with Portland’s head in his lap. His British friend kept trying to speak, but his words were swallowed in coughing, which brought up blood.

  “Hang on, David,” Brixton said over and over. “We’ll get you a doctor and you’ll be good as new.”

  “I did it,” Portland managed to say.

  “You did what, David?”

  “I got Fournier. I got him.”

  “You sure as hell did, David.”

  “It was Penny, the XCAL boss in London, who gave Fournier the word to kill Trevor.”

  “I’ll remember that, David,” said Brixton. “We’ll figure out a way to make him pay, too.”

  Portland’s breathing became shallower as they neared the
rebel encampment and he suffered a coughing spasm, his blood spattering on Brixton. The Brit struggled to lift his hand.

  “What is it, David?” Brixton asked.

  “The bracelet,” Portland said. “Take it off.”

  Brixton had trouble opening the clasp but eventually succeeded.

  “Give it to Liz,” Portland said.

  “I’ll hang on to it, David, but you can give it to her yourself.”

  The boat’s pilot revved the engine and ran the boat up onto the small beach adjacent to the camp. As he did, Portland let out a loud groan. He grasped Brixton’s hand with surprising strength, then let go.

  “David,” Brixton said. “Come on, buddy, a doctor is coming and—”

  But Brixton knew that it was too late for any physician. His British chum, a man he’d grown to love and admire, was dead.

  CHAPTER

  67

  Brixton had assumed that he’d seen the last of Jeffy Gomba, but he was wrong.

  Brixton and Chambers spent the night with rebels at their remote outpost. It wasn’t what Brixton would have opted for, but they didn’t have a choice. They lay awake most of the night swatting at mosquitoes and trying to find a comfortable position on straw mats that served as mattresses.

  David Portland’s body had been carefully wrapped in oilcloth by members of the rebel group and placed in a ramshackle house in the middle of the encampment. Brixton and Chambers were fed a dinner of rice and beans, washed down by ogogoro gin.

  Following dinner they met with the commander.

  “We will make arrangements for you to leave the country,” he said.

  “Not without David,” Brixton said.

  The commander nodded. “Yes, I understand that. It will be done. Gomba will handle things.”

  “Ms. Gomba? Her? What can’t she do?” Chambers asked.

  The commander laughed, exposing yellow teeth. “Yes, the person we know as ‘Jeffy’ Jeffrey can do almost anything.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Brixton said, this time without sarcasm.

  Brixton and Chambers spent the following morning biding their time while preparations were made for them to leave the camp with David Portland’s body. They bathed in a portion of the swamp that was relatively free of oil slicks, and joined members of the rebel force for a meal. Eventually they, along with Portland’s body, were loaded into a panel truck driven by Jeffy and driven from Port Harcourt across the border into the small neighboring African nation of Benin and its international airport at Cotonou. Brixton and Chambers bought one-way tickets on an Air France flight to Paris, where they would connect with another Air France flight to Washington. Jeffy had arranged through a Nigerian undertaker friend to properly prepare and document Portland’s body to accompany them—she had more friends than a D.C. lobbyist.