PATRON OF TERROR

by Adimchinma Ibe

  PATRON OF TEROR

  by

  ADIMCHINMA IBE

  Edited by Victor Schwartzman

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Adimchinma Ibe is hereby identified as author of this work in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988

  PATRON OF TERROR. Copyright © 2011 by Adimchinma Ibe. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

  www.createspace.com

  978-1-463-75894-3

  First Edition: August 2011

  For my Mother, Patricia Ibe

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many thanks to: Victor Schwartzman for painstakingly editing this book. I believe your editing has made this book much better.

  And to Mr. Douglas Ekekeugbo. Without you, this book, the previous one and the rest of it would not have seen the light of day and would have remained a pipe dream. You deserve special thanks for encouraging me to write the series when I came to you for advice on the manuscripts.

  To Chioma Grace Ezechekwe. I didn’t forget about you. You were with me from the beginning. Thank you for typing the early manuscripts of the Tammy Series. And also to my Mother, Patricia Ibe, for putting up with my exigencies during the writing of this book. You both will be rewarded.

  To the rest of my family and friends: Lavender Ibe, Fortune Ibe, Chinedu Ibe, Chibuzo Ibe, Victoria Roberts-Ibe, Ifeoma Ibe, Kenneth Ugwa (Jnr), Nneka Ugwa, Emmanuel Secondus, Tony Arum, Chukwuemeka Ugwueje. Thank you all for being there for me.

  Prologue

  It was pitch black all around, except for my headlights when I heard the powerful engine at full throttle. I looked to my left as a loud angry roar passed me. There was no headlight. By the time my eyes shifted to the front, the motorcycle was in the distance. I saw what was probably a man, thin, tall, black clothes, helmet. His headlight flashed on as he went into the curves.

  He had used my headlights until then.

  He did not want to be seen.

  I flipped on my brights.

  He already entered the first bend, and was gone. Trees lined the roadsides, enough to block the view in the dark. I saw his headlight flashing between tree trunks. Then he was gone.

  I went into the first bend as fast as I could, but there was no matching that bike. I was into the second first bend when I heard the shots. From far ahead, far enough so they were distant.

  Two bursts. Probably an Uzi. Two bursts from an Uzi is a lot of rounds.

  Going through the second bend I had not time to reach for the police radio.

  There was no more gunfire. I got through the last curve and up ahead was darkness. All my brights picked up were road. I slowed, listening. I heard the motorcycle. It was getting faint.

  I kept it slow, looking for the worst. Up ahead I saw headlights from one car turn onto the road towards me. It was hard to tell in the dark, maybe a kilometer ahead. The headlights slowed, turned to the left, stopped.

  Before long I saw for myself what the two constables in the patrol car had seen.

  The wrecked car was off the road and on a tree. I could not see who remained in the car, but I could see easily enough the body of one of the occupants. He was on the grass thirty feet away, probably where he’d been thrown from the car.

  As I pulled up and got out, one of the constables looked up. He looked familiar, but he recognized me. He waved, then went back with his partner to checking out the SUV. I did not need to flash the badge I did not have to.

  They were busy with the SUV. I looked at the road. Some skid marks, from the SUV. Some rubber, probably from the SUV’s tires. Nothing else.

  I walked down to the car. The constables did not need any help. The driver looked stunned, but he was at least talking. The other occupant of the car had gone head first through the front window. Most of her was still in the car. Thankfully she was unconscious.

  I looked at the car from the passenger’s side. Looked as if the SUV had rolled a few times. I went around to the driver’s side. Both tires were flat. I bent down and saw some of the places where the gunfire I had heard ended up.

  I went back to my Peugeot and called it in on the radio. Then I went back to the scene. I checked the bashed body on the grass. It was Mr. Vincent Puene alright. It was hard to recognize him. I helped the constables with the driver and wife until the ambulances showed up. The driver was able to give me a basic idea of what had happened: the motorcycle came up quickly and the rider shot out the tires. The SUV went out of control. The driver thought he saw the bike rider stop and look, then roar off. Then the driver passed out.

  Puene was dead, his wife close, and it did not look like the driver would survive either.

  I took a cigarette from the pack in my pocket and lit the St. Morris. The pack was two months old. I only smoked on cases, because I needed something sometimes to do with my fingers. I lit it and looked down at it and thought: I haven’t smoked a cigarette since being suspended.

  I crushed it.

  1

  It all started one evening with my going to a polling station, but not to vote. I was not there to vote. It was a Local Council election day, and I was not even a party member, but one of the Governorship candidates of the Nigerian Liberal Party, Dr. Vincent Puene, was there, and he holds a particular interest for me.

  He’d have emerged governorship candidate for his party after his opponent was implicated in several murders and an assassination plot, but party politics developed, and to outside appearances at least the party abruptly brought another candidate, Lewis Filatei, to be anointed key flag bearer.

  He was there to show solidarity for the NCP’s candidate for the office of the local council chairman, as part of his own campaign to garner support for his own bid to emerge his party’s candidate for Governorship in the forth coming general election. But it was like I had a premonition that something was going to go amiss at the voting. Maybe because violence has become a political norm in Nigeria.

  What had been a machete and cutlasses in the side of Nigerian politics—violence and intimidation—was now an Uzi. More than a few of us were worried that the young thugs used by politicians were escalating out of control.

  It was more or less okay for the thugs to kill each other, as far as larger Nigerian society cared. But where previously politicians and public figures only had to cope with intimidation, blackmail, scandals, corruption, media scrutiny…where was I? Oh yes, now the air was rancid with the next step. Death was in the air. Intimidation by threats no longer felt enough.

  The word was out about that Dr Puene had received several threats as the Party Primaries geared up and that was a warning sign something was up. He had been spreading some of that word himself, going to the police with his concerns, which had others talking. I was one of those who were worried. I didn’t know the details, but that type of personal physical threat was new. And very troubling, and was one of the reason’s I’d turned up that evening.

  Technically, I had no reason to be at the polling station. I had no gun, no badge. I had been on suspension with pay for two months. Suspended during the investigation of police corruption that involved breaking some rules about illegal searches and interrogating witnesses and other things you do to solve murders quickly and that investigation involved, Dr. Vincent Puene, a Governorship candidate of the National Conservative Party like I said. That was why I was there. Mostly I was suspended for political reasons, to get me out of the limelight, and that was fine by me. It had felt like a two month vacation. Except, stuck in Port Harcourt waiting to be called back.

  Just because I was suspended did not mean I did not have my
feet on the ground, so I decided to spend the evening at the polling station. If I hadn’t been suspended, I would have been there anyway. So although I had no badge or gun, I thought it would not hurt to be on the scene.

  Dr. Vincent Puene himself was now pitched against the “official” candidate of the party, Lewis Filatei, supported by the incumbent Governor. The campaign leading to elections in local districts before the Party Primaries had started, and as they went from area to area, the mood grew increasingly tense, leading a couple of weeks ago to violence between the supporters of Puene and Filatei that had led to a dead Puene supporter.

  Both governorship aspirants want to ensure that their various candidates for the local council election become elected Mayors, who in turn will support them at the Primaries, and at the general election.

  This station was in the Local Council Area where the Puenes lived, and it was not that far from home, and when I drove over to check it out that evening I saw two constables outside. I knew them both. There were two patrol cars, so I figured two more were inside. That was four times as many as usual. Voting did not used to require police protection.

  I knew that the big wig was there. I was right he would show up, but I asked of the constables anyway. “Why the party?” I asked as I walked up.

  He jerked his thumb back towards the building. “Puene’s here, the big guy himself.”

  Four constables made me feel a lot more comfortable. Nothing much would happen here tonight with them around. Still, there were always risks. Puene was known for his loose security. But even he had increased his security, traveling now with aides. His driver was also his bodyguard. But his security was not what it should be, and the probable reason was that he saw himself as a man of the people, or at least saw himself as only electable as Governor if he was seen as a man of the people.

  2

  Inside the building, which was a school, the gym had been converted into the polling station. It was a large open room, with tables and booths on one side, and about fifty people talking or waiting in line to vote. I passed the other two constables, nodding at them as they stood by the front door. I knew all four, they were very capable.

  I decided to look for future problems, since there were enough people looking at current ones. There were no machetes, no sign of any thugs. The room was crowded but everyone looked as if they should be there. Nothing would happen with so many police around anyway.

  It was quiet, tense but working. As I looked around the room I saw a possible problem that my constable friends probably did not see: a very attractive woman. She had a press tag.

  There are problems, and then there are problems.

  This woman was special. She stood across the room, apparently alone, with a clipboard in her hand. She glanced at me, looked away, then glanced back when she realized I was looking at her. Hmmm.

  As I said, there are all sorts of problems, including ones you invent for yourself. I was alone, but, technically, not quite. There’s Freda, my girlfriend. But she was not around, and I felt free. Worse, at times I wished she was never around. The push for the relationship came from her.

  This woman looked very intelligent and obviously had a good personality too. And then she smiled at me and took a pen and began writing something on her clipboard, and I thought: Tammy’s badge and gun are at home but Tammy is here.

  I got so close.

  Almost close enough to ask what she was writing.

  When Puene began shouting behind me.

  Her eyes looked over my shoulder and I turned around to see Puene in an escalating argument with the Filatei supporters. I missed what it was about but his anger was returned from the other side, although they were obviously intimidated by him, an actual candidate for Governor.

  It was getting loud.

  I moved through the startled crowd, back towards the balloting area. Puene’s voice now dominated. His bodyguard had moved closer to him, and one of the constables had moved to the balloting tables, while the other stood at the front door, watching.

  The argument seemed to go nowhere. Then Puene told his aides to stay and keep the election legal and then he stormed out holding his wife’s hand, his driver running ahead to check outside.

  I followed them quickly and saw Puene and his wife getting into the back seat of a black SUV. The car was by itself. The driver closed the door for them, looked around, and got behind the wheel.

  I was caught. Inside was that Press girl. But inside also was the rest of Puene’s security.

  “Doesn’t he have any Police security?” I asked them.

  The two police outside gave me that inside look.

  One of the constables, the older of the two, shrugged. “What happened in there?”

  “An argument about the ballots being counted at the collation center or here at the polling booth,” I said.

  “This is nothing new,” the other said.

  I watched Puene’s car drive off. “Don’t we have a car to escort them home?”

  “Do you see one? We were assigned to stay here.”

  This doesn’t feel right, I thought to myself. I sighed and started towards my Peugeot. “Call whatever one’s on patrol in the area, okay?”

  It was getting dark. The SUV’s red tail lights were winking out already. The road ahead was straight for a while, then went through some sharp curves. I figured Puene’s driver was taking them home. Home was a large gated compound about half an hour’s drive.

  I stepped on the gas. I could no longer see them. The driver has chosen to drive home through the shorter route. The longer route would have doubled the time of the journey but he would have used the major road.

  I was figuring it was okay because there were no side roads the driver would take, and I would catch up to them quickly enough, but there were some bends in the road, and I was careful to negotiate those bends at a safe speed still.

  I looked in my rear view mirror thinking fondly of the woman I had left behind at the hall, and wondering how long she would stay there, when I heard the motorcycle.

  3

  I woke up with a headache the next morning, wondering what I could have done differently last night. Nothing, I suppose, but that did not help. So it was not a great day already.

  For those of you that don’t know me, I am Detective Tamunoemi Peterside, Homicide. Tammy to my close friends. There aren’t many. I’m an affable fellow but people are always worried I’ll end up talking about work. They can talk about preparing reports, why can’t I talk about corpses? Anyway it is tough keeping friends when, for over ten years, you have been looking for the lies people tell.

  I prepared some breakfast, then sat in front of the TV in the living room, in my boxer shorts, eating breakfast and watching the news. It was pretty much the same. There had been reports, not yet confirmed, of an accident where the Governorship candidate, Dr. Vincent Puene, died, along with his wife. The driver had survived with minor injuries. I switched from one channel to another, it was similar.

  The doorbell.

  Hadn’t I been waiting?

  Didn’t I know who might come pressing my button this morning?

  It was still too early for Freda. She never dropped by without phoning, and anyway I knew it wasn’t her.

  I approached the door, pulled up my singlet, and looked through the peephole in the door. My boss’ two tiny eyes stared back.

  “Open it, Tammy,” he said on the other side.

  I tried to act surprised but he did not act surprised and knew I was not surprised. “Open it. I don’t have time.”

  Since he had come over this early, without even a call first, I decided not to be ceremonious and put on pants and a shirt. I opened the door, stood back in my underwear, and he stepped inside. Outside, I saw his new official car. I recognized the driver. I waved and he waved back. The driver pointed to my shorts and made what he thought was a funny motion with his hand.

  Nice car, nice driver. Befitted Captain Akpan’s new rank: Acting Chief of Polic
e Akpan. That was a much better Akpan.

  He became Acting Chief when the previous occupant, Isaac Olatunji, my former boss, went rogue. He had been my mentor, almost my grandfather, for almost ten years. He groomed me to be his successor, but he was working with Barigha Duncan, ‘BD’ on the street, and it all went bad. Olatunji ordered murders and did some himself. Mentor or not, grandfather or not, I had to stop him. And I did.

  Thus, Captain Akpan became the Acting Chief due to an abrupt vacancy when the incumbent went to prison.

  Akpan liked being Acting Chief. Like anyone, but perhaps more than most, he wanted to have the job permanently. As Acting Chief he certainly acted like a Chief. He was god at it. Maybe he had gone to theatre school.

  What had put him on top, in part, was my work.

  But I had broken rules. Olatunji had ordered an internal investigation after I went into a place ignoring the lack of a search warrant. The investigation continued after Olatunji left, and I was slapped with an indefinite suspension. The bad guys had gone to jail, but everyone needed a fall guy on the other side. To save face. Since it was my work, I took the fall.

  Okay, technically speaking, I did not have a couple of search warrants, and I did rough up a witness (but he really deserved it) and yes, when kidnapped did axe them all with a borrowed Uzi. In the meeting about it I got kind of upset and slammed the door. They wrote me up about that too, and wanted to see about my anger management problem. I had to have a police psychiatric evaluate my mental state before I was allowed to return to active duty.

  I cleared the evaluation but was still off work. Maybe the paperwork was slow. Maybe enough big bad guys had been caught for a while, and the Department did not need a loose cannon now that Port Harcourt was finally settling down.