Counterfeit (The Jim Slater series Book 2)

by Stanley Salmons

  “I suppose I asked for that.”

  “You certainly did. And after that we’ll fly on to India and pay a visit to Nissim Laboratories.”

  “Oh yes, we’re just going to drop in by parachute, all guns blazing.”

  “Not exactly. I figured Craig Quilter would take us there.”

  19

  It was a long journey: first the internal flight from Raleigh-Durham to JFK, then the supersonic overnight to Dakar, and then a subsonic from there to Nigeria’s capital, Abuja. Our hotel was in the Garki District, in the southwest corner of the city. By the time we’d checked in, Abby’s one goal was to have a shower and get some sleep. Fortunately she hadn’t arranged to see anyone until the following day. We met up again at breakfast.

  “Feeling better?” I asked.

  “Yes, thanks. You?”

  “Yup. Raring to go.”

  We took a taxi from a line outside the hotel. It drove swiftly along the wide boulevards and ten minutes later we were standing outside the NAFDAC building, a large and moderately ugly white plaster and glass affair which announced its identity with giant letters standing along the roof. It was blisteringly hot in the street and we were glad to plunge into the relative cool of the lobby.

  We were immediately accosted by an armed security guard, scanned, and conducted to a counter. Abby produced the necessary documents and passed them under a bullet-proof glass partition to another security guard, who brought up the details on his computer screen. Abby tried to explain that the visit had been authorised in advance but he ignored her. He looked back and forth between each of us and the mugshots he was viewing, then pointed to me and the retinal scanner. I nodded, put my eye to it, and stepped aside for Abby. As I did so I glanced around, now on high alert. There were at least four men with assault rifles discreetly positioned in the lobby; if anything did go wrong I suspected they’d be more than willing to use them.

  After what seemed like an age the security guard behind the partition picked up a phone. A few minutes later a young Nigerian in a dark grey suit came down to reception.

  “Colonel? Lieutenant? I will take you to the office of the Director-General.”

  I shouldn’t have felt tense but I’ve had some bad experiences in African countries. I was glad to follow him out of the lobby.

  Dayo Ojukwe was a large, cheerful woman in her fifties. She wore a colourful blouse and baggy trousers, the loose material patterned in brown and bright green squirls, with a high headpiece in plain bright green. It was a traditional mode of dress – the lobby of our hotel, which had been crowded with women wearing this kind of costume, was a veritable explosion of colour. She came forward and welcomed us with a firm handshake. As she went back behind her desk I noticed the flat, black shoes, like slippers, and her ankles, which seemed altogether too thin for a woman of her size. We took the chairs she indicated to us.

  I let Abby start. “Dr. Ojukwe, it’s very good of you to spare the time to see us.”

  The Director-General picked at her clothes, arranging herself in her chair, then settled back.

  “It’s no problem. We cooperate all the time with the FDA and the PHS.”

  The words were enunciated clearly and precisely, confirming what I already knew: this was an intelligent and well-educated woman. I’d looked up her impressive biog before the visit, and learned that she qualified in medicine at Oxford.

  “You’ll know, then,” Abby went on, “that we’re increasingly concerned about the marketing of counterfeit drugs in South America. It’s created resistant organisms that have caused a high mortality rate. Now the problem’s spreading into Mexico and the Southern States.”

  The Director-General smiled and tilted her head. “I warned your people about this a long, long time ago. You know, NAFDAC has been in existence for nearly a hundred years. We had support from the US over that time, but the attitude I’ve found there has always been slightly condescending – you know, ‘This is essentially an African problem but we’ll help because our policy is to provide support to developing countries.’ The criminal organisations behind this evil trade don’t observe national boundaries: this is a global problem. Now it’s washed up on your shores but it was only a matter of time.”

  “I’m surprised you’ve encountered that attitude; in the PHS Commissioned Corps we take the threat very seriously. I’ve just returned from Colombia, where the problem is malaria. But there are growing concerns about TB and AIDS in Mexico.”

  “Malaria, TB, AIDS. Yes, we have all those. And salmonellosis, and rickettsia, and tick-borne relapsing fever, and yellow fever – ”

  “All drug-resistant?”

  “Resistant to the usual drugs, yes.”

  “My God.”

  “Dr. Ojukwe—” I started.

  “Please, you can call me Dayo. It’s easier.”

  “Thank you. Dayo, in the past it’s usually been possible to identify counterfeit versions of a drug from small mistakes in the packaging. But in recent years they’ve been appearing in packs that look exactly like the real thing. In fact, we think they’re fake drugs in genuine packaging.”

  “Yes, we’ve come across that, too.”

  “You have? Well, we’ve identified a factory that may be producing them.”

  She laughed. “And you think you’re the first?”

  I think my jaw must have dropped. I stared at her, non-plussed. She continued:

  “Look, it’s all very well having suspicions, but you can’t get anywhere unless you can come up with rock-solid evidence. Small counterfeit producers make mistakes, so you may catch them out. Bigger ones are far too smart and these drugs you’re talking about, the ones in the genuine packs, come from the biggest operators. You visit those places and they’re always turning out nothing but legitimate stuff. It’s hopeless. Besides, the individual factories are just a small part of the problem. The real challenge is the organisation behind it.”

  I met Abby’s eyes. “As a matter of fact, we’d reached the same conclusion.”

  “Then why are you interested in this factory?”

  “We thought the one might lead us to the other.”

  “Ah, now that is the tricky part.”

  I nodded. “It is, but there has to be a weakness somewhere. What about distribution?”

  “Smart man. Yes, we pursued that angle for a while.”

  “And?”

  She rocked her head from side to side, as if evaluating it.

  “It’s not impossible, but it isn’t easy. When they ship the stuff they put the boxes of counterfeit packages in with boxes of legitimate ones. They reload the cargo into new trucks several times en route. At some stage the fake drugs get separated, but you do not know where.”

  “So you’ve never been able to intercept them?”

  “I didn’t say that. We had good reasons to suspect one consignment and the police let us impound it long enough to do some analysis. There was a mixture of fake and genuine. But it’s clever. They transport hundreds of the retail packages in big cardboard boxes. The boxes are identical – you simply can’t tell the difference just by looking at them. But we were allowed to take them apart so we found out how it is done.”

  “And how is it done?”

  She gave me a little smile.

  “I’ll tell you. The boxes with the counterfeit drugs carry a passive RFID – a radiofrequency tag, a chip smaller than this.” She showed us the pink, unvarnished nail of her little finger. “It’s not on show; they slip it under an overlap in the cardboard. One of the handlers carries a transmitter. Any time he identifies a box with an RFID he moves it to one side.”

  “But that means you could do spot checks on consignments, doesn’t it? You could pick up any counterfeits with a sweeper.”

  “We tried—”

  Abby interrupted. “Just a minute, you’ve lost me. What are you talking about?”

  “A passive RFID hasn’t got a built-in power supply,” I explained. “They work by being interrogated by a ra
diofrequency transmission. If you sweep the frequency you see a dip in the power output when it’s being drained by the chip. That tells you a chip is there and what frequency it’s operating on. It’s a standard countersurveillance technique. You use it to detect bugs.”

  “I see.”

  I turned back to Dayo. “So what was the result?”

  “We tried it on a consignment coming out of a suspected factory but we got nothing. You know, some of these modern chips are high frequency devices with a very narrow resonance band. And because they’re small you need to be injecting a large amount of power at exactly the right frequency to pick them up. Conventional sweepers won’t do it. It’s different for the handlers. They can set the exact frequency.”

  Abby frowned. “Well, how do they know what frequency to set?”

  “No problem. You wouldn’t suspect an email that said: ‘I’ll pick you up at 1178 Chestnut Boulevard at 9.20. No rush, the function doesn’t start until 4 pm.’ There you are. Eight figure accuracy straight away.”

  “So they set the right frequency on a concealed transmitter…?”

  “Yes. It probably has a vibrator or something to warn them without attracting attention. They pick up the counterfeits as they’re unloading the boxes and just put them onto a different truck.”

  Abby looked at me and grimaced. Dayo caught her expression and shrugged.

  “Like I say, they don’t make it easy.”

  “What about the consignment you did manage to intercept?” I asked. “Did you get anywhere with it?”

  “No. They change drivers every time they transfer the cargo. The men we picked up didn’t know what they were carrying or where it originated from. Tracing it back proved impossible.”

  We fell silent. I don’t believe in brick walls; even so I felt daunted. An operation like this called for large surveillance teams, access to satellites and recon drones. We had nothing like those resources. I wondered if the same thing was going through Abby’s mind. Just then she spoke up.

  “Dayo, when we said we had a lead on a possible producer of counterfeit drugs, you said we weren’t the first. Does that mean you already have files on suspect companies?”

  “Of course.”

  I glanced at Abby.

  That was smart!

  She continued, “Would you allow us access to that information?”

  Dayo shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Please understand, this is not hard evidence. The mere fact that we hold information about these companies is a delicate issue. If it became public knowledge, the companies could sue us for damaging their reputation and they’d probably win. It would cost us a lot of money. I can’t be responsible for that, so access has to be restricted.”

  Abby looked thoughtful, then she continued:

  “Let me tell you why I asked you that. We’ve been looking into an antimalarial called Quinoxocarb.”

  “I know it.”

  “Right. It’s made by an American-owned company, Kappa Pharmaceuticals. There are counterfeit versions on the market and we believe they’re coming from one or more of the laboratories they subcontract. We have a list of them.”

  Dayo’s eyebrows lifted. “You did well. Companies are usually very close with information like that.”

  Abby’s tone was casual. “Well, we did have to lean on them a little. But now that we have it we’d find it helpful to know if you have suspicions about any of those companies. For that, we don’t need the evidence, just the names. Could you give us that much?”

  She looked at Abby steadily for a moment, then reached for the phone. She spoke for a few minutes in another language – Yoruba, I thought – then, still holding the receiver, asked:

  “May I offer you some tea?”

  “Thank you.” We said it together.

  She added a few words and replaced the phone. I took up the conversation again.

  “What about the money trail? Money has to change hands at some stage. How’s that done?”

  “Right now we have no idea.”

  Abby said, “Could we monitor their communications? When they arranged to meet, we’d pick it up. If money was transferred between bank accounts we could pick that up, too.”

  “There’s something you have to appreciate.” Dayo tapped a finger lightly on the desk for emphasis. “If we know it, they know it too. They’re too smart to try a money transfer, and they wouldn’t be communicating in the usual way, either. I’ve thought about this a lot. If I were running a racket like this, I’d want to meet my subcontractors face-to-face. I’d pay them for the last consignment, tell them what I wanted next time, and set up the time and place for the next meeting. Job done. No records. No possibility of interception.”

  “And what kind of person are‘you’?” I asked, inviting her to continue the role-play.

  She smiled. “Someone who can travel legitimately between countries without attracting undue attention. Rich, powerful, well connected.”

  She’d surprised me. “That high up? I’d have thought you’d delegate something like this.”

  “The more people I involve, the harder it is to keep things quiet. For a confidential transaction I prefer to deal higher up the chain. And this type of operation is highly confidential.”

  Abby re-entered the conversation. “So you’re saying the person we’re after is a senior member of – what, a mafia-style organisation?”

  “Possibly. It would fit.”

  “Fit with what?”

  “The attempts on my life.”

  Abby’s intake of breath coincided with a knock on the door. A woman entered with a tray, which she put down on the corner of the big desk. She set out the cups and saucers and a plate of biscuits. Then she poured the tea and left. Dayo gestured an invitation with one hand and I tried it. I hadn’t tasted such a good cup of tea since I left the UK.

  “This is very good,” I said.

  Dayo flashed a smile that was dazzling in that bronze face. “The brand is grown here.”

  “Dayo,” Abby said hesitantly. “They tried to kill you?”

  “Yes, twice. I go everywhere with an armed escort but they still try. I am very proud of that.” She half-turned and pointed to a large photograph on the wall behind her desk. It showed a woman, not unlike herself in appearance. “Do you know who that is?”

  We shook our heads.

  “Dr. Dora Nkem Akunyili. She was appointed Director-General in 2001. Before her, there were no effective controls on drugs or food or even bottled water – the criminals had a free-for-all. She introduced proper certification, regulation, and inspection. Several times they tried to kill her but it didn’t stop her. She was a most remarkable woman. I am honoured to follow in her footsteps.”

  We sipped our tea in respectful silence. Now I understood the reason for the tight security we’d encountered downstairs. There was another knock on the door. The young man who came in was the one who’d brought us up to her office. He was carrying a folder, which he placed on her desk. Then he bent over, spoke quietly to the Director-General, and left.

  She glanced inside the folder, then pushed it across the desk.

  “Kayode is reminding me that I have another meeting in ten minutes. The list of suspect companies is in here. It is printed on plain paper. If anyone says it came from here we will deny it, of course.”

  Abby took the folder. “Thank you very much. I assure you this won’t go out of our hands.”

  I set down my empty cup and glanced at Abby, who nodded and turned to Dayo.

  “We’ve taken too much of your time already, Dayo. Thank you, you’ve been immensely helpful.”

  “Not at all. It will be good for all of us if you can get results. Just be aware of what you’re up against. You will take care, won’t you?”

  Abby nodded, and I smiled a reassurance that I in no way felt.

  20

  We flew to Delhi later that day and arrived, travel-weary, the following morning. Quilter wasn’t due in until the evening, so we freshened u
p, snatched a couple of hours’ sleep, and spent the rest of the day sightseeing.

  We returned to the hotel in the late afternoon, heads spinning from the clamour of streets swarming with bicycles, motorbikes, cars, buses, brightly painted Tata lorries and Mahindra pickups piled high with farm produce, the constant petitioning, the dust and the eye-watering pollution, the smells of excrement and drains mingled with odours of food and spices and the sweat of the multitude on the streets. We made straight for our rooms, showered and changed, and met again in the restaurant bar to wait for Quilter.

  Abby put down her glass and sighed. “I feel guilty,” she said.

  “You mean because we’re here in air-conditioned comfort, sipping cold beer, while those poor people are still out there.”

  She nodded. “I couldn’t wait to get into that shower, and at the same time I despised myself for it.” She frowned at me. “Weren’t you nervous at times?”

  It seemed a strange thing to ask.

  “Why should I be nervous? I didn’t sense any hostility, did you?”

  “For God’s sake, they don’t have to be hostile, do they? All they need to do is stick a knife or gun in your ribs and say, ‘Pardon me, no hard feelings, but hand over your watch and your billfold.’”

  “Close-quarters stuff. I’m cool with that.”

  “And if eight of them jumped you?”

  “Yep, I’m cool with that, too.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Oh yes I am. See, it’s very hard for eight people to attack you simultaneously without getting in each other’s way. You exploit that. By the time you’ve laid out three or four, the rest generally find their courage draining away.”

  “I see.”

  She looked dubious.

  “Look,” I said. “I’ve been through four induction courses in my career: the British army, the SAS, the SAF, and… well, you don’t have to know about the last one. In each case I had training in unarmed combat – different instructors, different techniques. Now I’m the instructor. At certain times of year I run courses for the new recruits to the SAF. Helps them, and keeps me up to snuff.” I jerked my thumb towards the street outside. “Those people may be poor but most of them are just trying to make an honest living. There may be one or two bad apples, it’s true. Still, if they tried something with me they’d be heartily sorry.”