The Shadow List

by Todd Moss

  “How long did it take me to get you an invitation for your friend?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Five minutes!” she bellowed. “I just love it when things work out like that. You make a call.” She snapped her fingers. “You need help.” Another snap. “And then your friends come through for you.” Snap, snap, snap. “That’s what having friends in the right places can do. That’s how Washington works.”

  “And that’s why you aren’t in handcuffs right now, Mariana,” Judd said. “Or being waterboarded in the State Department basement.”

  “That’s not funny, Judd. I’ve been waterboarded. It’s not pleasant.”

  “You have? I’m so sorry.”

  “No.” Mariana shrugged. “But you see how I disarmed you? I’ve still got tricks to teach you, Judd dear.”

  “How does your husband react to such tactics?”

  “Divorced. Twice.” She held up a well-manicured but ringless left hand. “Neither of them could handle me. They thought they could. But they were wrong.”

  “Why are you here, Mariana?”

  “Bola.”

  “What’s Bola?”

  “Not what. Who. Judge Bola Akinola.”

  “He’s your new client?”

  “Not a client, a friend. I would never accept money from an angel like Bola.”

  “So, who is he?”

  “Bola Akinola is the head of the Nigerian Crime and Corruption Task Force. He was a police officer, then a criminal defense lawyer, then became Nigeria’s youngest ever Supreme Court judge before taking over the CCTF.”

  “I’ve heard of the CCTF. They just arrested one of the governors, right?” Judd asked.

  “The Kwara state governor. For stealing highway funds to buy himself a private jet. Bola wrote the sealed indictment and his team executed the arrest. They grabbed the governor as he was trying to escape on a motorcycle—get this, Judd—while wearing a burka.”

  “Sounds like a Hollywood movie,” Judd said.

  “That’s not all. Bola was the one who prosecuted the energy minister last year for taking bribes from Chinese oil companies in exchange for offshore rights in the Gulf of Guinea. Then Bola was offered five million dollars in cash to let the minister go.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Bola taped the conversation, confiscated the five million dollars, and used both as evidence for additional charges of attempting to bribe a public official!” she announced with glee, dancing a little jig in place. “The energy minister’s case goes to trial next month. How’s that for integrity?”

  “An energy minister’s a big fish, Mariana.”

  “That’s Bola’s problem, Judd. He’s too good. He’s been investigating Nigeria’s top politicians. He keeps turning over rocks and finding worms. Snakes is more like it.”

  “Sounds like J. Edgar Hoover keeping dossiers on all his enemies.”

  “Wrong analogy, Judd. He’s not blackmailing politicians to expand his power. He’s more like . . . Eliot Ness and the Untouchables. A lone wolf fighting for justice in a corrupt system.”

  “You called him an angel.”

  “Bola’s a motherfucking superhero, Judd.”

  “So, what happened? Why does your superhero need me?”

  “I don’t quite know yet, Judd,” she said, lowering her voice. “I don’t want to know. But I think Bola must have discovered something he didn’t want to find. Whatever it is, he’s under tremendous pressure.”

  “Death threats?” Judd asked.

  “Yes, but he gets those all the time. Something’s changed. He sounded different on the phone. For the first time since I’ve known him. Bola sounded, I don’t know, scared.”

  “So, what do you want from me?”

  “Make some inquiries, Judd. Look into it. Watch his back for me. Bola Akinola is a patriot. He’s a good man trying to help his country. He’s sure as hell good for the United States. He’s trying to clean up Africa’s biggest country. Africa’s biggest market. The biggest oil producer. I need you to make sure the U.S. government doesn’t let a good man go down.”

  13

  LAGOS, NIGERIA

  TUESDAY, 3:05 P.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (10:05 A.M. EST)

  Big judge man, how you dey? God don butta my bread me to see you.”

  “I’m very happy to see you, too,” said Bola Akinola through his open car window to a boy in a dirty white T-shirt, holding up a sack of oranges.

  “You buy dis?”

  “No, thank you. No oranges for me today,” said the judge.

  “I dey hungry. I wan chop. You fit buy DVD?”

  Bola’s driver, Chuku, waved the boy away as he nudged the vehicle, an aging black Mercedes E-Class sedan, through the crowd. “Tsah! Go!” Chuku hissed.

  The hawker ignored the driver and jogged cheerily alongside the car in bare feet.

  “You aren’t trying to sell pirated merchandise to a judge, are you, son?” Bola asked.

  “Oh, no, big judge man. Dis good movie. First-class. You wan Yankee Hollywood? Iron Man, Star Wars, Happy Feet Two,” said the boy, flashing the plastic cases. “You wan Nollywood film? Last Flight to Lagos. Dis ha fine film. Funke Kanju dey inside. Dey ending too funny. Laugh wan kill me die. Good price.”

  “Do you have any children’s books?” Bola asked as they pulled slowly through a gate and into the courtyard of his office block.

  “Abeg, wait me, big judge man,” the boy squealed, then disappeared.

  Chuku eased the Mercedes into a space underneath a palm tree and then sprung out to open the rear door. Bola emerged from the car, sprightly for a man in his early fifties, wearing an agbada, a huge free-flowing robe, all white with fine gold trim, matching white trousers, and well-worn brown leather sandals. On top of his head, a matching embroidered soft gobi cap flopped to one side.

  He eyed the line of people that had formed outside his office, a whitewashed concrete building that had once housed a mission boarding school for girls.

  “Many people again today, Chuku,” Bola said, stroking the wisps of gray hair in his goatee.

  “I’m sorry we are late, sah. The traffic on the bridge was too go-slow, eh. I will drive better tomorrow.”

  “It’s not your fault, Chuku. The governor should have finished the new bridge by now. Life in Lagos will be better when the bridge is open.”

  “Eh, chief. Soon life will be better.”

  Bola handed his briefcase to the driver. “Take this to Mrs. Oshinowo. I will be inside in a moment.” He wandered over to the crowd outside his front door. “It’s a beautiful morning,” he said to the woman at the front of the line. “Why are you here today, my friend?”

  “Doctor judge man, my sister has moved in with a bad man who is trying to steal our father’s land,” she said. Bola nodded and moved on to the next person.

  “I have information about the Senator from Lagos East,” whispered an old man.

  “De Oga in Ikeja. Dey resell subsidized fuel,” reported an elderly woman. “De police, dey no care.”

  “We seek your wise advice for our marriage,” said a young couple holding a newborn baby.

  Next in line were three young men huddled together. “Chief, we have a business proposition. A big idea. Very big.” And on to the next, and the next.

  When Bola had finished hearing from each and every person waiting in line to see him, he thanked everyone for coming and begged for their patience. Waiting by the door was the street boy who had been selling oranges and DVDs.

  “I sell you dis, big judge man,” said the boy excitedly, holding up several books, a dog-eared used mathematics textbook, a tattered German romance novel, and a shiny new copy of Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss.

  “How much for the green book, my friend?”

  “Good price,” said the boy. “Three thous
and.”

  Bola tsked at the offer, about fifteen American dollars, and walked away. “It’s not worth more than five hundred.”

  “I have to eat. I wan chop. You wan big man to beat me? Two thousand.” The boy chased after him, thrusting the book into Bola’s hand. “You take dis, big judge man. Pay me tomorrow. Any price you wan.”

  Bola accepted the book and walked into his office. The air was hot and humid, like breathing spicy peanut soup.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Oshinowo,” he said to the woman sitting at the reception desk. “How is Timi?”

  “He’s better, Judge Akinola. Thank you. He was able to go to school today.”

  “Very good. I have this for him,” he said, handing her the Dr. Seuss book. “It’s very popular with children in America. I think he will like it.”

  “I am sure he will, Judge Akinola. Thank you and God bless.”

  “Give me a few minutes to read the newspaper and have my tea, then send in the first person. There are many outside today. It’s going to be a long day, Mrs. Oshinowo.”

  “Just like yesterday. You have calls from the attorney general, the governor of Cross River, the police commissioner, and your cousin Ife in Greenwich.”

  “Ife!” Bola snorted. “I will call them all back after my tea.”

  “And Funke called twice. She wants to interview you again for the show. In studio, tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Call Funke back and tell her yes.”

  Bola stepped into his office, which was even hotter than the reception area. He flipped on the air conditioner, but nothing happened. He tried again, with no result.

  “Mrs. Oshinowo!” he called out. “The AC is out again.”

  “No power today,” she replied.

  “Tell Chuku to turn on the generator.”

  “No diesel,” she said.

  Bola slumped into his chair and exhaled. “Where is Chuku?”

  A few moments later, the driver appeared in the doorway.

  “Where is the diesel?” Bola asked patiently.

  “No fuel in Ojota today, sah. I tried Ikeja, too, eh. No luck.”

  “Can you go to Victoria Island?”

  “Eh, chief. But it’s extra money. The rich people on the island pay too much.”

  “That’s fine, Chuku. We need diesel today. It is too hot,” he said, handing Chuku a thick wad of local currency.

  “Yes, sah. Right away.”

  “And on your way out, there is a small boy. White shirt, no shoes.”

  “The area boy selling books?”

  “That’s the one. Give him this,” he said, handing Chuku three thousand naira.

  “Okay, chief. Right away.”

  14

  DOWNTOWN WASHINGTON, D.C.

  TUESDAY, 12:15 P.M. EST

  Judd had been feeling cooped up in his office and needed fresh air, so he decided to walk the seven blocks from the State Department to the White House. The traffic was heavy for midday. Herds of taxis, government-plated vans, and diplomatic limousines crowded the streets around the World Bank.

  As Judd crossed 17th Street near the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, a huge black SUV with the telltale red-white-and-blue diplomatic license plates came to a screeching halt, nearly hitting him. Judd jumped back onto the sidewalk but kept moving.

  After skirting the crowds of tourists wandering by the front gate to the West Wing, he cut across Lafayette Park, past the bright yellow stucco of St. John’s Episcopal Church across H Street, to McPherson Square. As he strode across the grass, he spotted Isabella Espinosa seated at a table on the sidewalk. Underneath the bright orange umbrellas of Siroc, the Moroccan-Italian restaurant she had suggested, Isabella looked serious in her sunglasses and tapered dark-blue business suit. As usual, she was thumbing fiercely on her phone, her lips pursed.

  “You cut your hair,” Judd said, still catching his breath from his hike.

  “You’re still wearing the same suit,” she said without looking up.

  “Good to see you, Isabella. I’ve missed this.”

  “Me too,” she said, slipping the phone into her pocket and flashing a warm smile. “I did cut my hair. Mi madre hates it. Says I look like a boy.”

  “I think it makes you look younger. More intense,” Judd said, taking a seat at the table.

  “That’s what I’m going for. Justice Department youthful intensity. How’s the family?”

  “Boys are good. Jessica still busy. She sends her best. Thanks for asking.”

  “Any word from our Colonel Durham?” Isabella asked.

  “Not lately. Last I heard, he was deployed overseas again. I’m sure I’ll hear from old Bull once he’s back in the States. But he goes through these periods of total radio silence. It’s normal for the Special Ops guys to disappear.”

  “And then they just reappear. I dated a Green Beret once. I know all about it.”

  “You dated a Green Beret?” Judd raised his eyebrows and smirked.

  “Forget it, Judd.” She shook her head.

  “Was that back in LA? Before or after law school?”

  “I’m not talking about it. Let it go.”

  “You brought it up.”

  “No I didn’t,” she insisted. “I just agreed that it’s strange when people close to you have secret lives. When they suddenly appear, then disappear. It makes life complicated.”

  “You talking about this boyfriend or your mother?”

  “I said forget it. I hate talking about my personal life,” Isabella said.

  “Me too,” Judd said. “Speaking of disappearances, you find anything on Jason Saunders?”

  “I looked into your missing person. FBI’s got nothing. Looks like he vanished without a trace. The Metropolitan Police in London have opened a file at our request, but I don’t expect them to find anything. Do you know how many people go missing in London every year?”

  “I’m at a dead end,” Judd said, scanning the menu.

  “I would drop it. You’re a strategist, not a private detective.”

  “You’re probably right. S/CRU isn’t built for this.”

  “Good idea, Judd. I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”

  “One thing is bugging me, Isabella.”

  She took a sip of her drink. “Shoot.”

  “I can’t help but wonder if Jason Saunders was just very unlucky”—Judd winced—“or if he was targeted for some reason.”

  “If this kid was caught up in a scam—and that’s a big leap, Judd—it’s almost certainly random. That’s how those advance fee scams work. They throw out as many lines as they can and wait for someone naïve enough to reply. They spray and pray.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. I hope you’ve got another reason for buying me lunch.” She looked up with a mischievous grin. “I’m ordering the lobster cavatelli special.”

  “You mentioned on the phone something about the Nigerian Crime and Corruption Task Force. Tell me more.”

  “Nigeria?” She sat back in her chair. “What’s the angle with Saunders? The CCTF can’t help you find him, even if he disappeared in Lagos instead of London.”

  “Unrelated,” Judd said, shaking his head. “You told me that DOJ worked with the task force. You know anything about this Judge Akinola?”

  “Bola Akinola,” she said. “Smart guy. Highly capable. Akinola set up the CCTF. We helped him do it. He spent time in New York working with the FBI and DOJ teams, learning how we trace fraud, how we gather evidence, how we execute takedowns. He took our advice to heart and hasn’t looked back. The student became the master. Why are you asking about him?”

  “Just checking him out. I’ve heard he’s impressive,” Judd said.

  “Akinola’s been building cases and kicking in doors. He even took down a corrupt gove
rnor in Nigeria who was skimming millions off the state budget. You might have heard about it. Akinola’s built a little anticrime empire over there.”

  “So Bola’s succeeding in fighting corruption?”

  “He’s made a dent. He’s uncovered links between politicians and Russian arms traffickers. He was behind the Interpol warrant for the Director of Customs after he traced funds back to a Colombian cocaine cartel,” Isabella said.

  “Bola was behind that case? I remember reading about it in the paper.”

  “Yes. He’s certainly spread fear into the political class.”

  “So he’s making enemies, too,” Judd said.

  “Any time you target powerful political elites, you put a bull’s-eye on your back. That’s rule one of corruption hunters: Corruption fights back. He’s been investigating who’s behind the pirate attacks and pipeline sabotage. He’s gone deep into the Niger Delta militants. He’s playing a very dangerous game.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Bola Akinola is in the devil’s den,” Isabella whispered.

  “Are you saying that Bola’s too close? That he’s becoming corrupt?”

  “You ever see the movie Donnie Brasco?” she asked.

  “A mafia movie, I think.” Judd tapped his fingers on the table. “What’s your point?”

  “Johnny Depp plays an undercover FBI agent who befriends a mobster played by Al Pacino. Depp’s character goes deep inside the family. So deep that the line between criminality and justice becomes blurred. That’s a very thin line.”

  “Are you saying that Bola Akinola, the head of the Nigerian anticrime unit, is becoming a criminal himself?”

  Isabella shrugged. “To accomplish what he’s done, Akinola needed to build relationships. He needed to get close to some very dangerous people.”

  “So DOJ thinks he’s too close?”

  “I couldn’t say. But it’s a good question, amigo.” She picked up her menu. “What are you having for lunch?”

  Judd stared down at the menu but wasn’t seeing the words. Questions about Jason Saunders, Landon Parker, Bola Akinola, and Mariana Leibowitz all spun around inside his head. Was Mariana handing me a valuable lead? Or sending me into a devil’s den?