The Shadow List

by Todd Moss

  “Who’s your friend?” Isabella asked.

  “What?” Judd cocked his head, confused.

  “The SUV with foreign diplomatic plates,” she said, keeping her eyes low. “The driver in the alley has been watching us.”

  Judd spun around just as a black Chevy Suburban bolted out of a side street and roared away.

  15

  CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  TUESDAY, 1:45 P.M. EST

  Russia. Sunday checked his data again and it kept coming back to . . . Russia.

  The big question was why. And now Jessica Ryker was going to St. Petersburg. She hadn’t told him more than she would be gone only a few days. While the rest of Purple Cell was digging for leads on the Bear, Sunday’s clear instructions were to keep looking for patterns in the attacks on global oil facilities.

  Kuwait, Venezuela, Equatorial Guinea, Iran, Algeria. He added the latest attack on the Chinese-operated platform offshore Nigeria when the control room was overrun and the staff all murdered. All sixty-four men. What was the point of killing everyone? Sunday thought as he typed.

  In isolation, each incident could be explained. Business disputes. Organized criminal extortion. Local politics. Pirates.

  Sunday knew the Nigeria flare-up was being blamed on militants in the Niger Delta. That oil-producing region was a maze of swamps and creeks that had long been a hot spot for armed groups. The trouble had all started as a legitimate complaint against oil pipeline leaks destroying the fishing grounds that local people depended on for a living. When their grievances were ignored, the protests grew over the lack of development. It wasn’t lost on those who actually lived in the Niger Delta that the oil, their oil, was making lots of people rich in London, Dallas, and Lagos. But no one in the Delta. Even the regional capital, Port Harcourt, was shoddy, with potholed roads, unreliable electricity, and a broken water and sewage system. People were pissed off and fed up.

  The Niger Delta militants gained notoriety after they began sabotaging pipelines and kidnapping oil workers. Groups started taking celebrity hostages, too, including the Delta state governor’s daughter, the wife of the Port Harcourt Police Commander, and the star goalkeeper of the national soccer team, the Super Eagles. Each was released after a ransom was delivered, but the real payout was the front-page headlines. They justified their actions as fighting for a fair share and bringing attention to their plight.

  Like so many rebellions that Sunday had analyzed, legitimate complaints turned to greed. The noble cause gave way to a petty thirst for cash. Militant groups morphed from freedom fighters demanding justice into criminal bands running extortion and smuggling rings. Gang leaders savored interviews on CNN, BBC News, and Al Jazeera, their faces hidden by ski masks, their pleading voices cut over dramatic clips of high-powered speedboats with mounted machine guns racing thorough the creeks. Email blasts sent to reporters around the world claimed attacks were on behalf of the Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta, or MEND.

  Locals, the Nigerian government, and the CIA all knew MEND was a public relations cover for any and every illicit activity in that part of the world.

  But so far, Sunday concluded, attacks in the Delta were consistently for money or notoriety. No one had ever slaughtered a whole team. What would be the point of that? In fact, mass murder would make the oil companies invest more in private security and be less likely to pay future ransoms. The deaths would almost certainly force the Nigerian government to react even more strongly. They’d be obligated to deploy the Joint Task Force, the Nigerian military’s special counterinsurgency unit with a notorious reputation for scorched-earth tactics. The Joint Task Force took no prisoners. And an American engineer, a father of two from Louisiana, was among the dead. This might get the U.S. Congress asking questions, which, Sunday knew, would mean that the Pentagon would be forced to get involved one way or another. Was that the reason Purple Cell was on this project? In anticipation of a U.S. military deployment? To secure oil facilities? No, that didn’t make any sense either, Sunday decided.

  Whatever the rationale, Sunday knew that this latest attack on the Chinese platform was a clear escalation. But it made no sense.

  Unless it wasn’t the MEND or local militants after all? The brutal tactics were closer to those used by Boko Haram. That radical Islamic group operated mainly in Nigeria’s northeast, far from the oil zone. They slaughtered young men and kidnapped girls as part of a terror campaign to chase away the central government and attempt to create an Islamic caliphate. Boko Haram might wantonly murder dozens of people, but . . . why this? They had never gotten involved in the oil-producing region before. And the Delta was a largely Christian zone, so the chances of expanding a caliphate there were close to zero. The tactics fit, but not the motivation.

  Before she left, Jessica had insisted that Sunday try to find a link to Boko Haram. While the Pentagon shied away from getting sucked into the Delta, they were increasingly involved in counterterrorism operations in West Africa. The United States Africa Command, based in Stuttgart, Germany, had even sent a special operations team to Nigeria to help coordinate intelligence-gathering and kinetic operations against Boko Haram. If the extremist threat was spreading from the northeast corner of the country to the oil region in the south, then the U.S. government needed to know about it.

  If true, Sunday’s project would no doubt be quickly taken away from Purple Cell. This would go higher than AFRICOM. If Islamic radicals connected to al-Qaeda and the Islamic State were now attacking Western oil facilities and killing American citizens, this was a major escalation that would pull in the Joint Chiefs, the Director of National Intelligence, the White House.

  Jessica Ryker had been very clear that the Deputy Director wanted no stone unturned on this. If Boko Haram was involved in oil attacks, the CIA needed to know about it first.

  The problem was that Sunday had found no such evidence. Nothing whatsoever pointed to Boko Haram.

  Sunday’s investigation had, however, found something unusual about this particular platform. It was situated in the middle of the Mega Millennium Field, which had been the subject of an unusually fierce bidding war because it was adjacent to a known geological formation that had already proven to be exceedingly profitable. While it was always in bidders’ interests to hide the true value of an exploration block, it was clear that the Mega Millennium Field was a prized concession. In the end, the Chinese oil giant Sinopec had won after beating out bids from Italian, Russian, Norwegian, and American companies. The local papers were filled with accusations of impropriety, one paper even publishing photos of Chinese workers building a luxury villa on land owned by the energy minister.

  Sunday’s alternative theory was simpler: business. What if the attacks were part of a protection racket? Or a scheme to chase away competitors?

  Sunday ran a statistical analysis on his database and calculated that Chinese companies like Sinopec and PetroChina had a seventy-two percent higher chance of suffering an attack than companies from other nations. Were the Chinese investing in especially dangerous places? Or were they being specifically targeted? If the latter, by whom? That would take more digging.

  As Sunday stared at the data on his screen, he suddenly had another question. What nation was least likely to be attacked? Sunday typed a few keystrokes and the result popped once again onto his screen: Russia.

  16

  ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

  TUESDAY, 9:03 P.M. MOSCOW STANDARD TIME (2:03 P.M. EST)

  Mother Russia,” said the Bear. “That is who we serve.”

  “Yes, of course, sir,” the soldier snapped. He was standing at attention in a neatly pressed dark-green military uniform, a matching flat-top hat with red trim, and a gold leaf pulled low on his forehead.

  The Bear was losing his patience. He shot a look of irritation toward Mikey, his bald British henchman sprawled on a white leather couch at the back o
f the room.

  “Then why are you late?” Mikey asked, sitting forward and folding his hands on his knees.

  “The train from Moscow, sir. There was a . . . delay,” the soldier said.

  “Bollocks. You having us off?” Mikey shook his head.

  “Do we need to go back to Moscow?” the Bear growled. “About you wasting my time?”

  “You wasting the boss’s time?” Mikey parroted.

  “No, sir. Perhaps next time we have urgent business that cannot be conducted over the phone, you could”—his Adam’s apple bounced as he swallowed hard—“come to the capital?”

  The Bear gazed out the glass window to the city lights below but said nothing.

  “You suggestin’ the boss should come to see you, my son?” Mikey sneered.

  “I mean, sir,” the soldier stammered, “I know the general would like to host you at his club in Red October. He has France’s finest champagne. Moscow’s finest girls. You could meet with the commissioner. Maybe the minister, too.”

  The Bear spun back to face the soldier. “Tell him,” he said, gesturing toward his sidekick.

  “The boss don’t go to you,” Mikey said. “The general, the commissioner, that wanker of a minister. That’s why they send a mug like you. If they want to see him, they come to the Bear.”

  “Yes, sir,” the soldier snapped to attention. “I will report back that you prefer to continue to communicate through a liaison or to meet in St. Petersburg.”

  “The whole bloody Kremlin will come here if we want,” Mikey said. “You tell them all who’s boss.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You tell them to remember who made them rich.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You remind those tossers about who started this business and how it works.”

  “Um, yes, sir.”

  “Vodka and toilet paper,” the Bear muttered, his eyes again locked on the twinkling lights outside.

  “Sir?”

  “Vodka and toilet paper,” the big man bellowed. “That was the beginning. The commissioner issued the vouchers and I made them sell. I made them all sell to us. From the center, to the people, to us. That’s how we built this. That’s how it worked for the vodka distilleries and the paper mills.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And that’s how it worked with steel and shoes. And that’s how it’s working with heroin and whores. Now that we’re a global enterprise, our business model doesn’t change.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They do their jobs and I do mine.”

  The soldier nodded and bowed his head.

  “Now the boss has set you right straight, what do you want?” Mikey snorted.

  “The general wants to know where we stand with the concession. Are we expanding or not?”

  “Working on it,” Mikey said.

  “I don’t think the general is going to be pleased. He sent me down here to get some answers about the next phase. Is Shenzhen accepting our offer?”

  “We’re taking care of it our way,” Mikey said.

  “So . . . no deal with the Chinese?”

  “Wot did I just fuckin’ say?” Mikey barked. “You fuckin’ deaf? I just said our way. I just said there’s no fuckin’ deal.”

  The soldier cleared his throat. “I believe the general would prefer—”

  “You tryin’ to have a laugh? Do you know who you’re messin’ wif?”

  “No disrespect.”

  “Didn’t the boss just get done telling you how our business works proper? You tell Moscow we’re doing it our fuckin’ way.”

  “So . . . when?” the soldier asked. “The general already assured the minister the concession acquisition would be complete by now.”

  “We’ve had a minor setback,” Mikey said smugly, sitting back in the sofa and putting his feet up on a zebra-skin ottoman. “Couldn’t be helped. But now we’re back on track. No more cock-ups. Our best man will be here soon to deal with Zhang-tao. A real proper naughty geezer. The Chinaman’ll be sorted by end of this week. You tell Moscow there’s nuffink to worry about.”

  “Mother Russia,” the Bear mumbled to himself.

  “What about the Americans?” the soldier asked.

  Mikey forced a smile. “Them Yanks haven’t got a fuckin’ clue.”

  17

  LAGOS, NIGERIA

  TUESDAY, 7:20 P.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (2:20 P.M. EST)

  It’s time to get funky!” the woman sang as she gyrated her hips to a heavy bass rhythm mixed with West African drumming. “Hello, world. Hello, my people. It’s me, Funke Kanju, and it’s time for the latest episode of Let’s Get Funke!”

  She danced to the music in a bright-red dress for a few more seconds in front of a green screen, one of her most beloved moves that had helped turn Funke Kanju into an Internet sensation across Nigeria and the diaspora communities in London, New York, and Houston.

  This was the point in the show when the producers would insert her regular opening montage: Funke with a microphone weaving through the crowded streets of Lagos, Funke playing electric guitar, Funke sipping tea with the Nigerian President, Funke kicking down a door with jackbooted police officers, Funke smiling mischievously at the camera.

  “Hello, world! Hello, my people! I’m sure you have all seen the news by now that the Lagos commissioner of culture and tourism has been arrested by federal police. I had the displeasure of meeting Mr. Kingsley Oluwa just last week. Ah-ah! What a man!”

  The screen cut to a shaky single camera. Funke was standing in an orange-and-pink print dress outside a brightly lit hotel just as a long black Mercedes pulled through the security gate.

  “Commissioner Oluwa, Commissioner Oluwa!” she shouted at the car, waving a bulbous microphone. “It’s me, Funke!” The car slowed and the back window lowered.

  “Mr. Commissioner, have you seen my latest movie, Last Flight to Lagos?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” said a chubby face in the window. “I see all your films.”

  “Mr. Oluwa, what should government be doing to support Nollywood directors like me?”

  “We are very proud of you,” said the commissioner. “Nigerian movies are seen all over Africa. All over the world. Soon we will overtake Bollywood. And one day Hollywood!” he declared, flashing a two-fingered victory sign and a toothy grin.

  “Ah-ah! So, what happened to the cultural arts fund?” she pouted.

  The commissioner’s smile evaporated.

  “Where are the four hundred million naira allocated to the film festival at Benin City?” she demanded, shoving the microphone into his face. “How can you spend the festival fund but have no festival? How does that happen, Commissioner?”

  The man tried to close the window, but Funke stuck her arm deeper into the vehicle.

  “Is that how you afforded this car, Mr. Commissioner? With the money meant for Nigeria’s young filmmakers?” she asked as the car rolled forward. “Have you spoken yet with the Crime and Corruption Task Force? Has the CCTF questioned you about the missing money? Have the police?” she shouted as the Mercedes sped away.

  The shot cut back to Funke Kanju in the studio. She looked directly into the camera and scrunched her face. “Well, my people, what do you think of that? My interview with the commissioner of culture and tourism didn’t go too well, did it?”

  She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “I guess Mr. Kingsley Oluwa can now answer those questions for the police.” A still shot of the commissioner in handcuffs appeared over her shoulder. She flashed a devilish smile at the camera.

  “Well, enough about politics. It’s time for the Nollywood Beat, oh! The most popular films produced in Nigeria this year . . .”

  The show continued with its usual mix of popular culture, news, and the signature of Let’s Get Funke, the peppy host’s muck
raking confrontations with public officials. Funke’s guerrilla journalism tactics had made her an online pop star. Her TV show had also helped turn her into one of the country’s most admired filmmakers and a cultural icon for millions of West African youth.

  “Tomorrow is a big day,” Funke declared. “Tunde Babatunde, the pride of Nigeria, will return home from America. Fresh off signing a new seventy-five-million-dollar five-year contract to play basketball for the Brooklyn Nets in New York City! That’s a lot of American dollars,” she said, shaking her hand like it was on fire. “I’m going to meet him, oh!” She smiled and stuck out her chest. “Our hometown hero is sharing his success by donating the new Babatunde Hospital for Children in central Lagos. Let’s Get Funke will be there for the opening ceremony. . . .”

  But Funke’s greatest success was far outside the public eye. Her cell phone was flooded every day with tips about missing money, government scams, and other boorish behavior of the country’s elected officials. She had become, more by accident than design, one of the most valuable sources for criminal investigation. And that had made her a secret ally of Judge Bola Akinola’s.

  “Here is a question that all of us should be asking,” she said with a cheeky grin into the camera. “How many planes does the office of the president require? Five? Six? Seven? No!” she said, wagging a stern finger at the audience. “Eight, chai!” She covered her ears and shook her whole body. “It cannot be! But that’s the truth. Eight airplanes for one president! What do the men at Aso Rock have to say about this? Aah, notin’. But they cannot escape the truth forever!”

  Funke passed on some of her juiciest tips to the Judge’s Crime and Corruption Task Force. Bola would return the favor, pointing Funke to a particular piece of evidence that he couldn’t reveal but that might, were it to somehow wind up on popular television, create a stir.

  “I’m Funke Kanju and that’s the end of another episode of Let’s Get Funke,” she sang as the theme music began.