“My clients rely on being anon.”
“… ymous is the full word. But they know you’re operating a bona fide business, so they understand you’re paid for a range of services. Paid ten thousand, for example. Diversification is key. Your clients would be aware of that. A man has to live, after all.”
“Confidentiality and diversification. It’s my motto.”
Kolo wrote a cheque. “So?”
“American ambassador.”
Kolo’s pen stopped mid-figure, blotting ink over the cheque. The crewcut had actually dared to attempt a plot in Nigeria. Was he mad? “Look at the man. If I thought he could read … No, it must be books on tape. He listened to Conspiracy for Dummies, then thought he could vault into the top league. Idiot!” He tried to brush aside the very idea, although it niggled him slightly when he considered it.
Kolo shook himself free of these inner irritations and finished writing a cheque that would never get cashed. “Go and see the inspector general. He will provide your papers for you. I will tell him you’re coming.” Kolo piled the photographs together with weary gestures and threw them into his desk drawer.
“Okay, sir.” Lance made as if to reclaim the photos but obviously thought better of it. He hesitated before leaving. “Thank you, sir,” he finally said.
“No, thank you.” Kolo shivered. Was this the kind of killer they would send for him? “Nice doing business with you.”
Lance bid him a respectful “Later” and left.
For a moment, Kolo settled into the high back of his scaled-down throne. How could he have been so short-sighted? With Omeke, he could implicate at least two others, as well as incriminate him in an internal struggle for power at Wise Water. He had no need of this Igwe character.
A great calm overcame Kolo as he picked up the phone. “Inspector general? Omeke is coming for his release papers.”
Since the day his people had hung the portrait of Jegede above the presidential chair, Kolo kept a strict separation of his life into two spheres—his haven and his hell. His haven was his garage, increasingly decorated with personal items: his portrait, various medications and creams, Napoleonic furniture, cupboards for his agbadas. Here, he could relax in his Chinese silk pyjamas, sink his toes into the lush cream carpet and stroke the grain of the curtains that covered the garage door. They were made of heavy velvet and fringed, like those in the presidential offices, but he had chosen royal blue to grace this personal paradise, a colour that did not adorn the windows in the floors above.
In his haven, Kolo allowed no daily distractions, no newspapers, radio or television—merely the staples of a tranquil life: classical music minus any gloomy Germanic influence, Quality Street chocolates, biographies of great men.
As he zigzagged his way to his hell—his office—past broom cupboards, storage lockers, food stores, and upwards to purgatory along windows that gave a view of Aso Rock, he encountered the cubicles of small fry, then climbed past the offices of potential presidential rivals. As he progressed, his safety grew increasingly precarious, his step more erratic. By the time he reached his office, his pace had escalated into a hesitant sprint.
Every day, same routine: slam door, check window, curse Jegede’s portrait, flop into seat, take Aspirin, consider relocating portrait, ring for minister of finance, grab newspapers, greeting, response, detailed examination of Jegede’s ascent to glory, wave aide away.
Today, he had a meeting that he hoped would raise his spirits somewhat. After dismissing the minister of finance, he opened his briefcase and took out some new footwear. He then grabbed his parasol and headed for the nature reserve behind the governmental complex.
“Good morning, Ambassador Bates!” A more rugged habitat provided a fitting backdrop for such a meeting. Kolo wore trainers under his agbada. “I’m not sure I’ve shown you the national arboretum. It’s a wilderness, absolutely untouched by human hand.”
Side by side, the president and the American ambassador strode past a series of gates manned by military sentries and into an area landscaped with varieties of local trees, flowers and undulating pathways.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? We copied the DC model, of course.”
The path wound around trees with leaves too stiff for the wind to rustle. The ambassador peered at Kolo, leery.
“I wanted to talk to you about this Jegede business,” Kolo continued. “We have the culprit. The man wanted to wrest control of Wise Water. A handsome man—he thought his face would better suit the T-shirts. I find it hard to disagree.”
“Uh-huh.” The ambassador did not look reassured by this amiable chit-chat.
“He’s a sociopath, of course. I was surprised to find he considered you an ally. You’d apparently paid him quite a sum.”
“What? Me?” Rays of pink leapt to the surface of the ambassador’s face.
Two paths diverged in an unkempt wood, one more travelled. Kolo took it. “Yes, a certain Lance Omeke—hope I’m pronouncing that right. We’ll have to display the body, of course. We’ve become a very visual culture, like yours. I just wanted to ensure you wouldn’t be tied up in any kafuffle.”
The ambassador’s response took a long time to come. No doubt he was mentally replaying his tapes of Scheming for Simpletons. “I had nothing to do with Jegede’s death.”
“Of course you didn’t. The very idea! No, Omeke must have acted on his own. Lovely tree, that.” Kolo’s admiring gaze travelled up the length of a basic palm.
“Yeah, ’course the guy did.”
“Well, then, I’m sure you’ll be willing to confirm that at the press conference this afternoon.”
Posing in front of a large American flag, the ambassador attended the identification ceremonies—which lasted many days. He constantly reaffirmed the inspector general’s account of a play for dominance within a chaotic organization—an act that unwittingly implied a CIA conspiracy to eliminate Jegede.
Kolo stood in the background, by Omeke’s body, framed by yet another portrait of Jegede, his face a vision of despair. This time, he had no need to perform: the oil painting behind him aroused an overwhelming depth of emotion.
The papers featured pictures of Lance Omeke’s corpse, dressed in his most garish clothing to convey an implied message of greed. Omeke’s photographs of the multiple stab wounds to Jegede’s body confirmed the attack. Despite their macabre content, these too hit the front pages in colour, looped through news channels and introduced the day’s events on most websites.
But regardless of the grisly, uncontrolled nature of the attack on Jegede, the pungent odour of suspicion still lurked around Kolo—Nigerians were no dupes and had little respect for the presidency.
Therefore, his office continued to circulate pictures of Jegede’s butchered corpse, along with the bloodied Stetson.
“If I had asked for an assassination,” Kolo’s official press release stated, “one bullet would have sufficed”—a fact that made sense.
THIRTY-TWO
Glass Tank
In March, Kolo hosted a Canadian delegation. These people Kolo could not abide: whenever they visited they insisted on talking about the environment (his, not theirs), poverty (Nigeria’s, not aboriginal people’s) and, most vexing of all, embarking on some form of physical activity.
The prime minister wished to climb Aso Rock to get a panoramic view of Abuja. Apparently, a postcard would not suffice. The man’s lack of sophistication astounded Kolo. What European head of state would soil his handmade shoes to pursue such a folly? The female politicos were even more sensible, with their stilettos fiercely protected.
The prime minister was most amiable, which made the experience even more unbearable. “Great day for a hike, huh? What an awesome country!”
“It’s like many others, I can assure you. I hope I don’t sound immodest when I say it’s our culture that differs.”
Photographers gathered at the base of the rock, clicking their cameras as Kolo shook hands with the PM. Then the torture began. Th
ey ascended.
After ten minutes, Kolo could no longer hold back the sound of his puffing. Thankfully, the Canadian prime minister had climbed on ahead. Surreptitiously, Kolo sat down on a small rock to regain his breath.
One of the prime minister’s entourage attempted to take a photograph. A stern military sentry impounded the camera and almost arrested the culprit. The incident allowed Kolo a few extra minutes of rest.
Just as he recommenced climbing, a wheezing and aggrieved minister of finance caught up with him.
“Hey!” the Canadian prime minister shouted from his position higher up the rock. “Glad you could join us.”
The minister shot him a look of profound disdain.
“News is bad today, Excellency,” he said.
“What this time?”
“Em … Something to do with purchase of shares, insider trading, tapping of funds,” the minister rolled his eyes heavenward in disbelief that these issues should cause any untoward coverage, “and other details of the contract with TransAqua.”
“Details? Of the contract?” Kolo’s heartbeat, already pounding and erratic, doubled in speed. He searched his minister’s face to see if he could spot any mention of the renaming of the Niger River, but the minister’s emotions were still roiling with condemnation of the media.
“Follow them up the rock,” Kolo commanded. “I’ll go back to the office and join all of you later. Apparently, they’d like a game of golf.” He slipped down the precipitous granite back to the level corridors of the governmental complex.
Once he had slammed the door to his office, Kolo loped to his desk. A letter lay there, and he recognized its logo. In exquisite language, the World Bank informed him of their intent to pull out of the Kainji deal. Kolo had to act quickly before the World Bank’s intentions made their way to TransAqua.
He turned on the television news with trembling fingers. Corruption, water pricing, trading irregularities: he could explain all these concerns away. In countries like Nigeria, these were everyday offences that plagued every regime, whether military or democratic. Only one item could bury him—the most damaging discovery of all: the renaming of the Niger River. He would get Glass to deal with it. He reread the article. She would definitely need his help—another game of tit for tat.
As Mary scrolled through the website, she mentally ticked off the problems. The World Bank could deal with its issues regarding privatization and stipulations on the use of American contractors. Price, ownership of water and cost of doing business in Nigeria—the newspapers’ word for which was “corruption”—these terms and conditions differed little from other water contracts, save for their excess and audacity. PR would handle that.
The most damaging allegations, from which it was unlikely TransAqua could recover concerned Kolo’s purchase of shares—insider trading. For this, TransAqua staff could technically go to prison, lose their jobs or even relinquish their bonuses.
She braced for another phone call. “President Kolo?”
“Yes?” he whispered. The phone crackled.
“Insider trading? You purchased shares prior to the signing of the contract?”
“It is almost impossible, Ms. Glass, beyond the bounds of any game theory matrix,” his voice grew louder, “that anyone could have traced such shares back to my enterprises! It’s insulting!”
“A forensic—”
“Even the greatest forensic accountant, assisted by Hercules Poirot himself, would have to spend years … This is Nigeria, Ms. Glass. Our systems are not crude!”
Mary grew defensive. “I can assure you, with all due respect, Mr. President, that American companies also have intricate systems to conceal—”
“Not in the elaborate, complex manner that … Let me explain, Ms. Glass. In Nigeria, we have perfected this to an art form. It bewitches us. It gives us aesthetic pleasure. To us, this is the ultimate in hedonistic gratification. Talk to a mathematician. He will explain to you the crystalline beauty of a theoretical proposition of pure abstraction.”
“We’re in the realm of applied maths now, I think,” Mary said flatly. “The theoretical construct has been verified.”
“Who could have done this?” Kolo sounded awed. “He’d be worth hiring.”
“We don’t have time to find out. We need a way out of this problem. It could sink us.”
“I have my own little quandary, Ms. Glass, which could get me killed. If you state publicly that you needed to change the name of—”
“Done. I’ll give the job to Beano Bates. The ambassador will be forced to back him on it.”
“Bates?”
“Yeah, he’s the US ambassador’s son. Might have to train him to read first. He hasn’t got beyond comic books.”
“Hereditary affliction, then.”
Speaking of such afflictions, Mary wondered how the papers had got hold of her photograph, which she remembered Barbara taking during some adult education course in photography. She shook herself free of these musings. “And the other problem, sir?”
“None of the shares are in my name. The purchase must have been an initiative by some overzealous executive here. I’ll publicly fire him, with appropriate compensation, of course. By a strange quirk of fate, all my VPs are from small villages, so payoffs aren’t astronomical.”
“You’ll make a statement?”
“Both written and verbal, with the VP responsible for such an atrocity by my side.”
“Thank you, President Kolo.”
Mary cut off the call before he had the chance to sign off and trotted to Beano’s office. She swung his door open, catching him on the phone. He immediately slammed it down. His blush did not start from his neck and rise upwards, nor fan out from his cheeks, but most bizarrely dropped downwards from his forehead, like blinds. It deepened into a pleasing scarlet as she delegated Kolo’s task to him.
Only moments after Mary got back to her desk, Janet entered—new hairstyle, blonder, skirt tighter. “Cheeseman wants to see you.”
The eyes of the office were on Mary as she descended from her exhibit and made her way to Cheeseman’s office. Although she looked directly at her boss as he threw the contents of his desk at her, her concentration flew to the periphery, to the faces outside the glass walls, witnessing the mime of her disgrace. Later, she could not even recall what he had screamed at her. Only when she walked out of his office did her full senses return to her. Her colleagues’ eyes followed her back to her glass case, her footsteps echoing in the hushed silence, her head high, jagged face set in rigid despair.
Cheeseman expected her to sort out the insider trading fiasco before the end of the week. Worse still, he posted security outside her door. In effect, he had fired her, references contingent on her completing a public relations reversal. She wanted to collapse into tears, to crawl under her desk in a ball. Instead, she turned her unproductive shame into a more productive emotion-an explosive rage that wished to vent its power.
“Janet! In. Now.”
Janet scurried in, concern in her eyes but pleasure in her body language. “Hey, Mary!”
“Hey, Janet!” Mary mocked her assistant’s merry tones. “How are you doing?” She kicked the door shut with her foot.
“Uh …” Janet appeared to ponder, then made the fatal mistake. She aimed for a therapy-soft voice. “I dunno. How’s it going for you, Mary?”
“Fine.” Mary smiled a barracuda smile. “You’re fired. I want you out by the end of the day.”
“What? Why?”
Mary brought out a file, her tight knot of biceps bulging. “Here’s a dossier I have completed, dating back one year. It details the confidential information you have passed on to third parties.” Always precise, Mary had listed all of Janet’s known exchanges with Sinclair.
“Oh God! You knew?”
“Of course I knew, you idiot!” Mary threw the file at Janet, who was able to dodge it as a result of her work on core strength.
“Please, Mary,” Janet begged. “I didn
’t know she was a spy. She just kept buying me drinks. I didn’t know it would be published.”
As if a bolt of electricity had been applied to her dying body, Mary surged back to life. Janet had passed on company information to someone outside the company? This small fact would save her hide. This involved more than just the slug Sinclair.
“You signed a confidentiality agreement before you were hired.” Mary licked the skin around her thin lips. “Which I’m sure you remember. I would suggest that you provide us with full disclosure before you leave. Or you’ll be prosecuted.”
Janet began to cry.
“And we’ll need full details of your affair with Sinclair—both work-related and personal.”
“Personal? But—”
“Everything.”
News of Janet’s betrayal of information to the media spread immediately, while details concerning Sinclair’s disastrous sex life circulated even more rapidly. Relieved, Mary found that the debacle granted her the kiss of life within TransAqua, now that others knew how the vultures had acquired such dangerous facts—a terrifying occurrence, as such transactions were not exactly atypical of corporate life. The condemnation about to attach to her instead transferred to Janet. A pariah in the industry, Janet left without references, severance or a goodbye party, escorted off the premises by armed security guards.
Mary kept a wary eye on Kolo, trusting little in their pact, but he acquitted himself magnificently. The virtuosity of his performance captivated a contrite Western press corps.
“We are a Third World, developing, backward nation, with little knowledge of the minute intricacies hidden within the financial small print inflicted on us by the great institutions of the Western world.” Kolo grabbed a battered and makeshift lectern to contain his emotion. “This poor man,” pointing to the unfortunate VP, “does not even have an MBA! He is barely literate. Yet he wanted to advance his career in the water business. Is that such a crime?”
In return, Beano Bates’s dimples explained that the renaming of the Niger River was a mere “contractual technicality” (secured his hair behind his ears at this point) to distinguish it from the Niger River in Niger for internal purposes only. This in no way betokened (who taught him that word?) an actual change to the name of the great Niger River. TransAqua certainly had too great a respect for the great cultural wealth of the great nation of Nigeria to entertain such an idea! Four “great”s in two sentences, Mary noted-the most you could expect from Beano’s vocabulary.
Doing Dangerously Well Page 37
