The Shadow List

by Todd Moss

  “That’s a wrap,” she said curtly as the camera light turned from green to red. “Good show, everybody. See you tomorrow.”

  A crowd quickly formed around her. Funke handed over her microphone to one aide and accepted a bottle of bright-orange Fanta. In among the staff a young man with bloodshot eyes held out a piece of paper and a pen.

  “Sista’, autograph?”

  She smiled back at him. “How did you get in here?”

  The man replied by pulling a snub-nosed pistol from his pocket and—bang-bang-bang—putting three shots into her chest and, once her body hit the floor—bang—one more bullet through Funke’s forehead.

  18

  GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  TUESDAY, 6:22 P.M. EST

  Jessica packed light, as usual. One change of clothes, toothbrush, passport, cash, three cell phones. That was plenty for a quick trip to St. Petersburg. Going via Paris, Dubai, and Istanbul was an inefficient route but necessary under the circumstances. Jessica threw the items into a shoulder bag and walked downstairs.

  “I’m going now, sweets,” she called out. She hoped it would be a short trip. Get in, meet the Bear, convince him that she was his secret assassin Queen Sheba, get the next assignment, and then get the hell out. Quick, painless, and back home before anyone even noticed.

  She checked her carry-on again, finding a baggie of stale Cheerios and a copy of Treasure Island. Items left over from a past family trip to Fort Lauderdale. That was one hell of a vacation. Everything had nearly come crashing down in Florida.

  —

  Jessica had the confidence of a tightrope walker. As long as she looked ahead and kept moving, all was fine. But if she tried to peek down, to contemplate everything she was doing and how it was affecting others, she would start to wobble. She’d start to wonder about her choices. Even worse, if she glanced backward, she would certainly topple over.

  Her past was one of the secrets Jessica kept from her husband. She had told Judd about being born in Ethiopia, about witnessing her parents being murdered right in front of her eyes, fleeing to America, being raised by adopted parents. Revealing all that was unavoidable after the events in Zimbabwe. She’d had little choice but to explain to him why she’d gone to such lengths. And why she had had to manipulate her own husband into abetting murder.

  And then there was Florida and their close call on a Cuban naval ship. Judd now knew about her role in all of that, too.

  What she hadn’t told Judd was how this all was affecting her. How revenge, which had burned inside her for decades, when it finally came, brought no relief. Jessica had, since the moment she watched her mother die, been deliberate in everything she did. Planning her every move, stripping sentiment away, doing whatever had to be done without emotion. She was cold and calculating. She was a machine on a mission. That was how she lived. That was how she thrived.

  But now Jessica wanted to stop. Learning to be a mother and a wife was nothing like her other vocations. To her total surprise, neither serving her adopted homeland nor satisfying her personal bloodlust was ever as nourishing as creating a family. How clichéd, she scolded herself. But it was the truth.

  Jessica was still accepting this realization. She decided that she needed to show her feelings. Exposing weakness was okay. Having doubts was normal. Emotions were human. She now wanted to be passionate, even if it meant being less effective. Being less perfect. She told herself: Be more like Judd.

  —

  Judd appeared in the doorway of their home office. “You’re going already?”

  “I’m late,” she said.

  Judd frowned. “I didn’t realize you were leaving so soon. I hoped we could have a quick dinner before you go.”

  “Sorry,” she pouted. “Maybe you can order pizza for the boys.”

  “Sure.”

  “I won’t be long, Judd. The sitter arrives in the morning. She’ll make breakfast, get Noah and Toby to school and back, and then watch them until you get home from the office. I’ve arranged everything.”

  Judd was trying to hide his disappointment that she was leaving. He knew the deal.

  Jessica had supported him at every stage in his career. She had followed him to Amherst, she had adapted to the genteel rhythms of family life, and she had even agreed to the abrupt move to Washington, D.C., on short notice, all in good humor. Jessica had made endless compromises for him. She allowed—encouraged, even—her data geek partner to take a major gamble by leaving the safe and cozy life of academia for the trenches of the U.S. government. She encouraged him to test his ideas in the real world, to take some risks.

  Ever since his move to the State Department, Jessica had been his advisor, his gut check, and, when necessary, his cheerleader. Even as Judd learned the ways of Washington, and his Crisis Reaction Unit was racking up small victories, he was never quite comfortable. He was never sure what was real and what was theater. Was he really succeeding? Was S/CRU pulling strings behind the curtain? Or was Judd a puppet in some larger game?

  Jessica was always the analytical one. She was thinking three steps ahead, laser-focused on helping Judd achieve his goals, always keeping him on track. Judd was too emotional, too seat-of-the-pants, too filled with self-doubt. Judd was too willing to let his emotions cloud his judgment. He knew that he needed to be a bit more cold and calculating. He told himself: Be more like Jessica.

  —

  Are you listening to me, Judd?”

  He snapped back to the present. “Yeah, I got this.”

  “If you have to work late tomorrow, just let the sitter know. She can sleep over if you get in a real jam.”

  “I’ll be fine. The kids will be fine,” he said. “When did you say you’ll be back?”

  Jessica shrugged. “I’ll text you when I know. If I’m not home by Saturday, Toby has T-ball at nine, Noah’s swimming lesson is at eleven. Got it?”

  Judd nodded. “And where did you say you’re going?”

  She gave him an exaggerated scowl.

  “If it’s an evening departure from Dulles, then you’re probably going east. To Europe.” He scratched his chin. “I’m guessing . . . Moscow?”

  “Don’t do this, Judd.”

  “If you’re still working on Russia and it’s not Moscow, then somewhere warm and wonderful. Siberia?”

  She kissed him on the end of his nose. “I promise not to have any fun without you.”

  “I’ll take what I can get,” he said.

  “Every place has its charms,” she said. “Even Siberia.”

  “Or, everywhere is dangerous.”

  “Most places are both.” Jessica played along. “The world is wonderful and dangerous at the same time. That’s how it is.”

  “Well, I’ll be right here in warm and wonderful Washington, D.C. I’m not going anywhere with this London missing persons case.”

  “I’m glad that you’ll be home, here with the boys, while I’m traveling,” she said. “They need some time with you. You need it, too.”

  “Just be safe,” he said, giving her a kiss on the lips. “I told you, Jess. I got this.”

  DAY THREE

  WEDNESDAY

  19

  LAGOS, NIGERIA

  WEDNESDAY, 10:44 A.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (5:44 A.M. EST)

  The homecoming celebration had begun at sunrise. The party was in full swing for hours by the time it approached the big moment. A semicircle of young, muscular boys pounded a frenetic hypnotic rhythm on goatskin drums shaped like giant hourglasses. In the center, a dozen women danced, their hips shimmying impossibly fast, cheered on loudly by the audience. A banner overhead declared “Opening Ceremony of the Babatunde Hospital for Children: Investing in the Future Means Investing in Our Children.”

  Overlooking the ceremony was an implausibly tall man watching from an elaborate throne underneath a white sun umbrella. T
hrongs of people in Nigerian traditional clothing and Western business suits surrounded him. Cameramen wandered through the melee, logos emblazoned on the cameras from several local television stations, CNN, ESPN, and the publicity department of the National Basketball Association.

  At a break in the dancing, a rotund fellow in a traditional flowing Yoruba agbada robe seized the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, notables, friends. We are here to celebrate the greatness of Nigeria!” The crowd roared its approval.

  “Before I turn to our guest of honor,” the man bellowed, “I want to acknowledge all of the people who made today possible and who bless us with their presence.” The emcee went on to thank the governor of Lagos state, the minister of health, the minister of public works, a long list of local councilmen, the head of the women’s league, the ambassadors from Switzerland and the United States, and most of all the Almighty God.

  A special thanks was then provided to a heavily perspiring white man in a black suit, the vice president for emerging market product development at the Muller BioTechPharma Corporation. The Geneva-based company had pledged to donate free antibiotics to the new hospital as part of its global corporate social responsibility campaign. The pharmaceutical giant was thanked for this investment in Africa’s children and also for sponsoring the jollof rice and mango juice for today’s party.

  “All protocols observed,” declared the emcee. “Now I want to bring onto the stage our guest of honor and the reason we are all gathered here today. For those of you who do not speak the Yoruba language, you will not know that ‘Babatunde’ means ‘the Father has returned.’ Indeed, today one of Nigeria’s great patriots has returned to open the Babatunde Hospital for Children. The Oba of Lagos has declared a new chief of this area. Ladies and gentlemen, notables, friends, I give you our son, our father, our newest ambassador to the world, the NBA Eastern Conference’s leading shot blocker for three years in a row, our nation’s shining light, the patron of the hospital we are opening here on this blessed spot. . . .” The emcee took a deep breath for his big finish. “I give you Chief Tunde Babatunde!”

  Tunde stood up to his full towering height of seven feet two inches and waved to the applauding throngs. He read a brief prepared speech about the importance of children, why youth are the future, and how he always wanted to give back to his country of birth, to the land of his parents. He ended his moment onstage with an enormous smile for the cameras and a ceremonial cutting of a red ribbon across the front door of the hospital. A long line of well-wishers and VIPs then took turns posing with Tunde for the cameras, each hoping that their photo with the famous giant would be the one shown on television.

  A picture of Tunde Babatunde surrounded by a crowd would indeed soon be in newspapers and televisions across the world.

  After festivities wound down, Tunde folded himself into the back of a limousine and sped off to his hotel on Victoria Island. The big man relaxed, stretching his legs as far as he could, exhausted but satisfied with the day’s events. He was sure the Babatunde Hospital would be a success and confident the media coverage in Lagos and New York would be positive. Maybe he’d parlay the publicity to finally launch the line of designer sportswear he’d always dreamed of. Maybe basketball shoes, too?

  As Tunde’s limo crossed over one of Lagos’s many bridges, something hit the windshield with a splat. A bird? A rotten papaya? The driver tapped the brakes and jerked into another lane.

  “What the—” Another quick splat, splat, splat hit the car until the entire front glass was covered. The windshield wipers strained against the debris, smearing the muck and making visibility worse. Now driving blind, the driver veered the vehicle sharply to the side of the road, screeching to a halt.

  “Sorry, sorry!” the driver yelped. Then Tunde felt a violent jolt as the limousine was forcefully rear-ended, catapulting the basketball player onto the limo floor. Shouting erupted outside the car, deep voices barking orders in a language Tunde didn’t know. As he tried to regain his bearings and sit back up, the rear passenger door flew open.

  A masked man aimed an AK-47 at Tunde’s head. “Chief, you are now with us.”

  20

  UPPER EAST SIDE, NEW YORK CITY

  WEDNESDAY, 8:33 A.M. EST

  It’s an honor to be able to speak at the Council on Foreign Relations,” Congressman Shepard Truman said, opening his breakfast comments. He was perched at the head of a long U-shaped conference table packed tight with council members, the business and political elites of New York who regularly assembled there to get the inside scoop on world affairs. “I’m always pleased to speak here, just a stone’s throw from my own district, New York’s proud Tenth. As a member of the House Energy and Commerce Committee as well as the House Oversight Subcommittee on National Security, I want to talk this morning about the future of global energy markets. And how American policy is falling short.”

  Truman sat up straight in his chair, his dark-gray suit highlighted by a round red-white-and-blue medallion on his lapel, his official congressional pin that allowed him to walk freely into the Capitol Building. “I recently led a congressional delegation to visit with parliamentarians in our emerging energy partners in the Caribbean, West Africa, and the South China Sea,” he said. “And I didn’t like what I found. I didn’t like it at all.”

  Truman waved away a waiter offering him coffee and a cheese Danish.

  “First, I saw a shortage of American companies in the places where our future energy will be produced. Oil, natural gas, and geothermal are all expanding as the technologies are being deployed to find and exploit resources in new places. Countries that had never before been energy suppliers are now entering the market as a result of rapid advances in modeling, detection, and extraction technologies. But I didn’t see many companies from New York, Texas, or elsewhere from these great United States. Our energy companies should be out there, at the cutting edge. But I didn’t see them,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Second, I did see China. Our Chinese competitors are aggressively expanding their presence into the emerging energy regions of the world and securing long-term contracts to ensure supply for their growing middle class, their burgeoning cities, and their escalating energy demands.”

  The Congressman cracked the knuckles on his left hand.

  “It wasn’t only China. I saw companies from Russia, Turkey, India, and across Europe, all making strong plays for new energy resources. It’s clear that our competitors are all pushing hard to magnify and diversify their energy supplies. Now, we are fortunate in the United States to have been blessed with our own energy bounty. We have oil, gas, coal, hydro, wind, and sun. We are fortunate to have every kind of energy source that you can imagine right here at home. But, at the same time, we still do not produce enough energy to meet all our needs. And therefore we cannot concede every promising new global energy source to our competitors.” He looked sternly around the room. “Our national security depends on it. Our future prosperity depends on it.”

  The Congressman held up three fingers. “Third, I heard terrible stories of corruption. Oil and gas concessions are sold under the table. Decisions are subject to influence and extortion. Deals are signed on the basis of greed and graft rather than open, competitive markets. The bottom line is that the playing field is tilted and our companies are losing out. America is losing out.”

  Truman pointed out the window toward Park Avenue. “I regularly hear from investors right here in New York who cannot get a square deal, who cannot protect themselves from the racketeers. We expect the highest standards from U.S. companies. We expect them to compete fairly, to pay their taxes, to adhere to the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, to represent the United States proudly wherever they operate. But in too many places, this is becoming impossible because of the action and behavior of corrupt foreign officials.”

  He placed both palms on the cherrywood conference table. “To combat this growing scourge, I
will soon be introducing new legislation in the House of Representatives. The Truman Amendment will require the U.S Department of Energy, the State Department, and the Department of Commerce to jointly issue an annual scorecard on the business practices of our major energy trading partners. In the most egregious cases, the legislation will allow for sanctions and other punitive steps to be taken against those who are stealing the future. Stealing our future,” he said.

  “The intention is to name-and-shame the countries where under-the-table contracts have become the norm, to focus our own government on the threat this poses for U.S. national security, and most of all to shine a bright light on the cancer of corruption. When business must operate in the shadows, we get shady deals. When business operates out in the open, in fair, transparent, and competitive markets, then we see how market capitalism works best. As Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis once said, ‘Sunlight is the best disinfectant.’”

  “The Congressman has to catch the shuttle back to Washington in a few minutes,” interrupted the host, a woman sitting next to him with well-coifed black hair and a freshly pressed designer suit. “But he’s generously agreed to take a few quick questions. Please remember, we are strictly off the record.”

  “Thank you, Congressman,” said an elderly man in a faded gray suit. “Those are some pretty strong words about China, which is still our most important trading partner and the second-largest economy in the world. Aren’t you concerned about igniting a trade war?”

  “We’re already in a war. I met with a senior executive at Wildcat Oil just the other day. They are one of the innovative American companies using the latest in seismic sensors and big data processing to hunt for new oil reservoirs in locations where oil has never been found before. He told me that they’ve lost four contracts over the past twelve months to unscrupulous foreign rivals. They just can’t compete in places where government officials allocate licenses based on gifts and bribery. We cannot stand for this. If this ruffles feathers in Beijing, I can live with that.”