by Tope Oluwole
Anonymous responded, "GET THE MAP, and DESTROY it. Do not make an incident of it. I will handle the assistant myself." Omoaiye put the PDA back in his secret pocket. He finished unrolling the net-paper which read, "Blanc, 45 Bankole Way, V.I." Omoaiye re-rolled the paper, and then put it back in his secret pocket. He stared into space until sleep overtook him.
Omoaiye woke up at the sound of a chime at the back door. He pulled out his PDA. It read "5:58 a.m." He relaxed.
Natasha Plechenko turned into the pantry of her bakery to find Omoaiye sitting down against boxes of table sugar.
Omoaiye stared at the stout woman, in an a-line skirt, silk blouse, and comfortable sandals.
Natasha ran a hand through her red hair. "I don't like you coming here..." Natasha saw the blood from Omoaiye's midsection, by his right hand. "Look at you!" Natasha walked over to Omoaiye. "You need a doctor."
Omoaiye shook his head and then reached into his secret pocket, and pulled out a Bit-Cash card. "I don't care if you have a million Afris for the entire village," Natasha responded. Omoaiye flicked the card at her. It glided through the air like a flying saucer. Natasha caught it with both hands, as if swatting a mosquito.
"Or maybe you prefer a pastor." Natasha pulled her PDA out of her handbag. Natasha swiped the card across the reader on the PDA. "A400,000" came across the display. "Wow!" Natasha tucked the PDA with the card, into her bag. "That's a lot of money, almost too much money." Natasha took a step back. "Did I just say that?"
Omoaiye nodded.
"As usual, I'll take the thirty percent you insist on giving us, and then divide the rest between your, charities," Natasha said. "Of course, I will funnel the funds through different channels, so it can't be traced back to us. Or we'll all be needing a pastor."
Natasha watched as Omoaiye took it all in. "I hate that I don't know what the hell you are thinking behind that mask of yours."
Omoaiye put two fingers in a "v" under his goggles.
"Thank you for paying attention," Natasha said.
Natasha and Omoaiye both froze as the pantry door swung open. Illyana, Natasha's older sister, strolled in. Illyana, at two-hundred pounds of mostly muscle, made Natasha's British size sixteen seem dainty. "Why are the gates still down?" Illyana asked. Natasha moved to the side, out of Illyana's view, to reveal Omoaiye. "Goodness!" Illyana scrambled over to Omoaiye, picked him up like a loaf of bread, and lay him gently on the pantry table.
"This is the last time!" Natasha said. "It's not worth your life, and not enough Afris to forget my conscience." She then walked out of the pantry into the dinning area of the restaurant. Illyana reached up to a corner of the shelf closest to her, and then pulled out a first aid kit.
"Don't mind Natasha. She's just tired of seeing people she cares about getting hurt." Illyana began dressing Omoaiye's abdomen. As always, when treating Omoaiye, Illyana wore gloves before removing the excess blood and puss. She then stuffed the wound with gauze.
"It's getting worse, yes?" Illyana looked at Omoaiye.
He nodded.
Omoaiye laid still, staring at Illyana as her wrangled fingers worked. When Illyana finished derma-sealing Omoaiye's wounds, she sealed the tear in his suit with the portable industrial sealer. "There, good as old," Illyana said. "Hungry?"
Omoaiye nodded.
Illyana's helped Omoaiye to his feet.
Even with her sandy-blond hair, Illyana looked like a long retired prize-fighter, with a physique dogged from age and the gravitational effect on skin that comes with it. "OLGAAA!" Illyana yelled, revealing a set of teeth including titanium replacements in some of the incisors and molars.
Omoaiye winced in discomfort.
"Yes!" A voice replied from outside the pantry towards the front of the bakery. Several footfalls later, a plump and voluptuous Olga Plechenko, strolled into the pantry. "What happened to you this morning?" Illyana asked.
"Don't ask," Olga said. "She smiled when she saw Omoaiye, but frowned once she saw the treated wound.
"Please make him some breakfast," Illyana said.
CHAPTER 11
The Two Mrs. Blancs
Ingrid awoke with a splitting headache to find herself bound by a combination of dress belts and neckties. She glanced around and noticed the flat was furnished with space-saving wood, metal, and cloth-padded chairs and tables. The decorations were either multi-colored ceramic or polished brass.
Out of nowhere, a slender, but full-figured Hausa woman caught Ingrid's eyes. The woman jumped back. Then she composed herself, and began to study Ingrid. The woman walked over, and pulled the scarf out of Ingrid's mouth.
After rubbing her mouth across her sleeve, Ingrid spoke. "I guess I have you to thank for my splitting headache?"
"Yes," Fatima replied, "and I guess I have you to thank for my husband's disappearance?"
Ingrid's face contorted as she remembered what had brought her here. "You're Marc's wife, aren't you?" Ingrid asked.
Fatima nodded. "Can you tell me where he is?"
Ingrid shook her head. "He...He's dead," Ingrid said, trembling.
Fatima looked at Ingrid, unmoved. "How do you know he is dead?"
"A police inspector, investigating his murder, told me." Ingrid said.
"Is that why you came, Ingrid? To tell me my husband is dead?" Fatima asked.
Ingrid stopped to look up, her eyes red and tears welling up in them."
Fatima reached out to the coffee table and held up one of Ingrid's business cards. "How do you know my husband?" Fatima asked.
"I was his assistant," Ingrid replied.
"He never mentioned you?" Fatima said.
"Well, Marc didn't tell me anything about you," Ingrid replied.
Fatima walked out of the room for a moment, returning with a bag of frozen, mixed vegetables. "This will help with the swelling."
"Thank you..." Ingrid trailed off. "What's your name?"
"Fatima, Fatima Blanc." Fatima sat with her hands folded in her lap.
Ingrid peered around and noticed some toys in a box to the side of the largest couch opposite Fatima. "How many children do you have?"
"We have three." Fatima looked down and frowned. "Three boys." Ingrid grimaced as she attempted to shift her weight to a more comfortable position. "You said you were Marc's assistant." Fatima continued. "Doing what?"
"I am research assistant on the project he was working on with the government through the university."
"Which project?" Fatima asked. She got up and walked over to Ingrid and began undoing the ties and belts.
"That's classified," Ingrid said.
"Classified? Do you want me to bang your head again?" Fatima shot back, the bag of vegetables in her grasp.
"A vaccine for the Epitome virus," Ingrid replied. "That's what we were working on."
"That plague on New Lagos...E-pi-tome" Fatima said. "The media said a cure was a myth!"
"It's no myth," Ingrid said. "We were so close in our trials, but then Marc disappeared. Fatima went silent and began to pace
"How did he die?" Fatima asked.
"I...I don't know," Ingrid said. Fatima picked up all the belts and ties, and placed them on the couch where she had been sitting. Ingrid rubbed her head, neck, and then moved down to her arms and legs.
"So, are you married?" Fatima asked. She sat back on the couch, studying Ingrid.
"No," Ingrid replied.
"Do you have a man?" Fatima asked, her eyes dark and piercing. Ingrid looked down to the floor, paused, and then replied. "No."
"I see," Fatima replied. She looked to the flat-screen of the work-play center and remembered the media cartridge in the player. Fatima pondered whether to divulge the package her husband had posted.
"You are a pretty girl," Fatima said. "I know what power that can have over men." Fatima got up and picked up the envelope that had come from Maiduguri. "This is for you, I think." Fatima passed Ingrid the envelope.
Ingrid looked at Fatima, confused. However, when Ingrid sa
w the envelope's postmark, and the handwriting of the address, she knew it was Marc. Ingrid wept.
Fatima waited for Ingrid to collect herself, then asked, "Do you love him?"
Ingrid raised her head and wiped her tears with the sleeve of her jacket. After staring at Fatima for a while, Ingrid nodded.
Fatima nodded. "That is why you came here?" She said to herself more than to Ingrid.
Ingrid brushed her hair off her reddened face. "I know," Ingrid said. "I was hoping the inspector was wrong." Both women sat in silence for a moment. Then Ingrid added, "I never knew he was married, I swear!" Ingrid took off her jacket. "He never mention kids." Ingrid shook her head.
Fatima stared at Ingrid for a moment, then through her, then beyond her. "I am sorry," Ingrid said, bringing Fatima back.
"Do you want to see what he sent you?" Fatima asked. Ingrid looked at Fatima, unsure of how to respond. Fatima waved her forward. She thought she ought to hate Ingrid, but she wasn't that naïve about her husbands charms.
Though only a few years older, Fatima had seen life. Ingrid was discovering what it felt like to be the other woman, for the first time. "Come!" Fatima said. "If I had wanted to deal with you...I would have dealt with you."
Fatima waved Ingrid over again, to the display of the media player. Ingrid turned to the display once she reached Fatima.
"I don't understand," Ingrid said.
"I am sure you will," Fatima said. "Marc is very deliberate." Ingrid pressed the play button on the media player. Marc's voice came on.
"Ingrid, what you are about to see is the holy grail of our research!" Fatima shuddered at the sound of her husband calling out another woman's name with such love. "It's also worth a lot of money," Marc's voice continued, "to the right people."
"What is it?" Ingrid said.
"You're probably wondering what I'm talking about?" Marc's voice continued. Ingrid nodded. "Simply put, it's a map to the key compound we need for the Epitome vaccine. The map...what the? Hey..." The audio recording ended and next on the screen appeared a map with a grid overlay and coordinates all around the boarder. There was no legend to speak of, just topographical details.
"Do you know where this is?" Fatima asked.
"No, I don't," Ingrid said.
CHAPTER 12
Cat and Mouse
One benefit of being with the FIIB, was that Inspector Morefishco got use of all the latest gadgets. One such gadget was a trace dog; a cyberpet that could track anyone anywhere given the right data. That anyone today was Ingrid Natarajian. Morefishco had purposely not told her not to attempt to leave town, in hopes that she would try to do just that.
Natarajian did leave, and Morefishco had found her at the Lagos Terminus. He, Dockery, and Churchwell were about to close in on her, when the masked man showed up. He took out three thugs without breaking much of a sweat, and then began rummaging through Ingrid's bag.
He wasn't after money because Natarajian still had her Bit-Cash card in her possession, not to mention her watch and earrings. The only thing she said was missing was her PDA. In any case, Morefishco kept a trace dog on her and it had led him to Professor Blanc's former address, in Victoria Island.
He had watched her go in about midnight, after standing at the intercom for a few minutes. Morefishco kept watch for two hours before placing a proximity alarm by the entrance of the building, and returning to his unmarked cruiser. Morefishco then tipped his hat back, and passed out.
It was morning when the alarm went off on Morefishco's Vehicular Control and Management System (VCAMS). He zeroed in on the building entrance with his Visionary glasses. An elderly woman was leaving the complex with three young children, one of them being pushed in a stroller. Morefishco looked at the time on his VCAMS terminal. It read, "11:07 AM". Morefishco looked to the far end of the street, and then drove his unmarked cruiser into Mabayomije Close, a Nigerian version of a cul-de-sac.
Morefischo stepped out of his unmarked cruiser, in plainclothes, onto Mabayomije Close. Being the only white man his age within four blocks, Morefishco would have stood out anyway. Better to be thought of as an expatriate though than a police inspector.
Morefishco walked up to the entrance of Blanc's flat and pressed Blanc's flat number. Moments later, a woman asked, "Who is there?"
Morefishco took a shot at it. "Misses Blanc?"
"Yes," she replied. "Who is there?"
"Inspector Morefishco, Special Police, F-I-I-B," Morefishco replied. There was a long pause.
Morefishco waited. "Are you still there?" He asked.
"Oh yes," Fatima responded. "I was just getting something off the stove."
Morefishco frowned, as he just heard the international code for stalling. He put his crest up to the GUI. "I'm here about your husband." Moments later, the GUI prompted Morefishco to enter the building.
When Morefishco got to the elevator he poked the tip of his shoe out. Once Morefishco determined it was safe, he strolled down the well furnished hallway to Blanc's flat.
To Morefishco surprise the door was already ajar when he reached it. Still, he knocked and announced himself. "Misses Blanc, Inspector Morefishco."
"Come in," Fatima said, "the door is open." Morefishco pushed open the door to reveal a tidy flat.
Morefishco turned right, in the direction of Fatima's voice, which led him to the kitchen where a black Lagosian woman was putting dishes away. Although in her house clothes, Morefishco saw her move with practiced elegance. Apart from the pots on the cooker, and the kitchen was immaculate.
Fatima dried her hands with a cloth, and then turned to face her visitor. "Good Afternoon, Inspector." She prostrated slightly to Morefishco.
"Misses Blanc, I have some bad news about your husband," Morefishco said. Fatima expression was even. "Your husband was found dead in Maiduguri, Borno State, yesterday morning."
"It is true then?" Fatima asked.
Morefishco tilted his head to one side. "You already knew."
"I expected my husband for several days, and feared the worst." Fatima said. "Your appearance confirms this."
"Yes it does," Morefishco said, as he began winding around Blanc's flat observing the calm of the sitting area, through an archway from the kitchen.
"How did he die?" Fatima asked.
"In a car crash," Morefishco said. "We have reason to believe someone else might have been involved." Morefishco strolled into the sitting room, and saw a black coat hung across the back of a chair. On closer inspection, Morefishco saw it was matted with wetness and dirt in some areas.
"Involved ke?" Fatima asked. "You mean someone killed him?"
"Misses Blanc, where did you buy this jacket? I like the style; maybe my girlfriend would like it too?" Morefishco asked.
"It is not my own," Fatima answered. "It belongs to my friend," Fatima responded.
"Your friend?" Morefishco raised an eyebrow, and then scanned the immediate area. "And where is this friend now?"
"Here!" Ingrid strolled into the sitting room wrapped in a white towel and barefoot, her hair still wet and dripping. "I'm I under arrest?" Ingrid extended her wrists towards Morefishco.
"I'm still trying to decide!" Morefishco shot back. "Get dressed."
Ingrid was about to say something but Morefishco pointed back towards the direction Ingrid had come. Morefishco watched Ingrid storm away. Once Ingrid disappeared around the corner, Morefishco heard a door open and then slam shut. Morefishco turned his attention back to Fatima, who had sat patiently waiting for him. "Do you know you're harboring a fugitive?" Morefishco asked.
"I'm doing what at the harbor?" Fatima asked.
"She could get you in serious trouble," Morefishco responded. "We still need to determine her involvement."
"Are you suggesting Ingrid was involved in my husband's death?" Fatima asked.
"I didn't say that," Morefishco said.
"Then why are you here?" Fatima asked.
Morefishco took a breath before speaking. "Do you know anyo
ne that might have wanted to harm your husband, Misses Blanc?" Morefishco asked.
"What does that mean?" Fatima asked.
"Did he have any enemies?" Morefishco asked. "People he may have upset, or were jealous of him or his work?" Morefishco glanced at Fatima.
"Oh," Fatima responded. "He was an important man, in an important job, so a lot of people could have been jealous of him."
"What makes you say that?" Morefishco asked.
"A lot of Nigerians feel that the expatriates just come, collect millions, give woman bele, and commot!" Fatima gestured with her arms.
"You mean, they get a free pass?" Morefishco frowned.
"Free pass?" Fatima responded. "I think you mean free-kick."
"When was the last time you saw your husband?" Morefishco continued.
Fatima looked down. "Two...three weeks ago."
Morefishco looked up a Fatima. "Three weeks ago?"
Fatima waved Morefishco to follow her as she walked into the living room toward the couch. "He disappeared three weeks ago." Fatima sat down and motioned with her hand for Morefishco to sit on the chair opposite her. "He left for a conference, as he called it, and two weeks after that, when he was supposed to return, we were thrown out of our flat."
"We?" Morefishco interjected.
"Me and our three children," Fatima said.
"Did you report this to the police?" Morefishco asked?
"No." Fatima looked down. "They would say I was worrying too much."
"Had he disappeared like this before?" Morefishco asked.
"Sometimes..." Fatima lifted her head again. "He would stay an extra day or two for important meetings, at most three days, but never a week. He always telephoned to say if he would be delayed in returning."
Morefishco nodded. "How was your marriage?"
Fatima eyes widened and she sat up. "None of your business."
