Somebody shoved my head down into the seat. The cuffs were roughly removed. Powerful hands pressed into the small of my back and pushed hard. “You go home now. Go!”
I went flying through the air—but only for a few seconds of uncertainty and terror.
Then I landed on stone or cement. By the time I’d gotten up and untied the hood, they were gone, out of sight, whoever had brought me here.
They had dropped me on a side street next to an official-looking building, the sort of white stone box you might find in downtown DC.
I could see through an iron fence and across a manicured front lawn to a gatehouse out front.
An American flag flew above it, flapping in a light breeze.
This was the American consulate. Had to be. The embassy was in Abuja. That must be where I was now.
But why?
Chapter 115
SOMETHING WAS GOING on here at the consulate. Something big. And dangerous-looking. Hundreds of people were gathered in the streets outside the front gates. Actually, it looked like there were two separate crowds. Half of them were lined up like they were waiting to get in. The other half, on the opposite side of a concrete barrier, were demonstrating against the United States.
I saw hand-lettered placards that read US PAYS THE PRICE, and DELTA PEOPLE, DELTA RULE, and NO MORE AMERICANS.
Even from a distance, I could tell it was the kind of scene that could turn ugly, or violent, at any time. I didn’t wait around for that to happen.
I walked around the corner, and leading with my good shoulder, I started pushing through the crowd. People on both sides grabbed at me, either because I was cutting in line or, maybe, because I looked like an American. The shouting on the street side blocked out any other noise around me.
One guy got hold of my shirt. He ripped it all the way down the back before I knocked his arm away.
The shirt didn’t matter to me. Nothing did anymore. Once again I wondered why I was still alive. Because they thought I was CIA? Because I had friends in Washington? Or maybe because they finally believed I was a cop?
I made my way to the main gate. Standing there, filthy and barefoot, with no passport to show, I told the double-chinned marine who got in my face that my name was Alex Cross, I was an American police officer, and I had to speak with the ambassador right away.
The marine didn’t want to hear it, not a word.
“I was kidnapped. I’m an American cop,” I told him. “I just witnessed a murder.”
Out of the side of his mouth the marine muttered, “Take a number.”
Chapter 116
I WAS GOING more than a little crazy now, but I had to hold my emotions in. I had stories to tell someone, information to give, Adanne’s secrets to share with someone who could make a difference.
I got several minutes of healthy skepticism at the gate before I finally convinced a marine guard to call in my name. The response came back right away: Bring Detective Cross inside. It was almost as if they were expecting me. I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. Given my recent history, probably not.
The consulate lobby, with its metal detectors and bulletproof glass on all the windows, felt like an urban police station. People were lined up at every desk and window, most of them clearly agitated, waiting to be seen.
All the American accents—and a portrait of Condoleezza Rice presiding over the room—played tricks with my mind about where I was, and exactly how I had gotten here.
Once inside, I was met by a nonmilitary escort in an off-white suit. He was “Mr. Collins,” a Nigerian of some unspecified position here.
Unlike the marine who’d brought me this far, Collins was friendly and animatedly answered a few questions as we walked.
“There’s been at least one rebel attack in Rivers State today,” he explained, gesticulating the whole time. “Much bigger than we’ve seen before. The government won’t admit to it, but the independent media is calling it the beginning of a civil war.”
The populist buzz on the first floor gave way to crisp officiousness and hushed conversations on the second.
I was taken straight to the ambassador’s consular suite, where I waited outside his office for several minutes—until a dozen men, black, white, and four who looked Chinese, walked out all at once. Each of them appeared somber and nervous. No one met my gaze, or perhaps no one was in the least interested that I was sitting there barefoot and in rags.
Mr. Collins politely held the door for me, and then he closed it from the outside.
Chapter 117
AMBASSADOR ROBERT OWELEEN was tall and willowy, almost too thin, a silver-haired man of maybe sixty. He stood behind his large antique desk flanked by American and Nigerian flags. Two aides stayed where they were, on a small couch in an alcove off to one side.
“Mr. Cross.” He shook my hand, unsmiling. “My God, what happened to you?”
“A lot. I won’t waste your time. I’m here about a man, a killer, known as the Tiger. It’s a matter of Nigerian and American security.”
He swept my words away in the air. “I know why you’re here, Mr. Cross. I’ve been getting all kinds of pressure from Abu Rock about you.”
“Excuse me—Abu Rock?”
“The capital. It seems that the only one who wants you in Nigeria is you. The CIA has actually saved your life here, haven’t they?”
Now I was a little dumbstruck, to add to my general numbness and dizziness about what had happened recently. The American ambassador knew about my presence here? Was someone taking out billboards about me or something?
“We’re sending you home today,” Oweleen continued, with finality in his voice.
I looked at the floor and back at him again, trying to keep it together. “Sir, the man I’m chasing is a mass murderer. He may have government ties here. He’s definitely involved with the police in some mysterious way. If I could just have a chance to reach my CIA contact in Lagos—”
He cut me off. “What exactly do you think your authority is, Mr. Cross? You’re a visitor in this country, nothing more than that. You can take this up with the State Department if you wish. In Washington.”
“He needs to be stopped, sir. Yesterday he murdered a reporter for the Guardian named Adanne Tansi. I saw him kill her. He murdered her entire family. He’s responsible for at least eight deaths in Washington.”
Finally, Oweleen exploded. “Who the hell are you? I never even heard of you until three days ago, and now I’m taking time out for this? Do you have any idea what’s going on here?”
He waved his hand at the plasma TV on the wall. “Turn that up.”
One of the aides pushed a button on a remote—and then I watched the TV in shocked silence and with dread.
Chapter 118
THE TV WAS tuned to CNN. A British reporter was speaking over an image of an upscale housing complex—white two-story buildings in neat rows, shot from high above.
The overlay read “Breaking News—Summit Oil Residential Compound, Bonny Island, Nigeria.”
“Never before have families been taken,” the reporter was saying, “and certainly never this number of live hostages. In an e-mail to the international press, People for the Liberation of the Niger Delta now have claimed responsibility for the incident—with these shocking images attached to their message.”
The screen switched to grainy infrared video.
Dozens of people sat along the floor of a dark hallway. Their heads were covered and hands tied, but it was easy to tell there were men, women, and children on the film. Some of them were crying, others moaning piteously.
“Those are British and American citizens,” Ambassador Oweleen informed me. “Every one of them. Consider yourself lucky to get a flight out of here at all.”
“What flight? When?”
He held up a hand, looking back at the TV. “Look at this, will you? Do you see what’s happening?” Armed troops were streaming out of a truck single file.
The British reporter went on:
“Government forces have established a perimeter around the entire complex, while economic pressure mounts internationally.
“With more attacks promised, oil-production facilities are shutting down regionwide, approaching an unprecedented seventy percent slowdown, which is considered to be catastrophic.”
“Chinese, French, Dutch, and of course US interests in particular are at stake. Under normal trade conditions, Nigeria provides about twenty percent of American oil.”
A phone buzzed on the desk. Ambassador Oweleen picked it up. “Yes?” he said, and then, “Send them in.”
“Sir,” I tried again. “I’m not asking for much. I just need to make one phone call—”
“We’ll get you a shower and some fresh clothes right away. And we’ll take care of any immigration issues. We can get you a new passport right away. But then you’re gone. Forget about your manhunt. As of right now, it’s over.”
I finally snapped at him. “I don’t need a shower! Or fresh clothes. I need you to listen to me. I just witnessed a reporter named Adanne Tansi being murdered at the Kirikiri Prison. She was writing an important story that has relevance to the violence near the oil fields.”
The doors to the office opened, and Oweleen’s eyes shifted right past me. It was as though the moment I raised my voice, I’d lost him. He didn’t even respond to what I’d said.
He spoke directly to the double marine escort waiting there. “We’re all done here. Take Detective Cross downstairs and get him cleaned up for travel back to the US.”
Chapter 119
THE TWO MARINES were polite and respectful enough but very mission oriented as they escorted me to a subbasement locker room.
It had tall wooden lockers and a faded carpet, a tiled steam room and whirlpool, and a small area for showering. As promised, I was given a fresh towel.
One of the marines asked me my trouser, shirt, and shoe size and then left. The other marine told me I had about ten minutes to shower and dress, so I ought to get started. Both of the marines were black—probably no coincidence there.
There were four stalls, each with a curtained changing cubicle in front. I stood inside the last one, my mind racing while the clock ran down on my time in the country.
What was I going to do? There were no windows in the room, and there was only one exit. I turned on the water, just to sound busy.
Then I leaned in and let it pour over my head.
Suddenly my whole body was shaking. I was remembering Adanne, and that had to stop, for now, anyway.
A minute later, I heard someone moving around outside. A curtain slid open and closed. One of the other showers was turned on.
Someone was humming that James Blunt ballad that was always on the radio, the one where he keeps repeating the word beautiful.
I took off the remnants of my shirt. Then I stuck my head under the water again, and leaned back out, dripping on the floor.
“Hey, can you get me another towel?” I asked the guard.
I had noticed there were stacks of them by the entrance when we’d come in.
“Why do you need two?” he leaned inside the shower and said.
“Are you kidding? You saw the way I look. And smell.”
He shook his head but went to get the extra towel.
“Thanks,” I called.
I immediately stepped over to the other cubicle, holding the curtain rings to keep them from singing on the bar.
Whoever was showering next to me had hung his clothes on a hook in the changing stall.
I rifled through the pants pockets and found just what I was hoping for—a cell phone.
Seconds later, I was back in my own stall—just before the marine looped a white terry towel over the top of the bar. “You’d better pick up the pace,” he said from outside the curtain.
I turned the shower up as hard—and as loud—as it would go.
Then I dialed Ian Flaherty’s number.
He answered himself.
Chapter 120
“FLAHERTY,” I SAID. “It’s Alex Cross.”
“Cross? Where are you?”
“I’m at the consulate. I’m in Africa. They’re sending me out of the country. It’s going down right now. I need you to talk to someone and get it stopped. I’m close to the bastard, the Tiger.”
He didn’t even pause before he answered. “No can do. I can’t cover for you anymore.”
“I don’t need you to cover for me. Adanne Tansi is dead—he killed her. I need you to make a call or two. I can break this case now.”
“You don’t get it,” Flaherty said. “You’re done over here. Game over. Go home and stay there. Forget about Abi Sowande. Or whatever his name is now.”
The water in the other shower stopped. The man in there started whistling. I hit the heel of my hand against my forehead, putting it all together. Flaherty hadn’t been covering for me at all. I had this all wrong, right from the beginning.
“I was covering for you, wasn’t I?” I said.
The whistling in the next stall stopped for a second and then continued.
“That’s why you wanted people thinking I was CIA. I was out in the open. While you played covert, I was a useful distraction.”
“Listen.” I could hear in Flaherty’s voice that he was done. “I’ve got to run. We saved your bacon a couple of times. Be thankful. There’s a war going on here. Get the hell out of Dodge—call me from the States.”
“Flaherty!”
He hung up at the same time that the shower curtain flew open.
The marine who’d fetched the towel was there and looking totally pissed off. He pushed me into the wall and pinned my wrist. I didn’t struggle with him. For one thing, my shoulder was howling with pain. When he reached for the cell phone, I just opened my hand and let him take it.
Game over, all right.
I was going home.
Whether I wanted to or not.
Honestly, I had mixed feelings.
Chapter 121
I LEFT THE consulate pretty much the way I’d left Kirikiri—as a captive. This time, of the American government. I wondered if I could possibly get away again. And did I really want to?
One of the marine escorts drove, while the other sat in back with me. Worse, they had handcuffed me to him. I guess they’d decided I wanted to do this the hard way.
The main gates to the consulate were closed as we drove toward them. No one was waiting to get in anymore.
The demonstrators had swollen in number, though. They were lined along the fence, holding on to it like they would jail bars, cursing against all things American, as well as the life that fate had dealt them.
Once we were through the main gates, the crowd closed in around us.
Bodies pressed against the car windows, palms slapped on the glass, and fists beat the roof. I could see anger and fear in their eyes, the frustration of lifetimes of injustice and misery.
“What do these people want?” the young marine in back with me asked. His name tag said Owens. “Those hostages in the Delta are Americans and Brits. They’re probably going to die.”
“What do they want?” the marine at the wheel said. “They want us not to be here.”
And nobody wants me here, I was thinking, not even the Americans. Nobody wants to hear the truth either.
Chapter 122
THE ROADWAYS TO Murtala were even more crowded and bustling than the last time I’d been here—if that was possible. We parked at the very same air base Adanne and I had used to go to Sudan. We had to take a shuttle from there.
The bus was jammed with American families presumably headed home or at least out of Nigeria. Everyone was talking nonstop about the terrifying hostage drama in the Delta. No one had been freed yet, and everybody was afraid the hostages would be killed soon.
The surprise to me was how little attention anyone gave to two men handcuffed together. I guess these people had other things on their minds besides me and my marine guard.
The term
inal at the airport was overflowing, noisy, and as chaotic as the scene of a bombing. We burrowed our way in to a security office to arrange a walk-through to the plane. Apparently the handcuffs weren’t coming off until I was buckled in tight and pointed toward home.
The waiting area was packed, like everywhere else, with all eyes turned toward a single TV. It was tuned to an African channel.
The female reporter had a Yoruban accent, just like Adanne’s, and it was the strangest thing, but that’s what finally put me over the edge. Tears started to roll down my cheeks, and I began to shake as if I had a fever.
“You okay, man?” the marine cuffed to me asked. He seemed like a good man, actually. He was just doing a job, and doing it well.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “I’m fine.”
Still, I wasn’t the only one crying in the room. With good reason. Nigerian troops had moved in on the Bonny Island complex in what was supposed to be a “rescue mission.” Instead, all thirty-four hostages were now dead. Open fighting had broken out all through the Delta region. Riots were reported in at least two other states in the south.
The images of the slaughtered hostages were shocking by American news standards. The hostages were lying on the floor of the corridor, adults and children both. The bodies were slumped and fallen, draped over one another, with bloodstained clothes, and hoods still over their heads.
One woman near me let out a piercing scream. Her family was still down in the Delta. Everyone else was quietly fixated on the screen.
“Governors’ offices in Rivers, Delta, and Bayelsa states have issued warnings,” the reporter went on. “Local citizens are urged to avoid all but the most necessary travel for at least the next twenty-four hours. Full curfew is in effect. Violators will be arrested, or possibly shot.”
The marine cuffed to me, Owens, spoke. “Your plane is boarding. Let’s go, Detective Cross. Hell, I wish I could go with you. I’m from DC myself. I’d like to go home. I miss it. You have no idea.”
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