The Shadow List

by Todd Moss

  Now Sunday was out of ideas. His eyes were bleary. His head ached. He wanted to sleep.

  “Hey, S-Man, Lucy and the boys are heading down to the Blarney Stone,” his colleague Glen said as he pulled on an overcoat. “I know you’re probably too busy or have to walk your cat—”

  “I’m in,” Sunday said.

  “What’s that?” Glen stuck out his chin.

  “I’m in for the pub. For a drink.”

  “Well, ain’t that a hippo in the Sahara,” Glen smirked.

  “It’s been a long, frustrating day. I could use a distraction,” Sunday said, turning off his monitor.

  “It’s about goddamn time.”

  “A pint of Guinness is just what I need,” Sunday said.

  “It’s Thursday, S-Man. Thursday at the Blarney Stone is Coors light and buffalo wings,” Glen said, arching his eyebrows.

  “We’re going to an Irish pub for light beer and chicken wings?”

  “This is northern Virginia, not Dublin. It’s not even really Irish.”

  “The Blarney Stone isn’t Irish?”

  “Yeah. The manager told me that it’s owned by some company based in Amsterdam that’s really owned by a hedge fund in Hong Kong or Singapore or somewhere over there.” Glen fluttered his hands. “Anything Irish about the Blarney Stone is just a cover to trick the customers.”

  Sunday plucked his jacket off the hanger on a hook he’d installed on his cubicle wall and zipped up. “A convenient fig leaf of misplaced nationalism?”

  “Whatever,” Glen said.

  “It’s clever,” Sunday said.

  “The Blarney Stone’s brilliant. You’ll love the buffalo wings.”

  A convenient fig leaf of misplaced nationalism, Sunday thought.

  “I’m . . .” Sunday unzipped his jacket. “I’m going to have to meet you there.”

  “What?” Glen blurted out.

  “I just have one more thing to do,” Sunday said, pushing the power button on his monitor.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Glen huffed in disgust. “I was so close.”

  “I’ll meet you at the pub,” Sunday said, waving him away.

  But Sunday’s evening plans had already drained from his mind. He shuffled his chair in close to his desk and reopened his list of oil company shareholders. Then he logged in to a classified U.S. Treasury database, uploaded his list, and ran an automated query to identify the ownership of each of the shareholding hedge funds.

  As he waited for the computer results, Sunday took off his jacket and carefully rehung it on the hanger. He pulled an aerosol can out of a desk drawer and blew the dust out of his keyboard. Just as he finished, his screen flashed.

  Results: 26,674 items

  It was a long list of every significant international oil company, their principal shareholding firms, and the secondary owners of those funds, along with locations where each was registered. He typed “Russia” into the sort field.

  Results: 1,040 items

  Still too many to search manually. He typed “Russia + US” for any company that had some ownership shared by both nationalities.

  Results: 56 items

  As he scanned down the list, he found mostly American pension funds invested in the big Russian oil majors or Russian banks invested in American oil companies. Nothing out of the ordinary here. Until one item caught his eye.

  Wildcat Oil LLC, 14664 Energy Corridor Park, Houston, Texas → Principal: Holden Harriman Quinn, 419 Park Avenue, New York, NY → Principal: Bolshaya Neva Fund, Nevsky Prospekt, St. Petersburg, Russia

  DAY FIVE

  FRIDAY

  44

  ELEGUSHI BEACH, LAGOS, NIGERIA

  FRIDAY, 7:08 A.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (2:08 A.M. EST)

  The hot pink sun had peeked over the horizon only twenty minutes earlier, but it was already heating up the humid West African air. The waves rolled in, crashing onto the beach at steady six-second intervals, like a slow-motion timekeeper. Judd Ryker stood stiffly in the sand, Isabella Espinosa on one side of him and Judge Bola Akinola on the other. The three had their eyes focused on the empty approach road to the east. That was the deal.

  “They’re late,” Judd said, checking his watch again.

  “Relax, my friend,” Bola said.

  The beach was mostly deserted at this early hour. It was a rare open space in the thick density of urban Lagos. A safe neutral place for just such a special delivery. A few homeless early risers had scurried away when the entourage from the U.S. consulate had rolled in before dawn. Judd, Isabella, and Bola had arrived with a small team of armed officers from Diplomatic Security, along with the embassy doctor. Bola had received a phone call earlier that morning with instructions to go to this exact spot at Elegushi Beach, exit their vehicles, and wait for the drop at 7:00 a.m. sharp.

  An unexpected twist was the arrival of a fleet of Nigerian federal police military-style trucks, which unloaded a platoon of heavily armed and helmeted officers. They fanned out in a menacing arc formation behind the Americans.

  “Maybe the police scared them away?” Judd offered.

  “Don’t worry, my friend. This”—Bola swept his arm toward the police line—“is just for show. It’s not for the militants. It’s for you.”

  “Me?”

  “The government wants to show its American friends that they are using the counterterrorism equipment you sent us. That we are taking this business seriously. The militants, they know the deal, too. They aren’t afraid. This won’t scare them off.”

  “Wasn’t this supposed to be a secret? How did the police even know about the handover?”

  “There are few secrets in Nigeria,” Bola said.

  “Who could have told them?”

  Bola didn’t say a word.

  “The entire deal could be compromised. They could kill him,” Judd said, imagining the newspaper headlines. And the phone call with Landon Parker.

  “Don’t worry, my friend.”

  “Isabella, help me out here,” Judd pleaded. “Does this seem right to you?”

  Isabella didn’t answer, either. Instead she scanned the approach road with binoculars.

  “Well, how long do we wait?”

  Bola took Judd’s hand in silence and interlocked his fingers. Judd fought the urge to withdraw his hand, knowing that in some West African cultures men holding hands was a normal gesture, a sign of friendship. Bola was trying to calm Judd’s nerves. “They will come,” Bola said confidently.

  Sure enough, several moments later a battered yellow minivan emerged from the side street about two hundred meters away.

  “Here we go,” Isabella announced, holding the binoculars with one hand and with the other pulling a gun from a concealed holster at her lower back.

  “You’re armed?” Judd was surprised.

  “You think I’m coming to a hostage drop without my Glock?” she said. “I see the driver plus three—no, four—males inside.”

  “What are they doing? Can you see Babatunde?” Judd asked.

  “Here they come,” she said, tightening her grip on the handgun. The taxi’s side door opened with a rusty creak. Like a giant crane, an enormous man unfolded himself from the van and stood at attention. His head was covered in a hood, his hands bound behind his back.

  “Is that him?” Judd demanded.

  “I can’t tell,” Isabella said, her binoculars fixed on the target.

  “It’s him,” Bola said calmly.

  “I’m going to get him.” Judd started to move, but Isabella swung her arm in front of him.

  “Not yet,” she said.

  A few seconds later the van’s engine roared and the vehicle peeled away.

  “Go!” Isabella tucked the gun back into the holster in the small of her back.

  Judd Ryker, followed by the embassy security team
, raced forward and surrounded the big man. Tunde Babatunde was exhausted from his ordeal but otherwise in fine shape. He seemed embarrassed by all the attention.

  Judd explained that they’d take him back to the consulate, do a full medical exam, give him a hot meal, and debrief him. He promised that, unless something unexpected happened, he’d be on Harvey Holden’s plane back to New York before lunchtime.

  Judd snapped a quick photo of Babatunde with his phone and then excused himself to make a call.

  “Got him,” Judd said excitedly into the phone.

  “What?” Landon Parker sounded confused.

  “Sir, sorry to wake you,” he whispered. “But I wanted you to know right away that we got him. Tunde Babatunde is safe and in U.S. custody.”

  “You didn’t wake me.”

  “We’re taking him back to the consulate and then we’ll have him wheels-up in a few hours. I’m sending through a photo now, sir.”

  “That’s the problem, Ryker.”

  “Problem? No, no. We’ve got him. That’s why I’m calling you. So you can let Congressman Truman know it’s all okay.”

  “The photo is the problem,” Parker said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Ryker, I’m looking at another photo of Tunde Babatunde right now. He’s surrounded by militants.”

  Judd’s heart sank. “I still don’t understand, sir.”

  “There wasn’t supposed to be any exchange of money. The United States doesn’t pay ransom for hostages. I told you that’s our policy.”

  “I didn’t pay any ransom.”

  “That’s not the story that’s going to appear in the press tomorrow. The photo I’m looking at right goddamn now is what the militants say they’re selling to the newspapers. They’re auctioning it off. This was supposed to be quiet. No press. No money. That’s why I sent you, dammit.”

  “I . . .” Judd paused, unsure what to say.

  “Ryker, how did you let this happen?”

  45

  MURTALA MUHAMMED INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, LAGOS, NIGERIA

  FRIDAY, 9:45 A.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (4:45 A.M. EST)

  The Emirates Boeing 777 landed smoothly and taxied to the far end of the runway. Okay, I’m in Nigeria, Jessica thought. Judd’s here, somewhere.

  On such short notice, Jessica Ryker hadn’t put her team into play in the usual way. This would be a high-risk mission cobbled together, with a high probability of something going very wrong. She ran through her plan: clear the airport, access the safe house, contact Sunday, locate Judd. There’d be no time for a surveillance detection route. That was a risk, she decided, worth taking, not that she had much choice. The bigger challenge was figuring out what exactly to tell Judd. How to explain her sudden appearance in Lagos? What for? And . . . when?

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Lagos,” the pilot announced on the loudspeaker. “Thank you for flying Emirates. The local time is nine forty-five in the morning. Please have your passport ready for inspection by the authorities. . . .”

  Outside the plane window, Jessica spied a long line of intimidating federal police vehicles. Armed officers patrolled the airport fence line and surrounded the main terminal building at Nigeria’s busiest airport. It wasn’t too many years ago that a brash criminal gang blocked one of these runways with oil barrels and robbed the airline passengers. Like a train heist in the Old West. The airport manager and local police chief were all fired after that incident. Now a heavy security presence was a permanent show of force to deter potential troublemakers. That and a presidential blanket order to shoot any tarmac trespassers on sight.

  The Lagos airport had also been notorious for chaos, with throngs of people running a gauntlet of bribe seekers, only to then be plunged into a feeding frenzy of taxi drivers, hawkers, and scam artists. In the 1990s the FAA posted warning signs at all American airports alerting travelers that the Murtala Muhammed International Airport in Lagos was a global standout in failing to meet minimum security standards.

  But that was not what Jessica discovered on this trip. After deplaning, she walked down a brand-new air-conditioned jetway and was led into the international arrivals hall. It was busy but well-lit and clean. No one would mistake Lagos for Dubai, but to Jessica this felt like a shopping mall you might find in Milwaukee or Sacramento.

  “How long do you plan to be in Nigeria, Mrs. Menelik?” the immigration officer asked.

  “Only a few days,” Jessica replied. “I have to be back in Geneva by Monday.”

  “What is the purpose of your visit?”

  “UN business,” she said, tapping her baby-blue United Nations diplomatic passport, another one she had acquired only eight hours earlier from a friendly fixer in the Dubai airport.

  “Ahhh, yes.” The officer smiled widely. “You are most welcome.”

  As her passport was aggressively stamped and she was waved through, Jessica’s mind returned to her task list. Safe house, communicate with Purple Cell, find Judd . . . but what to tell him exactly? The dilemma nagged like a throbbing toothache, making it hard to concentrate. She had just landed in a new place, with a new identity, on a last-minute mission for which she was barely prepared. She needed to focus, not be distracted.

  Jessica weaved through the crowd outside the airport. After a few moments she was relieved to spot her contact in a black designer shirt, holding a handwritten sign for Mrs. Menelik, UN Special Projects Consultation.

  What Jessica didn’t see was a well-built man, Caucasian, his bald head covered by a woolen flat cap, his eyes hidden behind mirrored aviator sunglasses. He’d sat at the far back of the plane to Dubai, and then several rows behind her on the connection to Lagos. The man had followed her at a safe distance through the airport, met his own contact by the curb, and then trailed Jessica’s car as it slipped into the death crawl of Lagos traffic.

  46

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

  FRIDAY, 5:05 A.M. EST

  Congressman, I hope I didn’t wake you,” Landon Parker lied. He knew Shepard Truman was a night owl. He even had it on good authority that the legislator had been out late the previous night, huddled in the back room of yet another D.C. steak house, meeting with donors and plotting for his run in the U.S. Senate. It was one of those Washington open secrets. Parker knew it was petty and childish to deliberately roust the Congressman rather than wait for a civilized hour. But Parker also knew he’d enjoy it.

  “Of course not,” a groggy Truman lied back. “You have news?”

  “We’ve got Tunde Babatunde.”

  “Oh, thank goodness.”

  “He’s now safely in U.S. hands. Judd Ryker is taking Babatunde to the airport for a plane back to the States as we speak.”

  “Did they hurt him? I mean, what’s his condition?”

  “Babatunde is fine. He’ll be ready to play basketball again. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

  “I appreciate that. Well done, Parker,” Truman said. “Please pass my gratitude to Dr. Ryker.”

  “I’ll do that,” Parker said. “I’ve got some less good news, too, Congressman.”

  “What is it?”

  “We’ve got a complication.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “The kidnapping story’s likely going to hit the press.”

  “You told me no media,” Truman squealed.

  “I know. It was out of our control.”

  “Out of control is darn right. You told me this Ryker would do it quietly. You assured me that you had your best man for the job. That’s what you said.”

  “Judd Ryker is our best man. He got Babatunde back safely. We believe the kidnappers may have sold a photo to the newspapers.”

  “There’re pictures?” Truman shouted.

  “I need to ask you, Congressman, did Harvey Holden arrange a payoff?”<
br />
  “Heck, no. Did you?”

  “The United States doesn’t pay ransom.”

  “Well, he didn’t pay, either. Our deal was that Holden wouldn’t do anything if I gave you forty-eight hours. So, what happened?”

  “I don’t have all the facts yet.”

  “What kind of rogue operation are you running over there at the State Department? How did your man even get Babatunde back? Maybe he paid someone off. Do you know how this Judd Ryker contacted the kidnappers?”

  “On cases like this, we work with well-connected local authorities. I can’t share any further details, Congressman.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, it sounds like you got railroaded by one of your own people. Or maybe hoodwinked by the locals.”

  “I’m looking into it,” Parker said.

  “Maybe Ryker’s connection to the hostage-takers was too connected? He sounds like a cowboy to me. Did you ever think of that?”

  “I’m looking into it, sir.” Parker glanced down at the British newspaper on his desk that his assistant had flagged.

  Nigerian Judge to Face Corruption Charges

  ABUJA—Nigeria’s attorney general today announced a formal inquiry into the business dealings of a former supreme court judge charged with leading anti-corruption investigations. The surprise move was sparked by allegations in the local press that Judge Bola Akinola . . .