Blood Oil

by James Phelan

  McCorkell looked up from the files and met Gammaldi’s look.

  “We’re working up options for dealing with Mendes and Achebe right now. Got another cell phone that I can contact you on?” McCorkell asked.

  “Yeah, but the reception in Nigeria is deteriorating quicker than their political landscape,” Gammaldi said. “I tried Fox just before, cut out every few seconds.”

  “They’re likely powering down their land-based relay towers to slow down possible military communications if their coup leads to an internal fight. We can loan you a military satellite handset—” McCorkell picked up his phone to place a call and stopped cold.

  Beyond the oil contracts, the exploration rights, past the Russian documents, he saw Arabic. A couple of names of Saudi ‘charities’—known fronts for terrorist fund-raising schemes. Then some names on a sheet entitled ‘wedding guest list.’ Twelve names. Two of them, the terrorists that had attacked the LOOP. Another was that of the terrorist found dead in Jack McFarland’s apartment.

  “They mean something to you?”

  McCorkell considered it. It could have been written down as reported after the attacks. But why? There were no references to the places attacked …

  “It—when did you say you got this case?”

  “About twenty-four hours ago,” Gammaldi replied.

  “Could have been after the event…” McCorkell said, more to himself. But all these other names … what’s to bet some of them were responsible for the Saudi and Qatari attacks? And how many of them had got into America?

  He looked at more of the papers in front of him. There were communication references here to cells in the Middle East. Addresses and contacts in Qatar and Saudi Arabia. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled to attention.

  A ‘medical asset’ was mentioned, located in Washington.

  Then—an address in the Florida Keys.

  McCorkell picked up his phone and dialled the Situation Room.

  “This is Bill. Bring everyone in asap, and put me through to the FBI.”

  55

  BRITISH DEPUTY HIGH COMMISSION, LAGOS

  Fox paid the cab driver and walked across the road to the entrance of the Deputy High Commission’s compound. The Nigerians formed a line down the streets, just as they had the last time he was here. Was it only a day ago? It was as if the firefight had never happened.

  There was plenty of security visible. Nigerian Army troops lazed in the shade of the big palm trees that lined the street, leaning on their rifles and taking turns to scrutinise the vehicles that rumbled by.

  There were a dozen Royal Marines at the gates, and Fox handed over his passport to a young corporal. The soldier recognised Fox, handed the passport back and waved him through. Before leaving the sidewalk, Fox couldn’t help but look down to the ground. The blood stain was still there, despite the sand that had been laid over it. The corporal gave Fox a nod of respect—at least that’s how Fox read it. Two of his colleagues had been wounded in the attack that Fox had brought to his doorstep; maybe the look was something else.

  Inside the building Fox was ushered to wait in the dignitary waiting area, rather than the crowded main lobby with its bullet-proof reception desks and wary consular staff.

  He didn’t take a seat but filled a plastic cup from a water cooler and drained it twice.

  Javens came out on crutches—hard plaster on his left leg all the way up to mid-thigh, just his toes poking out.

  “Lachlan, I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” Javens said.

  “You’re straight back to work,” Fox replied.

  “Mind over matter,” Javens answered, propping the glass door open with his crutch. “Come on through.”

  Fox followed him in.

  Javens’s office was a cubby-hole with a small timber desk, a computer, a potted plant and a few photos on the wall—some with him dressed in military uniform. A small showing of his varied postings around the world—the ones that he could talk about.

  Fox sat opposite the British agent. Javens passed over Fox’s backpack, which he’d had to leave behind in the rapid evac to the airport following the shooting. Rollins’s body had barely been put into an ambulance when Fox and Gammaldi had been thrown into a helicopter. His FN Five-seveN pistol was still in the bag, the can of pepper spray, a change of clothes.

  “Thanks,” Fox said. “So what happened?”

  “Had a bit of a crash in the Jag,” Javens said, rapping his knuckles on the hard plaster. “The old girl is not in driveable shape any more, I’m sorry to say. Still, she got me out of a jam.”

  “I know how you feel,” Fox said with a smile. “British engineering, who would have thought it.”

  Javens laughed. Fox’s smile faded, he leaned forward.

  “I’m going back out there,” Fox said.

  No-bullshit looks were traded.

  Javens’s look softened in respect.

  “You did good, getting back here the other day,” Javens said. “You made it to the five-yard line.”

  “I know,” Fox answered. He couldn’t shake the image of Rollins in his mind. The warmth of his blood. “If I had just driven a little bit faster—reacted quicker…”

  Javens held up his hand to signal Stop it.

  “You’re well trained enough to know what thinking like that will do to you,” Javens said. He reached for an orange plastic prescription bottle and shook out a couple of aspirin. “Besides, Rollins well knew the dangers involved. I’ve known the guy for fifteen years. He went out on the front line one time too many. That’s all it takes. We’ve both cheated death too many times. Sooner or later, for all of us, our number comes up.”

  Fox nodded. He knew the deal as well as Javens did. You work in danger zones, there’s the very real risk your work will get you killed. Training and caution just delayed it. Sometimes for years. For the lucky ones it was held at bay long enough to bug out and hang up their boots. To finally live a quiet life. To go out peacefully with the passing of time, not when time and life collided.

  “What are you doing back here? What do you hope to achieve? Still after your story?”

  “Those photos of us from the police car, they were targeting us,” Fox said. “It was premeditated. Murder.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Any number of reasons. They might have figured you were making headway in the Port Harcourt bombing? You might reveal something that they’d rather keep hidden?”

  “They tried to kill us all. They wanted us dead, not just silenced or kicked out of the country. Dead.”

  “And you know who ‘they’ are?”

  “Steve Mendes. Brutus Achebe,” Fox said.

  “Yeah?” Javens was in more than mild shock. “They’re untouchable. No court will try them.”

  “I don’t want them to see a court,” Fox said. He passed over the note. Held Javens’s stare.

  “You won’t find them,” Javens said, note in hand, yet to read it. “Achebe has split the government as of yesterday afternoon. He’s now in charge of the biggest coalition on the congress floor, and the bulk of the military is yet to decide which camp it stands in. So Achebe could be seen as leader of this country now, technically legal in their constitution or not. He and his people, including Steve Mendes, they’re skipping across the country to safe houses while they push for power—”

  He read the note and stopped mid-sentence, couldn’t hide the shock. “Where did you get this?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Is it legit?”

  “I’m going to find out later today.”

  Javens handed it back. The note with the name Musa Onouarah and his address written on it. He shook his head.

  “The judiciary have been after that guy for more than a decade. State police can’t find him; MOPOL don’t want to find him. And you waltz in with his address.”

  Javens shook his hea
d in disbelief. He pulled open a file drawer, flicked through the contents, then presented Fox with a photo and rap sheet on the guy.

  “Have a read of that before you go in over your head.”

  “Thanks,” Fox said. He scanned his eyes over Onouarah’s photo, the list of crimes he was wanted for.

  “I’m telling you,” Javens said. “You don’t want to know that man.”

  “That’s what people keep telling me.” Fox’s look said it all. He was heading down this path, with Javens’s help or without it.

  “Give the address to the cops,” Javens said. “There are some good ones on the state’s payroll, guys I’ve worked with, guys who want justice just as badly as you.”

  “This Musa guy knows where Mendes and Achebe are. Knows their movements, how to contact them.”

  “Let this work itself out, Lachlan. You think this is the first political crisis this country has seen? This is Africa. It has its own rhythm, its own way of working things out. My country and many other European nations learned lessons the hard way on this continent. Learn from those mistakes. Turn around, get on a plane, and go back to New York.”

  Fox passed the file back. Tucked the note back into his shirt pocket. Resolute. He was doing this no matter what Javens said. With or without.

  “If you do make a house call on Musa Onouarah, there’s not a chance in hell that he will tell you where Mendes and Achebe are,” Javens said. “Not a chance. And he’ll put a bullet in the back of your head on your way out the door.”

  Fox stood to leave and Javens held up his hand.

  “Lachlan—”

  “I’m doing this, Stephen,” Fox said. He traded stares with the MI6 agent. “I’m not writing about this from the fucking sidelines. I’m making something right.”

  “And you kill these guys and a couple more come up and take their place.”

  “You really think that?” Fox asked. “You really think another Steve Mendes, ex-CIA shooter turned political manipulator, is gonna pop up behind another puppet minister?”

  “All right, sit down a sec,” Javens said quietly. “Please.”

  Fox leaned on the back of the chair, his hands flexed hard around the leather.

  “They have to be stopped,” Fox said. “Killed. It’s the only way.”

  Javens chewed it over.

  “You realise what you’re saying?”

  “Steve Mendes is driving this Achebe train for all it’s worth. He will see this plan through at any cost—he’s already killed God knows how many people.”

  “The chances of you—”

  “I can do this. I’ve got the skills. I’ve got the gear. And, right now, I’ve certainly got the motivation.”

  “You can’t just—”

  “Stephen, if you had one opportunity to square things, would you capture it?” Fox asked. “Or just let it slip?”

  Javens was silent. Chewed it over.

  “And this is what you want?”

  “It’s justice, Africa style,” Fox said. “Who else is going to do it? We’ve only got one shot. I’m it, right now, and I’m ready to move.”

  Fox could see Javens weighing the worth of his career. “What can I do to help?”

  56

  ENTERING CITY LIMITS, LAGOS

  The convoy rolled fast. A MOPOL sedan led the way, clearing a path through the traffic. A Toyota pick-up before and after the VIP vehicle, the Toyotas driven and crewed with private security contractors. Achebe and Mendes rode between them in an armoured Mercedes G-Wagon. Everyone but Achebe packed firepower.

  “It’s confirmed,” Mendes said, closing his cell phone. “The Sultan was killed on the plane.”

  Achebe nodded. Tears in his eyes.

  “Your cousin is dead too,” Mendes said. “He and his family were aboard the same flight.”

  Achebe shed his tears in silence.

  “You knew it was coming,” Mendes said.

  “I didn’t want it to be like this! Why like this?”

  Mendes considered it.

  “You never wanted to know the details before,” he said. “You wanted me to get you into power, and it’s on your doorstep, right now. You want to take it?”

  “I—I don’t know now.”

  “Take your place, as President of Nigeria and head of the Sultanate. Reinstate the caliphate.”

  “You did this!” Achebe yelled. “I should have you killed!”

  Mendes’s personal security guy in the front seat turned around. Achebe noticed it; Mendes waved his guy down.

  “This is your destiny, Brutus,” Mendes soothed. “You’ve known this, we’ve talked about it.”

  “But if it is destiny then why did you act? You are not the hand of God!”

  “We all do what we are destined to do, Brutus.”

  There was silence for a beat. Achebe visibly weighed up the situation at hand.

  “And meanwhile, the president is in his compound, and the military are still siding with him,” Brutus said, his voice becoming increasingly high-pitched. “They certainly will not attack him.”

  “Brutus, we have the generals meeting with us tomorrow night—”

  “They are still loyal to him! You said that as soon—”

  “Brutus,” Mendes spoke quietly, calmly, putting his hand up in the man’s face. It was rare that he had to be this overtly controlling, but the Nigerian was getting too emotional. “Brutus, this is it. You must be strong, right now. As a leader, if you let your emotions guide you in times of crisis, the results will be disastrous. Besides … we have another situation that needs our attention. An American force has landed in the capital.”

  “US forces—in Abuja?” Achebe said. “If they are—they are here to prop up the president!”

  “Relax,” Mendes said. “I told you this would happen. It’s a small force to secure their embassy. It is a good sign, it means that we can open dialogue with Washington.”

  “How many are there?”

  “I will know soon, but do not worry about them,” Mendes said. “They are not here to interfere. They will want to safeguard their nationals, as a first step. I will soon make contact with the American State Department. Make sure they’re certain that they want to back the winning team. Us.”

  57

  LAGOS, NIGERIA

  Sir Alex handed over the keys to the four-wheel-drive with ceremony.

  Fox looked, with a decent dose of scepticism, at the nineties-model Land Rover. It rode on big, fat, lairy rims. That’s where the pimping of the ride ended. The bodywork was beaten to shit, it was missing a couple of windows that had been taped over with clear plastic, and there wasn’t a panel not bent out of shape or painted in the same colours.

  “So this is what ten grands’ worth of car gets me in Nigeria,” Fox said, closing in for inspection. It certainly wasn’t armoured like Javens’s Range Rover was, but it would have to do.

  “Start her up,” Sir Alex said.

  Fox looked at him. Could tell something was up by the twinkle in the old man’s eye. He put the key in the ignition, turned—

  “Whoa!”

  The unmistakable sweet hum of a big bore V8. A seriously huge, throaty thing, and perfectly in tune.

  Fox popped the hood and considered the scene before him. Mercedes 5.5 litre V8, supercharged. It looked brand new, not even a speck of dust or oil.

  “Some unsuspecting, undeserving soccer mum,” Sir Alex said, “is now driving around town wondering why her two hundred thousand dollar SUV sounds like a tractor.”

  “You’ve impressed me, Sir Alex,” Fox said. Man, would this sucker move. He slammed the hood shut, wiped his hands. “You manage to get all the gear?”

  “In the boot,” Sir Alex said.

  Fox shook the man’s hand, said goodbye, and tore off down the road. He saw the Lagos Press Club disappear in the rear-view mirror, Sir Alex waving goodbye, and couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever get to be
such an age. As far as a grizzled old journalist went, Sir Alex’s retirement was a pretty sweet gig.

  Fox did two passes of the house of Musa Onouarah. He parked down the road, in the driveway of a house under construction. Waited. Watched as Onouarah entered his gated compound, followed by a chase car. No mistaking Onouarah as he shifted out of the SUV and entered the house: the fat fuck moved slowly.

  Sitting in the car across the road, he waited a good thirty minutes to let Onouarah settle into whatever routine he might have. This was a better neighbourhood by far than any that Fox had seen before in Nigeria. All the houses had satellite dishes on the roofs, all looked to have power, water, and all the rest of the utilities the Western world took for granted but which were only available to the rich in this part of the world. Some places here even had grass lawns out front, surreal perfection of rolled-out green turf. The houses were all pretty much nondescript designs too, a development done all at once, each house conforming with the next like those in The Truman Show.

  Fox got out and opened the boot. There lay another large chunk of his savings account. Ten grand bought a hell of a lot of firepower here in Africa. He sat there on the rear cargo area loading his two mags for the Five-seveN pistol. Sir Alex had charged him a small fortune for two boxes of a hundred shells, which was probably fair enough. Only two firearms used the Fabrique Nationale de Herstal’s 5.7 mm x 28 mm rounds: the Five-seveN pistol and the P90 personal defence weapon. The only way that he could obtain the ammo in this circumstance was through purchasing a P90 too. Which wasn’t too bad. It was a neat little submachine gun, as he’d worked out on the range back in Connecticut.

  He strapped on a Kevlar vest over his T-shirt. Rapped his knuckles against it. This thing was near to useless—the civilian kind, stop a 9 mm if he was lucky. But it was better than no armour at all.