The Shadow List

by Todd Moss

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be surprised. We’re talking about Nigeria, after all,” Truman said. “They’re all corrupt over there, you know.”

  “I assure you that I’ll get to the bottom of what happened and, if necessary, we’ll cut people loose. Heads will roll.”

  “I don’t want to tell the State Department how to do its business,” Truman said.

  “Of course not, Congressman,” Parker said through gritted teeth.

  “But maybe this Judd Ryker isn’t what you think, either?”

  47

  LAGOS, NIGERIA

  FRIDAY, 11:30 A.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (6:30 A.M. EST)

  What’s with the traffic?” Jessica huffed.

  “Welcome to Lagos,” her contact said from the driver’s seat, waving at the parking lot of cars. Out the windshield, they could see an endless caravan of vehicles stretched ahead of them.

  “How do you ever run SDRs here?” she asked, looking out the back window to find another long line of cars and trucks. “How can you even move?”

  “We have our own ways to run surveillance detection routes, ma’am. Would you like me to take the next exit and double back?”

  “Negative. No time.” Jessica slumped back in her seat and fidgeted with her phone. “How much longer to the safe house?”

  “I couldn’t say, ma’am. Hopefully not more than another hour,” he said.

  That’s too long, she thought. She still had too much to do, too many pieces to put in place. Just sitting here wasn’t an option. She had to improvise.

  “Do you have all the materials I requested?”

  “Yes, ma’am. They’re in the trunk.”

  “Pull over.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Pull over!” she ordered. The driver veered the car to the side of the road.

  “Now get out,” she said, stepping from the car and opening the driver’s door. “You find a taxi. I’m taking the car.”

  “Ma’am, are you sure this is a good idea? Lagos is not the kind of place—”

  “Give me your shirt,” she demanded.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Your shirt. Give it to me now.”

  The driver, now thoroughly confused, unbuttoned his shirt and sheepishly held it out. Jessica grabbed it, slipped behind the wheel, and slammed the door shut. She lurched the car into the sea of pedestrian traffic and leaned on the horn. Once she was on her way and the driver far behind in the rearview mirror, she punched a number into her phone.

  “Aaay,” Sunday answered.

  “Drop everything,” Jessica said over the sound of her honking. “I’ve got a new plan and I need your help.”

  —

  Six minutes later, in another part of the city, Judd Ryker was sitting on the floor in the back of a cramped windowless van when his phone rang.

  “Sunday, I don’t have time to talk,” he said, his body bobbing from side to side as the van rumbled around potholes.

  “Dr. Ryker, are you on your way to the airport?”

  “Yes,” Judd said, shrugging toward Isabella, who was crouched next to him. “How do you know that?”

  “That’s why I’m calling,” Sunday said. “Are you taking Babatunde to Murtala Airport?”

  “Maybe,” he said, stealing a glance at the huge basketball star sitting cross-legged across from him. “Why are you asking?”

  “Are you with Judge Akinola?”

  Judd made eye contact with Bola. “What’s . . . going on, Sunday? How do you know all of this?”

  “Do you have security with you?”

  “Yes, yes.” Judd was getting nervous with all the questioning. “We’re in an undercover vehicle heading to the airport and we have diplomatic security with us. What’s the problem?”

  “You have to change routes,” Sunday insisted.

  “What?”

  “We have real-time intel chatter that Bola Akinola is the target of an assassination plot. Right now. You’re driving straight into an ambush.”

  “What chatter?”

  “You know I can’t say. You need to listen to me, Dr. Ryker.”

  “How could anyone know our vehicle? How would anyone even know that the judge is with us?”

  “I knew,” Sunday said. “That’s why I need you to listen and follow my instructions. I’m tracking your location right now.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t take the Third Mainland Bridge. Get off the expressways.”

  “What?”

  “Tell the driver now. Take the next exit to the west.”

  “If we’re walking into danger—”

  “What danger?” Isabella interrupted.

  “Dr. Ryker, for your own safety,” Sunday pleaded. “I’ve mapped a safer route. I’ll talk you through it. Tell the driver to take the next exit. Right. Now.”

  “Tell me what danger, Judd,” Isabella demanded. “Qué carajos! What the hell is going on?”

  The line buzzed loudly and then went silent. “Sunday? Sunday?” Judd called into the dead phone.

  “Who the hell is Sunday?” Isabella snarled.

  “We need to change course,” Judd barked. “Stop the van.”

  Isabella was about to unleash a barrage of new questions, when Judd’s phone rang again. Thank goodness, he thought. Until he saw the caller ID. Oh, no.

  “What now?” Isabella asked.

  “Please, Judd, tell us what is happening,” Bola asked calmly. Tunde Babatunde nodded nervously and his long frame leaned forward.

  “I have to take this,” Judd said, and pressed the ANSWER button. “This is Ryker.”

  “Ryker, are we exposed?” Landon Parker demanded.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Your fuckup with the press. The Babatunde photo that’s likely running in the newspapers tomorrow. Are we exposed?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know. Can I call you back?”

  “I need to know who paid off the kidnappers.”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “You don’t know? Or are you telling me it’s better not to ask?”

  “Sir, this is not a good time for—”

  “You’re taking Babatunde to the airport, right?”

  “I’ll call you back, sir. I promise. I have to get off the phone now.”

  “Ryker, while you’re playing cloak and dagger, I’ve got the FBI on the other line. I need to confirm that Babatunde is in safe custody and we’re all straight with the Nigerians. The FBI’s ready to release the attack dogs against a major international crime target. I’m holding the leash until you confirm that Babatunde is safe and on his way back. Are you telling me I can let the dogs off the leash?”

  “Yes, sir,” Judd said. He was about to hang up when Parker spoke up.

  “One more thing, Ryker. I know I told you before that you could help this Judge Akeema-something-or-other.”

  “Bola Akinola,” Judd said.

  “That’s off.”

  “Sir?” Judd said, locking eyes with Bola.

  “Cut him loose.”

  “I don’t think that’s—”

  “He’s a liability,” Parker snapped. “The Nigerian attorney general has passed new evidence to us through their ambassador here in Washington that looks pretty bad for your judge. Have you seen the press reports? Looks like he’s dirty and we need to keep our distance. I just spoke with Ambassador Katsina and she says—”

  “Katsina? You can’t believe anything she’s telling you.”

  “You don’t have the big picture, Ryker. You’re going to have to take my word for it that this Akinola is bad news. Katsina is in and Akinola is out. We cannot be associated with him. You got that?”

  “Sir—”

  “I want you back here, Ryker. Back on the South China Sea.” />
  “Sir, if I may—”

  “You heard me, Ryker. That’s an order. Cut the judge loose before it gets any worse. You can’t get played by someone taking advantage of his contacts in the United States for protection.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Look, Ryker. There’s going to be an inquiry about this whole hostage ransom thing. We need to show that we’ve been prudent here. If it comes to a congressional hearing, I need to be able to swear on the Bible that we immediately cut ties once we learned the judge was corrupt.”

  “We don’t know that’s true—”

  “They’ve issued an arrest warrant and the Nigerian federal police are now hunting for him. An Interpol notice will go out within the hour. Every airport on the planet will be on watch. In fact, if this Judge Akinola calls you again, advise him to turn himself in. And if you see him, have diplomatic security detain him. Just do it, Ryker.”

  The line went dead.

  “Judd.” Isabella was exasperated. “What the hell is going on?”

  48

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  FRIDAY, 6:42 A.M. EST

  Viper Six, clear on Massachusetts Avenue,” the radio blared.

  “Roger that, Viper Six. Viper Seven, what’s your status?” the Justice Department’s Donatella Kim called into her handset.

  Special Agent Kim had come up through DOJ with Isabella Espinosa. The two hit it off from the first day of field training, bonding over being the only two minority women in the training class, each surviving an overbearing immigrant mother, and a mutual love of cheesy vintage cop shows like Charlie’s Angels, Hill Street Blues, and Magnum, P.I.

  “Viper Seven, we’re making a final pass by our target now. We’ll be in position in sixty seconds,” the radio reported.

  “Roger that, Viper Seven,” Donatella said. “Viper Eight?”

  “Viper Eight, clear on Wisconsin.”

  “Roger that, Viper Eight. All units, stand by.”

  The plainclothes officer in the front spun around in his seat. “Just waiting for your go-order, Special Agent Kim.”

  “Espinosa should be here right now,” Donatella said aloud. “It’s not right that she’s missing this.”

  “I heard she was sent to Somalia or someplace like that.”

  “Someplace like that,” Donatella said. “This was her investigation. Her operation. She should really be here.”

  The radio crackled with static.

  “Still waiting on your go-order, ma’am.”

  “Let’s run through it once more.”

  “We’re here off Embassy Row,” the officer said, pointing to a white flashing light on the computer screen bracketed into the unmarked vehicle’s dashboard. “The eight takedown units are deployed in these locations.” He pointed to eight flashing red lights, each one a black Chevy Suburban containing a five-man tactical team. “Viper One is here, outside the British embassy. Viper Two is on this block just behind the Russian ambassador’s house. Viper Three and Four are flanking the Nigerian embassy, here and here. The other four teams are standing by on these corners. Here, here, here, and here.”

  The red lights formed a perfect circular perimeter around the target painted with a beacon that appeared as a green circle on the map.

  “What about eyes in the sky? Is the helicopter ready?”

  “Confirmed. The tactical aviation unit has a Bell Jet Ranger at the Naval Observatory. It’s hot and ready to go on your order. Ma’am, I don’t know how you got the Navy or the Secret Service to agree to that.”

  “The residence is the closest helipad to the target. Plus we lucked out that the Vice President is away on an official visit to Cuba. It’s all going into my memoirs,” Donatella said. “Are we confirmed the target is still in place?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Viper Five visualized the target entering the location late last night and no one’s come or gone since.”

  “Good. What’s the estimated time from go to target in custody?”

  “Three minutes, ma’am.”

  “Good. We’ve got a local MPD radio blackout?”

  “Confirmed. Local D.C. police are all cleared for a five-block perimeter and we’ll jam the police band signal for the duration of the operation. On your order.”

  “Espinosa should really be here,” Donatella said again, shaking her head.

  “Just waiting on your green light, Special Agent Kim.”

  On cue, Donatella’s phone buzzed.

  Green light.

  49

  LAGOS, NIGERIA

  FRIDAY, 11:44 A.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (6:44 A.M. EST)

  The consulate van had exited the expressway and, on Judd’s direction, weaved its way through the side streets of Lagos.

  “Take the next left,” Judd ordered. He was leaning against the driver’s seat, his phone pressed to his ear, taking instructions from Sunday, who had called back and was now watching them on a live satellite feed from his desk 5,400 miles away. “When you come to the Mr. Bigg’s burger stand, take that left. It’s bright red and yellow. Coming up in . . . thirty seconds.”

  “You owe us an explanation,” Isabella demanded, pulling Judd into the back of the van. “You still haven’t told me why we got off the highway. Why we aren’t going to the airport? Quién carajo is calling you?”

  Judd vigorously shook his head.

  “Who is this Sunday?” she demanded.

  Bola Akinola and Tunde Babatunde both glared at Judd in anticipation.

  “If we’re in danger,” Isabella said, trying to calm down, “we need to know.”

  Judd met Isabella’s gaze, which had evolved from angry to anxious. “In half a kilometer, take the roundabout exit to the north,” Judd directed. “At Yoruba Junction.”

  “After that exit, go straight until I give you the next turn. I’ll call you right back,” Sunday said quickly, and then he hung up.

  Judd dropped his arm and gave Isabella a barely perceptible nod. “We are going to the airport. We’re taking an alternative route. A safer route. On the advice of”—he held up the phone—“a friend back in Washington.”

  “What is the danger?” Isabella asked.

  “Bola, your life is under threat,” Judd declared, facing the judge. “You know that, right?”

  “When is it not, my friend?” Bola replied.

  “No, Bola. This is different. We have information that there’s a specific plot to assassinate you. Right now. That’s why we’re taking these side roads. That’s why I’m trying to navigate a safer route.”

  “What about Landon Parker?” Isabella asked. “You just had him on the phone. Why didn’t you tell him we had Bola—that we were bringing him in? If we know Bola’s life is in danger, the State Department can give him protection. We can grant him asylum.”

  “No.”

  “Why the carajo not?”

  “The Nigerian attorney general got to Parker first. Or maybe it was Ambassador Katsina.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Officially, Bola is a fugitive. We can’t bring him in now.” Judd faced the judge. “Your government has issued an arrest warrant for you.”

  “I know, my friend.”

  “And the Nigerian federal police are on a nationwide hunt.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then Bola’s coming with us,” Isabella insisted.

  Tunde Babatunde spoke up. “Why not sneak him onto my plane?”

  “That’s exactly what we’ll do,” Isabella said. “You just get back on the phone with your secret friend and get us to the airport safely. Once we’re airborne, they can’t stop us. We’ll be home free.”

  “What do you think, Bola?” Judd asked.

  Before he could answer, Judd’s phone buzzed. “This is Ryker,” he said.

  “Stop the van,” Sunday commanded.


  “Stop the van!” Judd shouted.

  “You’re surrounded.” Sunday tried to calm his voice and slow down. “To the immediate west is an abandoned industrial park. Pull the van inside the main gate, cut the engine, and wait.”

  “There!” Judd pointed at a cluster of disused warehouses, a broken sign for Sahara Sunny Fabrics hanging precariously on the front gate. “Pull in there and kill the engine.”

  The driver followed Judd’s instructions.

  “Now what?” Judd asked.

  “Wait there. I’ll call you right back,” Sunday said.

  “What?” Judd started to protest, but it was too late. Sunday was gone.

  Isabella was about to unleash another round of questioning, when her own phone buzzed with a text:

  Your operation is on.

  50

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  FRIDAY, 6:46 A.M. EST

  We are a go,” Donatella Kim announced, the adrenaline surging through her bloodstream.

  “Airborne Buffalo One, you are go,” the officer announced into the radio. “All Vipers, we’re a go. Repeat, we are a go. Move to assault positions and await final instructions.”

  Donatella watched the helicopter take off, rising over the tree line about three blocks away and then circling at a low altitude, its spotlight dark for now. Her own vehicle’s engine turned over and crawled slowly to the east. The eight SUVs with the FBI tactical teams also moved in unison, converging on the target location.

  Donatella’s car pulled just within sight line of the target, a white stucco house with grand pillars in the Greek neoclassical style, like a pint-sized replica of the White House. Mercedes and BMWs were parked on both sides of the leafy residential street, one that was only affordable to Old Money Washington or the expense accounts of senior foreign embassy staff.

  Donatella couldn’t see the strike teams from her vantage point. Instead she watched them close in via the monitor. Once all the teams were in place, Donatella seized the radio microphone again. She cleared her throat, swallowed hard, then double-checked the screen. She could hear the steady beat of the helicopter engine, a noise that would be only too familiar in that neighborhood.