by Todd Moss
—
As Mariana ran on the treadmill, she surfed the cable news channels. None of them were running anything on Nigeria. CNN was leading with the Secretary of State meeting with the visiting Chinese foreign minister to reduce tensions in the South China Sea. The screen showed U.S. naval warships on patrol, oil platforms under construction, and remarkably sharp Google Earth satellite photos of artificial islands the Chinese had built. Mariana grabbed the remote and changed the channel. Flip. MSNBC was reporting on the same story with the same stock video. Flip, flip, flip. Ditto over on the three networks. Flip. BBC News was running a special report on the end of the construction boom in Dubai. Flip. Fox News was airing a talk show arguing about the fortunes of potential future U.S. presidential candidates.
“A few months ago, I would have bet my left foot that our Secretary of State would be the next President of the United States,” declared the on-air pundit, a balding man with tiny round spectacles in a split-screen box. “But after the foreign policy debacles in the Middle East, Mexico, and now the South China Sea, her candidacy is all but dead.”
“I don’t think the Secretary’s quite dead yet,” argued a tall blond woman in another box on the screen. “But she’s on life support.”
“If she’s going to turn her fortunes around, we’re going to need to see some progress with China during the foreign minister’s visit today. I think this is do-or-die for the Secretary,” said a third talking head.
“What happens with China doesn’t matter as much as her ability to rally her own party. I mean, come on! How is she going to respond to the challenges coming from the governor of Idaho and Senator McCall from Pennsylvania?”
“What about Shepard Truman? The Congressman from New York is starting to gain attention. Politico is reporting this morning that he’s met with key party donors to explore a Senate bid. Truman’s a rising star—” Flip.
Mariana changed back to CNN and put the television on mute.
She decided to try again, sticking headphones into her ears and pressing REDIAL on her phone while she ran. The phone clicked, bleeped, and finally rang.
“Hello?” said a familiar voice.
Mariana punched the emergency stop button on the treadmill and tried to catch her breath. “Bola!” she gasped.
“Yes, Mariana. It’s me.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Are you okay? Are you safe? Where are you?”
“I’m very okay,” he said calmly. “Don’t worry, my friend.”
“But where are you?” she pleaded.
“I cannot say on the phone.”
“Who’s listening, Bola?”
“I cannot say. But I am somewhere safe. I have many friends and they are protecting me.”
“For now!” she snapped. “I have someone coming to help you.”
“Don’t say anything more on the phone.”
“He’s a troubleshooter. He’ll help. He’ll give you refuge. At the place I mentioned before.”
“Thank you. Again. But I don’t need help,” Bola said.
“He’s already on his way. Maybe you can help him, too.”
“Mariana, do you know about the tortoise and the crab?”
“What crab?” She wiped her face with a towel. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s an old Yoruba creation story. The tortoise and the crab.”
“Folktales?” Mariana exhaled. “Bola, you know it’s a terrible cliché for an African to tell wildlife fables to his white friends.”
“The crab and the tortoise are enemies. Everyone knows that.”
“Of course, everyone,” Mariana said sarcastically.
“Well, one morning the crab and tortoise are on the beach. It is a beautiful day and they both feel very good. The tortoise says, ‘I am the strongest in the world.’ The crab says, ‘No, I am the strongest in the world.’ They fight to decide who is strongest. But because both have hard shells, neither can hurt the other. The fight ends in a stalemate.”
“Are we talking about Nigeria or Washington, D.C.?”
“Let me finish the story,” Bola says. “So the tortoise says to the crab, ‘We are both very strong, but our shells are so hard that no one can hurt us.’ The crab says, ‘You are correct. We are both so strong and well protected.’ The tortoise agrees: ‘We are both the strongest in the world.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ says the crab.”
“Is that it?” Mariana asks.
“Almost,” Bola says. “Just as the crab and the tortoise are feeling good that they are both the strongest creatures in the world, a small boy walks past. He picks up the crab with one hand and the tortoise with the other. He takes them both home and boils them for dinner.”
“Okay, Bola. I get it.”
“I knew you would.”
“Sure,” she lied. “But I’m still sending my friend to help you.”
“If you must.”
“He’s our friend. You can trust him.”
“Very well.”
“You have to be careful, Bola,” she said. “They’re going to try again to kill you. They won’t give up.”
“Someone is always trying to do that,” he chuckled.
“You’re laughing? You’re telling animal stories? This isn’t a joke, Bola!”
“This is Nigeria, Mariana. We laugh. We tell tales. We celebrate life. That’s how we survive. Don’t you remember?”
“I don’t remember making jokes while someone was trying to kill me. What happens to all your hard work if you die? You aren’t going to let them win. I won’t let you let them win.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
“What for?”
“For sticking with me. For fighting for the truth. And for sending our new friend to me. As you wish, I will meet him.”
“That’s what I do, Bola. I’m not going to allow Washington to let a good man go down.”
31
FIVE FLOORS DOWN, K STREET NW, DOWNTOWN WASHINGTON, D.C.
WEDNESDAY, 1:15 P.M. EST
You’re a good man, Shep,” said the man raising a tumbler of special reserve Kentucky bourbon. “Here’s to the next senator from the great state of New York.”
The private room off the main dining area of the steak house was adorned with dark heavy wood panels and nineteenth-century antique lighting. The table was a heavy oak replica of one used by James Madison at the 1789 Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia. It was already laid out for the VIP and his seven guests with German steel steak knives and crystal wineglasses filled with a chewy single vineyard Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon.
The other men, all late middle-aged and silver-haired in finely tailored gray suits, held up their pregame cocktails in agreement. “Hear! Hear!” they chanted.
Congressman Shepard Truman clinked his glass with the others and took a hearty gulp. “Thank you, Larry,” he said, nodding toward the man who initiated the toast. “But it’s still very early. This is only an unofficial exploratory committee. I haven’t even gotten Barbara to agree yet. I’m working on my wife.” He winked. “But I’m going to need all of you and your help if we’re going to do this. That’s why Bob’s invited you here. To help me think through the options and the timeline. Bob, why don’t you run through the agenda?”
“Let’s get the business out of the way before the steaks arrive,” said a skinny man in tortoiseshell glasses at the other end of the table. “I’ve already established the political action committee, the Friends of Shepard Truman PAC. For now, that will run out of my law firm’s office and will be managed by Fred Faulkner. We’re in the early stages of starting to gather initial donations from Shep’s closest friends and family in case he decides to make a run. Shep’s most likely opponent, District Attorney Arturo Osceola, already has the police union and that prick governor on his side. So, gentlemen, we’re going to need deep
pockets right out of the gate. The next steps are to identify leads to build the legal, financial, strategy, and communications teams. That’s why I’ve asked each of you to be here today. You’re being volunteered.”
“What about oppo?” one of the men asked.
“Opposition research is quietly under way.” Bob got up and closed the dining room door. “I don’t want to say who just yet, but we’ve engaged a real bloodhound. We’re also starting counter-oppo. Sorry, Shep, but it’s unavoidable these days. Our bloodhound is digging into your life, too, searching for anything that Osceola might find first. If there’s anything that we all need to know, Shep, now would be a good time to share it.”
“Nope. I’ve got nothing to hide. Squeaky-clean. Bring it on,” the Congressman said.
“‘Bring it on,’” Bob repeated. “I like that. Larry, make sure you send that catchphrase over to the comms team.”
“Before we go any further, Bob,” interrupted one of the men, “why don’t we hear from Shep about his platform? Before we jump into campaign strategy and mudslinging, I want to hear about motivation and messaging. That’s what the big donors are going to want to hear before they write checks. What’s the Truman vision? Are you running on taxes, health care, or terrorism?”
“Good idea, Ralph,” the Congressman said. “I’m going to run on three issues: corruption, corruption, and corruption.” Shepard expected this would come as a surprise, but none of the guests reacted. “I know most campaigns are about what the candidate can deliver to constituents. It’s all about favors. It’s all about pork. ‘What can you do for me?’ Whose back can you scratch? Well, I’m sick of it. I’m sick of how Washington works. I’m sick of taking phone calls from demanding donors. You can’t believe some of the nonsense I do for them. And that’s just for a House seat. It’ll only get worse in the Senate.”
Truman took a deep breath. “So I want to run in exactly the opposite direction. I’m going to run a pork-free campaign. No favors. No deals. I’m going to run against corruption in the Senate, like selling earmarks to the highest bidder. I’m going to run against corruption at home, like no-bid construction contracts. And most of all I’m going to run against corruption overseas. I’m going to stand up for American companies to force a level playing field in foreign markets.”
“So it’s a pro-business campaign?” asked one of the men. “That’ll play in the city.”
“I’ve had enough of watching Chinese oil companies steal contracts out from under the noses of American companies by cutting crooked backroom deals,” Truman continued. “I can’t talk about it, but you wouldn’t believe what I’ve seen. Bribery, extortion, kidnapping.”
“Kidnapping? What are you talking about, Shep?”
“I think the American people have had enough of this crime and corruption, too. I want to put a stop to it. To kick things off, I’m going to introduce the Truman Zero Tolerance Amendment on the House floor. It’s a series of reforms at home and abroad to reduce the ability of criminals to poison our country. We’re going to start by limiting political contributions to curry favor.”
“Law and order hits in the polls,” said one of the men. “It’ll play upstate and on Long Island.”
“Sure, you run with the kosher thing, Shep. No one’s against that. But how about we hold on domestic campaign finance and lead with foreign corruption?” suggested another. “That’s less sensitive.”
“Yeah, I’m with Fred. An earmarks ban’ll be a heckuva tough sell with many of the party contributors. No one likes horse-trading, except when they’re doing it. Don’t quote me on this, old boy, but the whole point of political donations is to curry favor.”
“Larry, you had the restaurant swept for bugs, right?” Truman joked. “You never know who’s listening, boys.” Truman then turned serious. “I know this might present a problem for some donors. But I believe we can rally support for zero tolerance. If we stand up for what I believe, the money will come. I think the electorate is ready. I think this is what ordinary people want.”
Just then, a team of waiters invaded the room. Eight martini glasses piled high with jumbo lump crab were placed in perfect unison in front of each guest. “We begin with Maryland’s finest,” said the headwaiter. “For the main course, will it be the usual?” he asked.
Truman nodded. “Eight cowboys, José.”
“Very well. Eight thick-cut bone-in rib-eyes. I will tell the chef,” the waiter said.
“And another round of bourbon. We’ll save the wine for the steaks.”
The waiter bowed and led the staff back out of the room and closed the door tight.
“Before we go any further,” said one of the guests, sitting back in his chair, his arms crossed over his belly, “I think Shepard has to address the elephant in the room.”
“Which elephant is that, Mort?”
“We’re all adults here. We know how it works. Money doesn’t just magically arrive because people like your speeches or some legislation. You’ll be lucky if five percent of the electorate even knows about your zero tolerance bill. To win, you have to cultivate donors. You have to make promises.” He sat forward. “If you want to win this thing, you have to cut deals.”
“What are you saying, Bob?” Shepard asked.
“We’ve all read Politico. Hell, it’s been on Fox News all morning. Everyone in this whole town knows that Shep wants to run for Senate. And we are all here today because we believe Shepard Truman would be the best candidate for the party and a great senator for the state of New York.” Mort looked the Congressman directly in the eye. “But what we don’t yet know is how you’ll be competitive. If you go squeaky-clean, where will the money come from?”
DAY FOUR
THURSDAY
32
MURTALA MUHAMMED INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, LAGOS, NIGERIA
THURSDAY, 5:02 A.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (12:02 A.M. EST)
After twelve hours in the air, it felt good to escape the tube of the private plane. Judd poked his head out of the aircraft door. At the bottom hummed a huge black SUV and a thick-necked security officer with a wire in his ear.
“Welcome to Lagos, sir.”
A quick passport check at the VIP lounge, a handshake with the airport manager, and an exchange of gifts with a mid-level foreign ministry official, and they had arrived. Judd Ryker and Isabella Espinosa were in Nigeria.
The moment the embassy vehicle slipped through the airport gate, the sirens began. A three-car police escort led the way, clearing the road like a snowplow in a blizzard.
“Is this necessary?” Judd asked the security officer, holding on tightly to the side handle as the SUV veered aggressively between two trucks.
“Lagos protocol, sir. The Nigerians don’t want a visiting VIP stuck in traffic.”
“Traffic? At this hour?”
“It’s for your own safety, sir,” he said as they nearly sideswiped a crowded minibus jam-packed with commuters.
Isabella eyed the security officer. “Tell him to slow down, Officer. We can live with a little traffic as long as we get there alive.”
“Not here, ma’am,” he said. “This stretch of the highway is a hotbed for carjacking and kidnapping.”
Judd and Isabella looked at each other.
“Don’t worry,” the officer tried to reassure them. “Kidnapping has become big business in Lagos. Just like Caracas, Mexico City, and Baghdad. Every wealthy Nigerian is at risk, as are most of the expats.”
“Tell me again why we shouldn’t worry,” Isabella said.
“The embassy’s never lost anyone.”
Judd was deciding whether this was good news or not when his phone buzzed with a SMS from Serena.
LP 4 mtgs w Katsina in 4 wks. Something up.
Judd swore to himself under his breath.
“What is it?” Isabella asked.
“I don’t know.
Not yet.”
—
Forty harrowing minutes later, they crossed the bridge onto Victoria Island and pulled through the security barriers at the U.S. consulate. Once the Marine guards had sealed the gate, German shepherds had sniffed the car, and the all-clear was given, the security officer opened the rear doors of the SUV.
“Welcome to Lagos,” he said. “The ambassador is tied up in the capital, Abuja, and the Consul General is back in Virginia on medical leave. I’ll be your control officer. I’m under instructions to assist you with whatever you require.”
Judd and Isabella glared at each other again.
“I’ll need an office with a secure line to Washington, a discreet vehicle with driver, and I want to see the senior political officer here at the consulate as soon as possible,” Judd said.
“Done.”
“I need to speak with the FBI liaison ASAP,” Isabella said.
“Vacant.” The security officer shook his head. “There’s a DOJ detailee in Abuja on a short-term TDY, but no one posted here in Lagos right now.”
“No one?” Judd asked.
“No, sir. We’re short-staffed at the moment.”
“That’ll be all, Officer. Thank you.”
“What about your guest, sir?”
“Guest?”
“He’s waiting inside.”
—
Dr. Ryker!” announced the man sitting on the couch in the reception area. He was in his fifties, with a gray goatee, wearing an immaculate white Nigerian robe and a matching floppy hat.
“Judge . . . Akinola? Is that you?”
The man stood and gave Judd a bear hug as if they were old friends.
“I thought I was going to have to find you,” Judd said.
“You have just arrived and Nigeria is a complicated place, my friend. How could you possibly know your way around Lagos?”
“I don’t,” Judd said.
