The Shadow List

by Todd Moss

  The host pointed to a young woman at the far end of the table. “We’ve seen a crackdown on corrupt practices in Thailand and Nigeria recently. What more can the United States do to support those efforts?”

  “They don’t go far enough. The Justice Department has assisted police departments overseas on select cases. But these don’t begin to scratch the surface. I’m talking about a global system that’s rotten to the core. Not a few bad apples. I grew up right here in the city, you know. And in New York you don’t bring a flyswatter to a knife fight.”

  “Are you proposing a budget plus-up for DOJ’s foreign anticorruption support programs?” she asked.

  “That’s something we’ll be looking into,” Truman answered. “If the Justice Department needs more resources, we’ll just have to find them.”

  “Final question before the Congressman has to run,” the host said, pointing to another council member.

  “Sir, we’ve seen a spike in attacks on American civilians abroad over the past twelve months. According to a recent report from the Council’s Center for Preventive Action, overseas civilian kidnappings are up forty-two percent over last year. Will your legislation boost the capacity of the United States to respond to such incidents?”

  “It’s an epidemic and an outrage,” he said, slamming a fist on the table. “More and more Americans are disappearing. Petroleum engineers, humanitarian workers, bankers, even tourists. That’s something that we all need to take a close look at. What’s driving the attacks? Who’s behind them? How can we prevent kidnappings? And especially what new steps must our government take when such incidents occur. We all have a right to demand some answers from the Justice Department, the State Department, the White House. Just this morning, before I came here for breakfast, I spoke with a senior official at the State Department about just such a case. I can’t go into any details, of course, but rest assured that I demanded that no effort be spared. All American hostages must be brought home quickly and safely.”

  21

  U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  WEDNESDAY, 8:55 A.M. EST

  Ryker!” Landon Parker barked. The Secretary of State’s chief of staff was standing again in Judd’s doorway. “I’ve gotten another call from Congressman Shepard Truman. You need to go to Nigeria,” Parker ordered.

  “I’ll have an update for you soon on Jason Saunders. I don’t think going overseas will be necessary. I’ve spoken with the FBI, consular services, and the embassy in London. It seems his employer HHQ—”

  “No, no, no,” Parker interrupted, shaking his head. “Truman didn’t call about that, Ryker.”

  Judd cocked his head to one side and winced. “Not Saunders?”

  “Keep working on that case. Sure. Keep at it. But right now I’ve got another one for you. This is strictly close-hold for now.”

  “Another one what?”

  “Tunde Babatunde has been kidnapped.”

  “The basketball player?”

  “In Lagos. Roughly three hours ago. It hasn’t hit the press yet, but when it does, they’ll go bananas. The team’s owner called Truman, and Truman called me.”

  “And that’s why you’re here now,” Judd added.

  “Exactly. I need you to get Babatunde back before anything goes public. Let’s end the story before it starts. Seal it before it leaks. Kill it before it crawls.”

  “So Saunders bumped the South China Sea, and now Babatunde is bumping Saunders? Is that right, sir?”

  “You’re my firefighter, Ryker,” Landon Parker said, taking a seat and shoving a stick of gum in his mouth. “I need someone who can handle hostage negotiations without getting the press involved, without creating some interagency circus that gets bogged down. We’re going to need Shepard Truman on the House Oversight Subcommittee. I’m sure you understand how important it is that he knows State is being helpful on this. So that’s why I need you.”

  “Got it.”

  “One of the owners of the Brooklyn Nets, Harvey Holden—”

  “Harvey Holden from HHQ?” Judd interrupted. “The same firm where Jason Saunders works?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Isn’t that a coincidence?” Judd scowled.

  “Ryker, I’ve been in government too long to believe in conspiracies. All I know is that Holden wanted to bring in a private security outfit to handle hostage negotiations and execute the exchange. But I told him no ransom, no outside contractors. Let us get him back safely. Give State a chance to turn this disaster story into one about a hero. He’s given us forty-eight hours.”

  “Two days? That’s impossible.”

  “Well, that’s what you’ve got, Ryker. Until Friday morning. The team wanted to call in the newspapers and the mercenaries. Truman promised the owner that we would handle it quickly and quietly.”

  “And that’s why you’re here,” Judd said.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Parker repeated. “Get Babatunde back before anyone knows he’s gone.”

  “No press, no interagency, no circus,” Judd said.

  “And no ransom,” Parker said, popping in a second stick of gum. “The United States government doesn’t pay ransom.”

  “Hostage negotiations aren’t my expertise. You know that, right, sir?”

  “You got the four soccer dads back from Cuba. Just do it again.”

  “Don’t you think that this would be better handled by the FBI—”

  “The FBI’s out,” Parker said dismissively. “They already screwed the pooch on this one.”

  “What do you mean, ‘already’?”

  “I can’t share any details. Hell, I’m not even supposed to know. But I think you should know. The FBI has been conducting a sweeping covert investigation of corruption in foreign embassies here in Washington. Ambassador Katsina, Nigeria’s representative here in D.C., is one of the targets. It’s damn inconvenient timing.”

  “Ambassador Katsina? Is she corrupt?”

  “Who the hell knows?” Parker shrugged. “But we sure as shit need the Nigerians right now. With Boko Haram. With these attacks on oil facilities. The peacekeeping operations in Sudan, Kosovo, and Lebanon. They’re rotating onto the UN Security Council next year. We’re going to need Nigerian cooperation on about a dozen critical issues of national security. Guns, drugs, terrorism—you name it and we’re working with the Nigerians on it. The FBI’s timing is total shit, Ryker. Whatever has the FBI all spun up about Katsina, it can’t possibly be as important as what we’re trying to do. I need Ambassador Katsina right now.”

  “You need her? On what?”

  “On everything, Ryker. She’s my backchannel to Aso Rock, to the Nigerian President. When I need to talk to him, to get something done, I call her, and she makes it happen. You get that, right?”

  “Of course, I do, sir. We’re going to need the Nigerians to help get Babatunde back, too. If the FBI wraps up Ambassador Katsina, that’ll definitely complicate matters. I wouldn’t expect any cooperation if we detain their ambassador.”

  “Exactly my point, Ryker. You get it. That’s why it can’t be the FBI on Babatunde. It has to be you.”

  “Can you get them to delay any arrests, at least until we’ve got Babatunde home safely?”

  “The FBI Director is going to throw a shit fit if another department tries to tell him how to run a criminal sting. I’m not even supposed to know about it. But I’ll find a way to hold them off. I’ll buy you a day or two, but probably not much more.”

  “I can’t do this by remote control. I’ll have to go to Nigeria,” Judd said. He’d turned on the mental faucet, his mind filling with a long list of people he’d need to speak with before he was wheels up: the Nigeria desk officer, the hostage specialist at the crime bureau, the regional security officer, Jessica, Sunday, and . . .

  “That’s what I said when I walked
in here, Ryker,” Parker said, standing up to leave. “You need to go to Nigeria.”

  “I’m ready. But I don’t think I have enough time to get to Lagos, even if I catch the flight—”

  “Already thought of that. You’re going private.”

  “A private plane?”

  “Courtesy of Harvey Holden. His long-range Gulfstream is already on its way. It’ll be at the executive terminal at Dulles and ready for the flight to Lagos at noon. That’s in three hours.”

  “Is that even allowed? Can a State employee take a private plane on official business?”

  “Unclear,” Parker said. “But if we wait for the lawyers to give us a ruling, it’ll be too late. Sometimes it’s better to ask for forgiveness than seek permission.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I knew you’d get it, Ryker. Let my office know if you need anything else.”

  “Just one thing, Mr. Parker,” Judd said. “My chances of success—our chances of success—would be greatly increased if I had a capable partner.”

  “Who? You want Gordon from policy planning?”

  “No. I need someone from law enforcement.”

  “I just told you that the FBI is out, dammit.” Parker spit his gum into the wastebasket. “Weren’t you listening, Ryker?”

  “Not the FBI. Someone from the Justice Department.”

  “Justice? Who?”

  “I need someone special. I need Special Agent Isabella Espinosa.”

  22

  LAGOS, NIGERIA

  WEDNESDAY, 2:31 P.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (9:31 A.M. EST)

  Don’t drive so fast, Chuku,” Judge Bola Akinola instructed, pulling one of his four cell phones away from his ear.

  “Yes, sah,” replied the driver, swerving aggressively through traffic.

  “Don’t be nervous, Chuku. We are safe.”

  “Eh, chief. We are safe. But this is the bridge where Tunde Babatunde was kidnapped this morning. I’m not going to stop.”

  “That has nothing to do with us, Chuku,” Bola said, tightly gripping the car’s backseat handle with one hand and his phone with the other. “My greater concern is that you’re going to crash. Or kill someone.”

  “Eh, chief. I will get us there safe.”

  Bola turned his attention back to his call. “Yes, Minister. I understand,” he murmured. “But once an official inquiry is opened, there is no way it can be closed without cause. It has to be completed all the way to a conclusion. . . . Yes. . . . Yes, of course. . . . I assure you that will happen. . . . Yes, I will personally share your concerns with the lead investigator. Thank you for your call, Minister.”

  Bola hung up and picked up another phone.

  “Chuku!” he shouted. “Slow down! You are a greater danger than the area boys.”

  “Yes, sah. . . .”

  “This is Judge Akinola,” Bola spoke calmly into the phone. “The police commissioner is expecting my call. . . . Yes. . . . This is the time. . . . No, I’m calling for the update on the Funke Kanju murder. . . . I demand to know what’s happening. . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . . Well, this is very pressing, too. Tell him I called again and I’m expecting a reply within the hour.”

  He changed phones and the tenor of Bola’s voice shifted. “Eh, Zina, I hear you have gotten yourself into trouble again, my friend. . . . No, no, no, you have a choice, Zina. . . . You can let me help you or you can take your chances in the creeks. . . . It is up to you, Zina: You can let me help you or you can choose a long, slow, painful death. . . . Those are your only choices, Zina. . . . Eh, I will send one of my people to meet you. Azikiwe Street, by the entrance to the university, she will find you there. In exactly one hour. Be there or there is nothing I can do to save you.”

  Bola swapped phones again, not noticing a yellow minibus taxi that was lurching forward alongside his car. “Mama, how are you today? Is Auntie with you—”

  “Crazy danfo!” Chuku shouted as the taxi swerved with several young men hanging menacingly off the side. The van’s side door slid open, revealing a masked man shouldering an assault rifle.

  “Go, Chuku, go!” Bola shouted and ducked.

  A slight merciful pause, then the attacker unloaded his weapon, raking Bola’s Mercedes with bullets, rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat! The windows exploded over Bola’s head and showered him with glass. The vehicles around them screeched their brakes, but Chuku didn’t slow down. He jerked the wheel sharply and stomped on the accelerator, crashing into the side of the minivan. The traffic came to a halt and an eerie silence fell over the scene.

  The next sound Bola heard was a spine-tingling shriek of metal scraping metal as Chuku forced the Mercedes along the minivan until the car finally pulled itself clear. By this time the armed man had gathered himself and stumbled out of the taxi. He moved in front of the van, taking aim for another round of shots at Bola through the rear window.

  “Go, Chuku!” Bola yelled from the floor of the backseat. But rather than drive forward, Chuku yanked the transmission into reverse and accelerated backward. The Mercedes crunched into the van, crushing the shooter between the two mangled vehicles. Chuku then slammed the Mercedes back into drive, sideswiping cars as he sped away. Bola lay on the backseat, the only sensations the sound of his pounding heart and the smell of burning rubber.

  The next thing Bola Akinola knew, Chuku had pulled the car through the security barrier of a gated shopping mall and come to a steaming stop. Bola tried to catch his breath.

  “Eh, chief. We are safe.”

  23

  GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  WEDNESDAY, 10:42 A.M. EST

  I’ll be right back,” Judd told the driver. He jogged from the waiting taxi into his house to grab the things he’d need. As he tore around his bedroom, Judd ran a mental checklist of what to take: emergency short-trip go-bag from the front hall closet, passport, BlackBerry, wallet, a roll of mints, and a packet of beef jerky. And his Boston Red Sox cap. That was plenty.

  A horn blared from outside. “I’m on my way!” he shouted. What else did he need to do? He’d already called the sitter to watch the boys for a few days, cleared his schedule with Serena, and canceled the Washington Post. What was left, other than going to Nigeria to rescue a kidnapped basketball star?

  And then get back home before . . . Jessica.

  Judd pounded out a quick text:

  All good. Boys fine.

  Gotta quick trip 2Nigeria. Sitter moving in. Back before u. See u @home.

  Then one last gesture.

  sorry xoxo

  As he pressed SEND, the doorbell rang.

  “I’m on my way—” Judd huffed, opening the door and reaching for his carry-on.

  “Hello, darling,” said an unexpected voice.

  “Mariana? What are you doing here? I’m on my way out. Wait . . . how’d you know I was even home?”

  “You promised me the United States wouldn’t let a good man go down.”

  “What are you talking about, Mariana? I’ve got to go.”

  “Bola Akinola. You promised me you would help him.”

  “You’re tracking me?”

  “Bola’s in trouble, Judd. That’s why I had to find you.”

  “Look, Mariana. I’ve been looking into Bola and what’s going on in Nigeria. Just like I promised. I’ll push the crime unit at State and I’ll do what I can with the FBI, too. But I can’t do it right now. I’ve got to go.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I’ll call you the minute I’m back,” he said, trying to brush past her. “Something urgent’s come up.”

  “It’s urgent for Bola,” she insisted, and stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “They’re trying to kill him.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know who. Bola’s got plenty of enemies. Maybe one of the governors or ministers he’s put aw
ay. Or someone he’s investigating. He’s probably getting too close. But who doesn’t matter now,” she said, waving away his question. “Bola was ambushed today. They chased him down in traffic and shot up his car. He barely made it out alive.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know details. They aren’t important. But you can see I need your help.” She took a deep breath. “Bola needs your help right away.”

  “Where is Akinola now?”

  “He’s gone underground. Into hiding.”

  “And what do you want me to do?”

  “Help, goddammit!” she snapped. “Call the FBI. Call the CIA. Get the ambassador to storm into the presidential office at Aso Rock and demand they stand down! Go down and bang on the fucking front door of the Secretary of State’s house if you need to!”

  “Mariana, I’ll make some calls—”

  “The Nigerian government has to know that America cares about this,” she demanded, grabbing Judd by both shoulders. “They have to know we aren’t going to just sit by and watch them destroy a good man!”

  “Have you spoken with Ambassador Katsina?”

  “Katsina?” Mariana scowled. “The Nigerian ambassador is no help at all. I don’t know what she’s up to. But she’s not going to help Bola. He needs you, Judd.”

  “How about I go to Nigeria and tell them myself?”

  “You’ll do that?”

  “That’s where I’m headed,” he said, motioning toward the taxicab idling by the curb.

  “You’re going now? To Nigeria?”

  “Nigeria.” He nodded. “Right now.”

  24

  DELTA STATE, NIGERIA

  WEDNESDAY 3:58 P.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (10:58 A.M. EST)

  Easy, chief. Easy, eh,” said the voice. A firm hand gripped Tunde Babatunde’s tree trunk of an arm, pulling the big man to his feet. The hand shifted to Tunde’s back, leading the blindfolded basketball star out of the van and down a muddy path.