The Shadow List

by Todd Moss

  “How could I know? You should have just said no.”

  “I can’t say no to the United States attorney general. Just like you can’t say no to Landon Parker.”

  Judd knew Isabella was right. He was doing Parker’s bidding yet again. “So, what happens to your case now?”

  “The AG put Donatella Kim in charge while I’m gone.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “She’s fine. Donatella’s a Special Agent like me. We came up through field training together. She’s good. But she’s not me. It was my case. And I’m on this stupid plane with you going to West Africa.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Judd said.

  “You haven’t even told me why we’re going to Nigeria.”

  “I will. Once we’re wheels-up.” Judd put his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry I pulled you off your case. Let’s go to Nigeria, fix the problem, and get back here so you can rejoin your friend Donatella.”

  “You should have asked me before you had Parker make the call,” she said in a low voice. “We could have avoided all of this with a little backchannel communication. If you need me, you call me. You don’t have your boss call my boss. That’s not the way this is supposed to work.”

  Judd was deciding how to respond, when his phone rang.

  “Speak of the devil,” Judd said, and pressed the answer button. “This is Ryker.”

  “You on schedule?” Landon Parker snapped.

  “Yes, sir. On the tarmac now. They’re just refueling and then we’ll be en route to Lagos.”

  “Excellent, Ryker. Do us proud. Bring Babatunde home safe and sound.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “I’ll let Congressman Truman know you are on schedule.”

  “One more thing . . .” Judd hesitated.

  “Make it quick, Ryker. We’ve got the Chinese foreign minister here today. It’s a cluster and I’m late.”

  “I need your preauthorization for political asylum for Bola Akinola. It’s spelled A-K-I—”

  “Who the fuck is that?”

  “A Nigerian judge. He’s been working with DOJ helping to uncover corrupt government officials. But now he’s going to need U.S. protection. So I need you to tell the ambassador—”

  “Is the judge already in the embassy? Why haven’t I heard about this?”

  “No, sir. He’s in hiding. But he’s going to come into the consulate in Lagos once I’m in country—”

  “No, no, no,” Parker interrupted. “Tell him not to do that. No way.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Call him off. We can’t get entangled in Nigeria’s domestic politics. Not right now. Not while we’ve got these other problems,” Parker said. “Ambassador Katsina—”

  “Katsina? What does she have to do with this?”

  “Ambassador Katsina has been extremely helpful. I told you already. If we start meddling in their internal affairs, it’s going to throw everything off. Think about the optics, Ryker. The timing is for shit. We can’t do this right now.”

  “I need it, sir.”

  “Hell, our ambassador’s not going to like it, either.”

  “That’s exactly why I need you to preclear Akinola’s asylum. The embassy will slow-roll and then it’ll be too late to help him. You have to authorize it before I land.”

  “Why exactly would I do this, Ryker?”

  “His life is in danger.”

  “And I care about this judge why?”

  “Bola Akinola is one of our allies. He’s the one fighting against the cartels and the corrupt politicians. He’s standing up for democracy. For everything we’re trying to do in Nigeria. We can’t give up on him now that his own government is trying to kill him.”

  “Christ, Ryker! His own government? What is going on in that place? Kidnapping, scams, corruption. Now we have to save this judge from himself? Is everything falling apart over there?”

  “Things fall apart. That’s why you have S/CRU. That’s why you’re sending me. I need this.”

  Judd listened to Parker’s breathing, waiting for a reply.

  “Sir? Can you hear me? I need you to send a cable to our embassy in Nigeria. I need you to ensure that we can give sanctuary to Judge Bola Akinola when he shows up at the consulate.”

  “What do you suggest I tell Ambassador Katsina?”

  “Tell her whatever you want,” Judd said. “Horse-trade. Give her something she needs. Maybe make her think we have some dirt on her to buy some time.”

  “Do you have dirt on her?”

  “I need asylum for Akinola, sir,” Judd said, intentionally avoiding an answer to Parker’s question. Better to let him wonder, Judd decided.

  Parker paused, then groaned. “Okay, Ryker. I’ll do it. I’ll have my office alert the consulate. But don’t let this judge business sidetrack you from your mission. You’re going to Nigeria to find Tunde Babatunde.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And, Ryker, be careful.”

  The pilot arrived in the cabin. “We’re ready to go now, sir.”

  Judd nodded back.

  “I will, Mr. Parker.”

  “Your mission is hostage recovery. Don’t forget that. You can help this Judge Bola-whatever, but nothing gets in the way of rescuing Babatunde. I’m counting on you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Judd said, and hung up the phone, a satisfied smirk appearing on his face.

  Judd Ryker had gotten what he wanted from Landon Parker by keeping his boss happy, by projecting a convincing pretense of compliance that was just good enough. Judd knew Parker was almost certainly doing the same thing with Shepard Truman, keeping the Congressman off his back by providing assurances, by promising that he was doing everything possible. Parker was probably on the phone with Truman already, reporting that the special State Department rescue team was on its way.

  And then the game of favors and façades would be passed down the line. Judd wondered who Truman would be calling next, running the same line of assured promises. Everyone was pursuing their own goals, playing each other in a dense web of confidence games and smoke screens. Judd was getting the hang of it. And that begged the question: Who was playing him?

  As the jet engines revved up, Isabella Espinosa’s face softened and a tiny smile appeared at the edges of her mouth. “We’re going to see . . . Bola Akinola?”

  28

  PORT HARCOURT, NIGERIA

  WEDNESDAY, 5:25 P.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (12:25 P.M. EST)

  Huan was dying to get out. He’d been inside the compound walls for more than a hundred days straight and was feeling claustrophobic. Company rules dictated that all senior employees stay on campus unless escorted by an armed security detail. Many of the engineers got out regularly, Huan knew. They inspected the pipeline, visited with their local counterparts, and occasionally stopped at a restaurant for grilled meats and a cold beer. Sometimes they even met local women.

  But not Huan. As the company’s senior on-site account manager, his job was to stay in his office and oversee the money. He paid the salaries of local workers. He procured food, drinking water, and whatever else the teams needed to keep producing in the heat of tropical Nigeria. He also ensured that cash payments were made on time to ensure the safety of his colleagues and the continued flow of oil. This all meant staying put. Staying inside the walls. The most exercise Huan had gotten for the past three months was a morning routine of tai chi and an occasional ride on his bicycle around the dirt path just inside the compound perimeter.

  But today Huan needed to be free. The office felt like a prison cell. He needed to breathe the air on the other side of the walls, out in the open, just for a few minutes. That had worked in Venezuela, Turkey, and Algeria. Why not Nigeria?

  Huan locked his office door and grabbed his bicycle. He rode around the usual path, stopping at the main sec
urity gate to light a cigarette. The security guards barely noticed him. They also didn’t notice Huan and his bicycle slip behind a departing supply truck and out the gate.

  Once on the other side, Huan felt a surge of adrenaline. He stood up high on the pedals and raced the bike like an excited schoolboy along the road into town, a cigarette dangling from his lips. As soon as he was far out of sight of the compound gate and confident he’d gotten away cleanly, he slowed his pace to take in his surroundings. The colors were brighter and the sounds sharper than he remembered. He passed hawkers’ stalls selling green fruits and rainbow mounds of used clothes, a crowded petrol station, a buzzing taxi stand, a bright yellow-and-red Mr. Bigg’s fast-food restaurant.

  An Asian man on a bicycle in the middle of town might have turned heads ten years ago. But the presence of so many Chinese in the country lately had transformed him into just another part of the new Nigeria. While Huan was trying to absorb everything around him, to enjoy his brief moment of freedom, none of the locals paid him much attention.

  Except one boy on a cheap motorbike who had followed Huan from the gate.

  After twenty minutes the accounts manager decided it was time to head back. He pulled off the busy main road and down a residential street. As he did, the motorcycle cut him off.

  “Hello, Chinaman,” said the boy, his narrowed yellow eyes projecting menace.

  “What you want?” Huan scowled.

  “Where you going, Chinaman?” the boy asked, stepping off his battered Jincheng two-stroke.

  Huan tried to pedal away, but the boy grabbed his handlebars.

  “I say, where you going, eh?” the boy huffed.

  “What you want?” Huan repeated. “No trouble from me.”

  “No wahala, Chinaman.” The boy pulled a pistol from his waistband and pointed it at Huan’s chest.

  “No money! No money!” Huan shouted, holding up his hands and letting his cigarette fall to the ground.

  “No robbery, eh,” the boy laughed. “I work for Oga.”

  “Oga?” Huan lowered his arms and bent down to pick up the smoking cigarette and put it back between his lips. “Which Oga?”

  “The big one. The boss man,” he said, waving the pistol.

  “I already pay Oga. Every month.”

  “You pay?”

  “I pay! I pay! You call Oga. He tell you I pay already. That’s the deal. We pay. No one bother us. You keep the company safe.”

  “You have cigarette?” the boy asked, with a nonchalance that made Huan nervous.

  Huan pulled a packet of imported Chinese smokes from his pocket and tossed it to the boy. “Take it. No gun!” he pleaded. “We have a deal.”

  “I know you pay,” said the boy. “Oga tell me. Oga send me to find you, eh.”

  “What?”

  “Someone else pay more.”

  “What?” Huan winced. “Who pay more?”

  Pop, pop, pop. Three bullets fired from the gun burst into the Chinese man’s stomach. Huan crumpled to the ground, bleeding from the holes in his gut.

  “You pay. Someone else pay more, eh.”

  29

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

  WEDNESDAY, 12:32 P.M. EST

  I brought you Chinese food,” Serena announced with a smile, holding up a paper bag. “Pork lo mein and those shrimp dumplings you like.”

  “Oh, that’s my favorite,” said the executive assistant from behind her desk in the outer lobby of Landon Parker’s office. “You spoil me.”

  “Yes, I do,” Serena said. “That’s what old friends are for. I haven’t even begun to pay you back for all you’ve done for me.”

  “Well, thank you. You’re sweet.” The assistant lowered her voice. “You heard about what happened in London? With Ambassador Tallyberger?”

  Serena shook her head and leaned in close.

  “There was an incident at the Dorchester. That’s one of those fancy hotels near the embassy. The police had to be called.”

  “What happened?”

  “Diplomatic security is hushing it up, but I heard from one of the public affairs officers that they had to drag him out of the dining room.” She cupped her hand and mimed like she was drinking from a bottle.

  “That’s too bad,” Serena shrugged. “He seemed like a nice man.”

  The assistant sat back and contorted her face. “Puh-leeeze! Old Arnold Tallyberger? He’s been nothing but trouble. Don’t you remember what happened in Haiti?”

  “That was terrible. I’m trying to forget what you told me.”

  “It’s the forgetting that lets someone like that go to London, and then we have the police coming to drag him out. It’s undignified.”

  “Some things are better not gossiped about.”

  “You probably got that right. Let’s talk about something else. I heard Dr. Ryker is on his way to Nigeria. You got some peace and quiet, I guess.”

  “Nah. Not too much,” Serena said casually. “Always chasing things no matter where he’s at.”

  “I know that.”

  “Right now I’m trying to chase down the Nigerian ambassador. You know her?”

  “Ambassador Katsina? She’s a funny one. Real quiet, but she knows what’s going on. She was just here.” The assistant jerked a thumb toward Parker’s office door.

  “Here? Seeing Mr. Parker?

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And I missed her?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I know Dr. Ryker was hoping to get a meeting with her once he’s back. That’s why I’m chasing. But she’s slippery.” Serena put her hands on her hips. “She might just be avoiding me.”

  “Could be.” The assistant flashed a sassy smile.

  “Is Katsina in here often? To see Mr. Parker, I mean.”

  “Four times in the past month.”

  “Four times? For the ambassador from Nigeria? That’s an awful lot of face time for the chief of staff to give one ambassador, don’t you think?”

  “Could be.”

  “Any idea what they’re talking about? Maybe it’s relevant for what Dr. Ryker’s working on?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” the assistant said, opening the lunch bag that Serena had delivered. She stuck her nose inside and inhaled deeply. “It’s all closed-door. But they’re definitely up to something.”

  30

  K STREET NW, DOWNTOWN WASHINGTON, D.C.

  WEDNESDAY, 12:45 P.M. EST

  In her sixth-floor office, Mariana Leibowitz pressed the button on her treadmill to accelerate the speed. Forty minutes in, she was drenched in sweat and her heart was racing. But it wasn’t the workout that was elevating her heartbeat.

  —

  Mariana was comfortable in high-pressure situations. She thrived on stress. The lobbyist had built her practice exactly by taking on some of the toughest clients in the tightest jams. At twenty-two, she’d moved from Miami to the nation’s capital with bright eyes and brighter ideals. She wanted to use her publicity training and natural negotiating skills to make the world a better place. Mariana had gotten her start as a junior associate with a big public relations firm that represented foreign banks and embassies in Washington, D.C.

  From the inside, she saw how the firm collected hefty fees but didn’t deliver much for their clients. They arranged meetings, often with the wrong officials. They wrote press releases and, for a large bonus, placed op-eds in the newspapers, but usually to no effect. It was a con.

  She increasingly realized that her own firm was taking on wealthy problem clients, but mostly playacting because actual resolution meant the end of the contract. They didn’t want to solve clients’ problems. They wanted those problems to drag on forever, along with a robust retainer. All the commotion was a series of clever diversions. A con.

  The senior partner,
a former intelligence officer who had lost his security clearance from drinking on the job, called them decoy kills. It was macho nonsense. The PR firm was generating a lot of activity, pretending to be working hard to eradicate a problem but leaving the actual source untouched. It was all theater to keep the cash flowing. It was all a confidence game. It was all bullshit.

  Mariana held her nose and tried to learn the ways of Washington. But when her company declined to take on a jailed journalist in Egypt because the fee was too low, that was the final straw. Mariana quit to break out on her own.

  Leibowitz Associates International, her new one-woman shop, agreed to take the Egyptian case pro bono. She made a few phone calls, stopped by a few offices unannounced. She argued, cajoled, flirted, and horse-traded. Mariana triangulated between the State Department, the Pentagon, and the White House. She worked her meager contacts on Capitol Hill and in the newspapers. In the end, Mariana managed to get her client’s plight into the talking points of the Undersecretary for Political Affairs during a stopover visit to Cairo. Voilà, two days later the journalist was free.

  For that first client, Mariana had stumbled upon a winning formula. Make friends, collect information, trade favors, and, most of all, play American officials off each other. Turn the dysfunction and infighting inside the U.S. government to your advantage. If State and Justice won’t talk to each other, if the Pentagon and the White House are bickering, that was exactly where a well-connected outside force could exert maximum manipulation. This was Mariana’s secret to success. And fighting like a pit bull for your client.

  Over the years, she’d created a successful lobbying business at a prestigious K Street address all on her own. She’d built a reputation as a D.C. operator par excellence. That’s how she’d once gotten a private meeting with the Secretary of State for a no-name freedom fighter in the Congo. That’s how she’d repeatedly managed to ensure that specific spending items would be quietly inserted into the annual 1,200-page appropriations bill. That’s how she’d gotten the State Department to be aggressive after a coup in Mali that deposed the President, Boubacar Maiga. And how she convinced Judd Ryker to work behind the scenes in support of human rights lawyer Gugu Mutonga in Zimbabwe. And that’s how she planned to save the life of Bola Akinola.