by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 11
"Thirsty work, Mercedes."
Vigo, Mazda and Chelsea had just finished moving the Solomon Trading stock from the truck to Vigo's warehouse when Mark Dobson arrived next morning. They moved to the office, cracked open four cans from the fridge and sat down. Vigo had thrown his cowboy hat onto the top of the fridge and was swinging in his chair. Mazda sat on the other chair and Chelsea on the pallet. Dobson stood.
The discussion was Gabriel and Solomon.
"That Pastor Gabriel's a genius," Mazda said. "You hear him talk, Vigo? He should be President. He something truly big. He got genuine style. You know he plays Fela music at sermons?"
Mazda was on a roll. Adulation was the theme and they all listened until Dobson decided he'd heard enough and related some more - the arrest warrant, the murder of Kenneth Eju, the FAA contract. Then he dropped in some names.
"Waaah," said Chelsea.
"Jesus," said Mazda.
"Fuck," said Vigo pulling on the solitary ring hanging off his left ear.
Dobson let them scratch, chat, swear and shake heads for a while, allowing matters to sink in and emotions to bubble. Meantime he looked around Vigo's office.
Vigo was not poor. Dobson had been with him when he'd worn smart suits, colourful silk shirts and studs in his ears that reflected rainbows far brighter than Gabriel's. There was even a new BMW hiding somewhere that he'd once used to carry off a bunch of giggling girls after dropping Dobson at his hotel. Quality surroundings was something many Nigerians like Vigo ignored. If they could make a million Naira a day sitting like this then why go to the expense of a high-rise office suite overlooking the Bay? It had a certain logic.
Vigo was blowing blue smoke towards the thick mat of dirty cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. "That fucking guy Festus Fulani looks the man."
"Why?" Dobson asked, flapping at the smoke.
"Let me tell you sumptin' big and vital, Mercedes." Vigo shut his eyes. "It's like one of them fairy tales," he said. "Like Cinderella and the seven pigmies that begins with once upon a time." A short but dramatic pause followed.
"Once upon a time the Ministry of Aviation wanted to sell three Ministry cars. One was a big black BMW the Minister used on official business. Festus negotiated the deal with my man, Civic, in Abuja. We got to buy them all at a low, low price on one condition: that we gave the BMW to Festus. But he wanted to disguise the car so the Minister didn't recognise his own car, so we repainted it dark green. He also wanted help to move some dollars so we also organised that."
"How?" Dobson asked.
"Festus gave us three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash to buy and ship furniture from UK. Festus told us we had to open letters of credit but use his UK supplier, his forwarding agent and his bank. We'd get ten percent once the deal was complete. But one mistake and our arses would be beaten with sticks and we would never run a business again - he'd personally see to it."
Vigo blew more smoke, flicked ash onto the black, oily floor. "Small change for a guy like Festus. His supplier got the funds from our letter of credit but there was no furniture in the containers. The containers were delivered to somewhere in Essex. After that......".
Dobson had heard similar stories before. "Don't tell me," he said. "It was stolen cars inside. Festus got his dollars laundered and made another three hundred and fifty selling the cars."
Vigo nodded. "Toyotas, stolen to order. Just like the time you discovered those Mercedes, Mercedes. But I don't touch imported stolen cars, only Nigerian stolen ones - you know that."
Dobson nodded. "I know you're an honest man, Vigo."
Mazda's shoulders shook with quiet mirth and Chelsea joined in with a look that suggested he didn't know why.
But Vigo then shook his head. "I hate fucking Festus."
"Anything specific?"
"We didn't get our ten percent."
"But Festus got his cars because he's a basstad," added Mazda.
Dobson perched on the edge of Vigo's desk. "So, you still want your ten percent and Solomon Trading want to know what happened to their FAA contract. Right?"
Vigo lit another cigarette, blew more smoke. The ring didn't appear but he still made it look cool. Mazda strolled the office. Chelsea stayed sitting on the pallet looking thoughtful. "How much time does Festus spend in Abuja?" Dobson asked.
"He travels."
That was true. Dobson visualised Colin's spreadsheet. Festus Fulani 'floated' and used different names. Festus, like others on the list, somehow made money, lots of it, and kept it out of reach by investing in properties worth millions of pounds.
"Waaah." Chelsea undid a crick in his neck. Perhaps a bone had resettled.
"You think he's behind Pastor Gabriel's problems?" Vigo asked
"Yes. Amongst others. Solomon's discussions with the FAA went on for years - politics, budgets, disagreements, you know the scene. Festus Fulani chaired meetings and was just one of several who expected big bribes."
"That's Nigeria," said Vigo.
'Scantex Technologie were expecting to be awarded the contract with Solomon Trading as their agents. Tests, trials, technical details, servicing arrangements and prices were all complete but Solomon refused to give bribes saying it was not the way Solomon Trading or Scantex did business. Now we have the arrest warrant for Gabriel. I'd like to know if the contract is cancelled or gone to someone else. Any chance, Vigo?"
"I'll ask Civic to check."
Dobson's phone then buzzed with a timely coincidence.
"I just spoke to Wolfgang Muller, the international sales manager of Scantex Technologie," Colin Asher said. "He led negotiations for the FAA contract for four years and knows Solomon and Michael Fayinka. I asked if he knew there was an arrest warrant out in connection with the deal. He didn't. He panicked until I told him it was for Gabriel. To cut a long story short, he remembers several Nigerians involved. I mentioned a few names. He picked out Festus Fulani and two more on our list. Does that add to our equation?"
"Enough," Dobson replied. "We've just been discussing him. What did Muller say about bribes and commissions and so on."
"That it was Solomon Trading policy not to pay bribes to government officials."
"So where was the profit for Solomon Trading?"
"Scantex quoted a full contract price to Solomon Trading. Everything included - supply, installation, service. Solomon added a margin for the work they'd do and submitted it. That was the way the FAA officially wanted it. They probably knew that to ask a German multinational to quote direct and hold back bribes and kickbacks was not going to work but hoped some other incentive would come out of Solomon's profit. It wasn't. That's what upset them."
It was exactly how Dobson had seen it and confirmed by Gabriel and Solomon.
"Where's Mr F at present?"
"Perhaps I can flush him out. The murder case on Kenneth Eju is still open. I'll drop Festus Fulani's name into someone's ear."
Craig Donovan made two decisions.
He'd watched Republican Senator James McAllister on a late-night TV news programme. McAllister was another man he'd known at one time - a right winger, an ardent supporter of Israel and a strong advocate of cutting corners if things were going nowhere. For all his arrogance, Donovan liked him so he phoned McAllister's office.
An hour later they called him back. "Senator McAllister will meet you at seven at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel."
Then Donovan phoned the US Africa Command (AFRICOM) HQ in Stuttgart, Germany.
Ignoring his retired status, he pulled rank and asked to speak to Commander David Fernandez. Fernandez, he was told, was away. "Any idea where or when he'll be back?". Donovan asked. The reply was vague. "Sorry, sir, he's in the US at present. I cannot divulge detail."
"I understand. In that case, any chance I could speak to my old buddy from Kuwait days, Steven Benyon?"
Donovan knew that Benyon was now AFRICOM's Command Sergeant Major under Commander David Fernandez. If the Commander himself wasn't
around, the Command Sergeant would be good enough. "Can I say what it's about, sir?"
"West Africa, Nigeria, the COK."
"Hold the line, sir. I'll see if he's available."
"Hey, is that you, Craig?" The Alabama accent was unmistakable.
"How're you doing, Steve?"
"Just great. I thought you retired."
"Yeh, kind of. I'm running an intelligence gathering operation."
"You don't say? Still keeping your hand in then Craig."
Craig let the conversation run a while. Then: "I understand David Fernandez is in Washington right now."
"Sure. A summons from the Secretary for Defence. Even if I knew what it was about I'm not at liberty to.......you know how it is, Craig."
"Sure. Can you get a message to him?"
"It depends how important."
"I've got a fix on a COK camp - the one used to abduct some girls recently."
"Christ. How the hell? A good fix?"
"It's good enough. Any chance you could check if Fernandez would see me? I'm in Washington right now. I could probably track him down but a few words from you.........you understand?"
Donovan left it like that and went for a coffee in the same Starbucks he'd met with Gabriel. He'd just taken his first bite of a muffin when his phone rang. "I have Commander David Fernandez - AFRICOM, sir. Can you take the call?"
"Sure." Donovan stood up, an unbreakable habit when speaking to superiors. "Good afternoon, sir."
"Major Donovan. I don't think we've met. I had a message to call you. It sounded interesting. What's your background, Major?"
He knew Fernandez would have already checked. Nevertheless, he gave a quick resume, ending with: "Africa, sir. It bothers me. After retiring I joined an investigation company. Some interesting facts have come my way."
"You ended your career at the US Embassy in Abuja, right?"
"Yes sir."
"You mentioned something about the COK to CSM Steven Benyon."
"Yes, sir."
"How strong is your evidence?"
"It comes from one of the abducted girls, sir."
There was a pause as Fernandez digested this. "How? She that good?"
"I believe so, sir. She escaped. A very bright girl and the only survivor."
"You've spoken to her?"
"Not me, sir - an associate."
"You're in Washington right now?"
"Yes sir."
"You'll be familiar with the Pentagon, of course. Meet me at eleven thirty. I'll organise some clearance."
Craig Donovan returned to his blueberry muffin.
