by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 29
"What is this place?"
Mark Dobson was trying for an answer to the question he'd asked before. It was past one in the morning and utterly quiet in this austere building with its concrete wall and razor wire. "Why the pink colour?"
"It needs repainting."
"And the cars and BMW motorbikes out the back?"
"Staff." Abisola appeared to think about something for a moment then stood up "OK. Come with me."
Dobson followed him back along the corridor, through a side door that lead onto another, shorter, corridor. To the left and right were bare metal doors. Bullet proof? "Any trouble and we move in there." He was pointing to the door on the left but pressed buttons to the side of the one on the right. Then he opened it.
Inside was an open plan office, eight desks in pairs facing each other with computer screens, phones, electronic gear, police type radios, cables and coloured lights that flashed. There were no windows and just two people - men, in white, short sleeved shirts wearing headphones, peering at screens and typing.
"In deference to your own GCHQ I call this NCHQ. We have other official intelligence gathering centres and the HQ but this one is confidential. The two staff are on night duty. During the day, we have five. We equipped it ourselves but stayed within the budget allocation. It is a little like I imagine Asher and Asher to be. Am I right?"
"Colin Asher would be envious."
"It's new. The only other visitor so far was the new Inspector General of Nigerian Police - someone we trust and someone who's part of the President's plan to shake things up."
"What's the purpose?"
"Monitoring financial irregularities, fraud and corruption, and COK activity."
"Timely."
"Which is why I thought you'd like to see it."
Abisola walked towards one of the men. "This is Sunday. I've borrowed Sunday from your National Crime Agency. He spent a while at GCHQ."
Sunday looked up and nodded.
"Do other people ask what goes on here?" Dobson asked.
"We say it's for interrogation but no-one has seen the operations room except the IGNP and now yourself. Zainab Azazi felt honoured to accept my invitation to interrogate Ayo and Lazarus here. You've heard the tape!"
When they returned to the interrogation room a light was flashing on Dobson's laptop. Colin Asher's short message said: "Lazarus - suicide note - copy attached."
Dobson opened the scanned document and read as Abisola stood peering over his shoulder.
"Dear Lord,
I am Lazarus, Lord, Lazarus of Warri Nigeria not Lazarus of Bethany who was resurrected. I am Lazarus of the Church of Our Lord of Mercy and Forgiveness and of Lazarus Gold and Jewellery Limited. Lazarus of Bethany was resurrected, Lord, but I do not want to be resurrected. Be merciful to me, O Lord.
Because of your constant love, because of your great mercy wipe away my sins and wash away my evil for I know I have sinned, many times, Lord. I have done evil, Lord and the world has turned against me and I feel lost in your world Lord. You can condemn me but please forgive me Lord for I have been evil since the gold bracelet my father gave me at my Christening was stolen by my brother and I saw it on his wife's wrist, Lord."
"Kenneth Balogun," said Mark Dobson
"I am the son of my father, Lord, who taught me the jewellery business and how to give thanks in Church for food and for the shoes on my feet. But I am not happy, Lord. I am sad. My many suits are like me, Lord. They hang empty and lifeless in my closet waiting for a heart, a soul and a body to fill them. To see them makes me cry, Lord.
"But it is anger that makes my tears to flow like rain. So, I come to you, Lord, empty and guilty and to confess. I am a poor man in my heart. Perhaps I am now also a poor man in my pocket.
"My words are not enough Lord. I cannot write now. I cannot think, I cannot see, I only remember bad things because there are no good things to remember. I have lived a life that is not true to my heart, Lord. And I speak in strange tongues, with foul language full of bitterness and hatred, Lord.
"Pastor Gabriel is not a bastard, Lord. I confess that Pastor Gabriel taught me many things. I have all his videos. I watch them at night and when I feel lonely. Pastor Gabriel did not have a rich gold merchant for a father but a poor mother who died in the fire in Makoko, Lord. Pastor Gabriel is your true follower because he tells the truth and sees the future. I tell lies. Lord and I see no future, only my past mistakes.
"Forgive me Lord but I have been led astray by real bastards because I am too weak to stand before them and say what is true to my heart. Today the big bastard is Pastor Ayo, Lord. Today he will break my bank just like Daisy broke my heart with a Catholic priest and my brother Kenneth broke my trust and broke the rules. They are the real bastards.
"But there are many others, Lord. These people must be stopped so that Pastor Gabriel can continue to shine a light in my heart and the hearts of others. That is my honesty, Lord.
"So, my most merciful God, I confess that I have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what I have done, and by what I have left undone. I have not loved you with my whole heart. I am truly sorry and humbly repent. For the sake of your Son Jesus Christ, have mercy on me and forgive me that I may delight in your will and walk in your ways, to the glory of your name.
Beneath was a scrawled signature: 'Lazarus' And beneath that, like a post script, as if he'd had yet one more last thought, he'd written:
"Blessed are those who do not walk in step with the wicked or stand in the way that sinners take or sit in the company of mockers."
"Hmm," Abisola muttered. "He was like a small dog on a leash. Sad."
The note had been written in red ink in an unusual backward slanting style. A neat fold showed across the middle of the lined note paper. But it was what was written on a separate sheet that Dobson and Abisola now stared at - a long list of names written in black ink on different paper and in capital letters as if Lazarus had written it before but hidden it somewhere.
Forty-six names. There was nothing to say they were those he accused but a quick scan was enough. They were familiar names. Festus Fulani was at the top. Next was Zainab Azazi and at the bottom in red ink, as if it had been filled in last, was Osman Olande. And in the middle, one name had been underlined several times in red with a question mark: "Godwin."
Abisola sat down. "Lazarus has confirmed my own list. All except one."
"Which one is that?"
"That one," he replied pointing to the one underlined in red.
"Godwin," Dobson said aloud. "That name has cropped up before. Allegedly one of the guys who ordered my abduction. Coin's been trying to identify him. You've no idea who he is?"
"I've no idea," Abisola admitted.
"Daniel returns tomorrow afternoon," said Taj Harding when Dobson found him at the Sheraton hotel next morning. "He's left instructions with staff at the US Embassy to organise the press conference. It's Saturday evening."
"It's Thursday already," said Dobson.
"Yes," Harding replied. "But I'll miss it. There's a Parliamentary vote on Friday. I've been told I must be there. I'm flying back tonight."
"What about the plans for Halima and Bill Larsen?"
"The US are flying them to Abuja on Saturday morning."
"And who's chairing the event?"
"Daniel, but the US Ambassador or the Deputy Head of Mission are also hoping to attend so....."
"And security?"
"Ah yes. I'll mention it."
"Is Steve Barnett involved?"
"Steve Barnett? Oh, Defence Co-operation. I understand he's in Germany. But the USAID Mission Director has said he'll attend."
Dobson almost laughed to himself. He glanced around the Sheraton's lobby and wondered if he was being watched. Perhaps he was being unnecessarily cautious but his gut feeling kept suggesting a pending disaster.
He went in search of Dickson and found him sitting inside the hotel car park attendant's
cabin, as good a place as any to while away time and check people in and out. Dickson's Toyota with its two aerials was parked right alongside.
Precisely who he was being protected from Dobson had no idea. But it was unlikely to make much difference. Anonymous hit men could be recruited from the streets for a few dollars. Just give them a weapon, a photo of the target and a good stake out point and that was it. Dickson stood up as Dobson approached.
"Can I get a message to your boss?"
"He's with the President sah."
"When he's free, tell him the event is now on Saturday evening."
"Yessah."
Dobson returned inside and took the lift to his barely used room. He went to the bathroom and checked himself in the mirror. He needed a shave and Abisola was right about the hair colour. He could, of course, forget about everything and simply fly back to London, assuming he didn't get shot at on the way to the airport. What good was he doing now anyway? The problem was that he hated loose-ends. Then again with a client like Gabriel the loose-ends would probably never go away.
He lay on the bed to think and had almost fallen asleep when a noise outside the door woke him. It was locked but someone had definitely tried the handle. He crept to the door and peered through the spy hole. A big man in a dark suit was standing with his back to the door casually looking up and down the corridor as if he hadn't expected anyone to be in the room anyway. For eighteen hours or more that had been true but why try the door?
The domestic staff didn't wear suits. The management then? Dobson had another bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. The man turned, looked back at the door for a few moments and then walked away. But it was what he did during the look back that increased Dobson's bad feeling.
He hadn't see the colour of the man's shirt and the distorted image through the spy hole didn't help, but the man clearly had a problem with his eye - it winked, uncontrollably. And Dobson cast his mind back to the Pink Lips Club, to Benji and to the man wearing the pink shirt who had lingered at the door like someone whose job it was to keep checks on comings and goings.
"Pink Panta?" Benji had said in his Lagos accent. "Pink organises ladies. You wanna flex your stick?"
Mark Dobson still felt no need to flex his stick. Instead he lay on the bed wondering if Pink Panther had more than one job.
Arrangements for taking Benjamin's body home had been made by Bill Larsen directly with the US Embassy in Niamey.
Mano Dayak International Airport in Agadez had been the first suggestion and Larsen had recently learned why. Agadez had suddenly, overnight almost, become a focal point for US surveillance operations.
"Totally inappropriate," Larsen had told them when they suggested Agadez. "Bloody hell. You know how far Agadez is from here? Last time I drove there it took two days and a herd of bloody camels bent the front wing of the truck. And have you forgotten what I'll be carrying? Why can't we meet at Zinder? It's still a full day's drive."
It was eventually agreed and Larsen set out with Peter Moosa and Kwami, the Kenyan. An hour from the camp, Larsen's phone had rung.
"Change of plan, sir." said an American accent. "Instructions are to meet you at Gour? with a local army back-up. We'll take over from there. You a close buddy of the President or something?"
"Not me, Lieutenant, but my man sitting next to me is and he's also the one who rescued Halima."
"This the girl we're hearing about?"
The first thing Bill Larsen did on returning to the camp after handing over Benjamin's body was to look for Halima. He found her sweeping in a cloud of dust, behind one of the tents. "Halima?"
She looked up. "Yessah."
Larsen had learned many things from Halima recently. One was not to expect her to start another job until she'd finished the first. "When you've finished can we have a word?"
"A word, sah?"
"Talk."
"Yessah."
Larsen took a shower while he waited. In just two days, his growing pessimism, made worse by Benjamin's death and no news from Gabriel, had been replaced by what? A touch of optimism?
Tipping a bucket of water over his head to clear soap mixed with two days' grime, Bill Larsen smiled for the first time for weeks.
It had started with the change of plan to hand over Benjamin's body at Gour? rather than Zinder. Someone, Larsen felt, and not just President Hama Dosso, was going out of their way to be helpful.
Gour? was close enough to the camp for Larsen to know the town quite well. It had a small airport but wasn't an entirely innocent town, Larsen knew that. In fact, the truck tracks they'd followed after Benjamin's murder led towards Gour?. The area was dry grassy?Sahel dotted with acacia?trees, green patches formed by kouris,?seasonal watercourses with underground water, oases and cuvettes. It was a Hausa area, the east populated by Kanuri ethnic groups and Toubou.
For the COK it had been a good recruiting area. With Benjamin's body in a makeshift wooden box, they'd been given coordinates for the tiny airport and arrived to a welcoming group of local soldiers, six armoured vehicles and an emergency evacuation vehicle with a red cross.
It was a big black American soldier who had saluted Bill Larsen as they climbed out of their Toyota truck. "Major Larsen? Major Sam Collins. Good to see you."
One minute later a white soldier jumped from one of the armoured vehicles and came across. "Morning Bill. Remember me?"
"Christ almighty, if it's not young Kevin. Captain, SAS G Squad if I'm not mistaken. Never forget a face or a name. Kevin 'Dandy' Dando, right? What the blazes?"
"Not so loud, sir. And show some respect. I'm a Major now."
"What the bloody hell is my old SAS doing here?"
"You wouldn't expect me to answer that, surely, sir."
It was three hours before they started to head back. By then Bill Larsen had learned a lot, not only about the aerial surveillance operation but the plan that involved Halima.
"Our orders come right from the top, Bill," Sam Collins said.
"AFRICOM?" Larsen checked.
Collins had nodded. "Commander Fernandez passed through a few days ago."
"The Halima part has the fingerprints of politicians all over it," Kevin Dando added. He pointed to the local soldiers helping Peter Moosa and Kwami transfer Benjamin's wooden coffin to the red cross truck. "And we wouldn't have got these guys without Hama Dosso's agreement."
Larsen was drying his hair when Halima arrived carrying a pot of something and an empty plastic mug. "It is fura da nono, sah. Millet and cow's milk. I hope you like it." She poured some into the mug and put it on the table.
"Would you like to visit Abuja, Halima?"
"Abuja?"
"You've stirred interest, Halima."
"Stirred, sah?"
"You've got people talking about you, about Pastor Gabriel, about the Project, about the school, about Benjamin. It's a good story."
"Story, sah?"
"The world likes someone who is not afraid. Escaping from the COK makes you worth knowing. They want to meet you, talk to you."
"But how will I go there. It is a long way."
"They're sending a helicopter Halima. You will arrive out of the sky. Like an angel."
"An angel, sah?"
"Don't worry, I'll come with you. One angel and one grey-haired old guy in army boots. But you'll also need to wear something on your feet, Halima. Abuja's a long way to go in bare feet. Be an angel and try your boots on again."
Mark Dobson only realised he'd fallen into a short, deep sleep when he woke up wondering where he was. It often happened like that after days of little or no sleep at all. A quick glance around the room sorted the confusion: the Sheraton Hotel, Abuja, Nigeria, still on the Gabriel case.
But something had woken him. And there it was again - voices outside and a knock on the door. He sprung up and peered through the spy hole. A large black eye peered back at him, but didn't blink. It just stared.
"Sumtin's defini
tely in der." The muffled voice from lips pressed firmly against the outside of the door was unmistakable. He silently slid the safety bolt, suddenly opened the door and Vigo fell into the room, his cowboy hat rolling across the floor.
"Waah! Mercedes. my mon. You trying to kill your favourite Nigerian?" he said, picking himself up.
In the corridor, Chelsea was holding a plastic dish of something that he was eating with his fingers.
"You brought anyone else with you?" Dobson asked.
"Just Scumbag, Mercedes. Learning the business day. What you call it? Go right direction, quiet footsteps."
"Surveillance, navigation, self-reliance and initiative. Like tracking down jollof rice by the smell and not asking if anyone else wants to share it."
Vigo laughed, punched Dobson's shoulder, picked up his hat, put it back where it began and wandered further into the room. Chelsea followed, shutting the door with greasy fingers he'd just licked.
"Hey, nice place," Vigo said looking around. "You park well." He took a look in the bathroom. "No hiding fancy piece o' turkey?"
"Chance would be a fine thing. What're you doing here, Vigo?"
Vigo was checking the springs on the bed, Chelsea sitting on the chair facing the wall mirror watching himself eat.
"Still dealing with Bill Larsen's shipment," Vigo replied. "Truck, he go kaput in Benin City. No find space for container but no problem. Sorted. So, I phoned Colin 'cus you gone quiet like gone die or sumtin."
"Very thoughtful, Vigo. So, you drove up here? How long you staying?"
"You want us go already?"
"No problem. Colin say much?"
"Say body dey inside cloth and sumtin to do with money washing. Busy, like he do too much. Then say big buddy resting at Sheraton. So, we call by."
Dobson was still standing by the open door. He shut it and tapped Chelsea on the shoulder. "You finish chop? Go sit on the floor."
"Yessah."
He took over Chelsea's chair and sat with his back to the mirror. "Listen, Vigo. I'm glad you called by. I can't use my phone too often because someone doesn't like my face so I'm sleeping outside."
"In the street, Mercedes?"
"They already tried shooting me in the street. And do you remember Pink Panther Chelsea?" Chelsea, suddenly faced with a question, looked blank. "Pink Panther, Chelsea. Stop eating and try remembering something. At Pink Lips. Benji said he was in charge of the floozies."
"Floozies, sah?"
"The giggling girls with their complicated hair."
"Ah yes, sah."
"Well? Do you remember him?"
"Panta, sah. "
"I know that. Was he called Pink Panther at birth for reasons best known to his mother? Or is Pink Panther a better name, like Chelsea Scumbag is a better name than Zakarius Obodi?
Vigo stepped in. "Pink Panta. Him with pink shirt, pink necktie and pink socks?"
"That's him, Vigo."
"But no tail, Mercedes. I see no pink tail."
"But you've seen him before? Where?"
"Pink Lips, Mercedes. Top man. Big connections."
"And he likes pink?"
"I once saw him in full, white boubou but maybe he also have pink one. Man like you should know about marketing."
"Pink is the corporate colour?"
"And pink make the man wink. You never hear that before?"
"But winking is what Pink Panther does" Dobson replied. "He's got a twitch, a nervous tic in his right eye. He was here. He tried to open the door. He stood outside winking at me through the spy hole. Who the hell is he?"
"That's Godwin, sah," said Chelsea.
Before Dobson could react, the room phone rang. It was Taj Harding.
"I've just spoken to Daniel in Johannesburg. He asked if you've tracked Gabriel down yet."
"Why?" Dobson asked abruptly because his mind was on Godwin.
"We'd like him to meet Halima. It would make a good visual."
"A good visual?"
"You know, good PR. We're pushing for aid funds, Mark. Anything that raises public awareness must be a good thing."
Dobson drew a breath. No doubt about it there were some well-meaning ideas here but no-one seemed to understood the COK link, the fraud, the corruption, the politics, the threat to Nigeria itself. Harding, Bakare and the US delegation currently in Abuja were supposed to be informed, influential and fully aware of West African politics. Presumably they had access to intelligence but did they know what had been happening in London? "Have you discussed security?" he asked.
"We've discussed it with the hotel."
Dobson held his head. If the hotel was so good, why did they allow strangers to roam corridors trying to open doors? "What about the Nigerian police?"
"The US Embassy is dealing with it. We've also involved the French Embassy because of Niger."
"Has anyone discussed it direct with the Nigerian government, the State Governor, the SSS, the President?"
"You think it's that important?"
"Listen, Taj. With anything related to Gabriel you only ever see the tip of the iceberg. Have you spoken to Parker-Stanley or the High Commissioner?"
"The High Commissioner, Peter Thomas, is in London."
"So why not delay it. Why the urgency?"
Harding's response sounded reasonable enough. "Gabriel always accused us of not doing anything so we're doing something."
Correct. But to Dobson it smacked more of the short term, quick-fix, opportunistic politics he abhorred. He decided to leave it right there but he'd share his opinions with Martin Abisola.
Vigo and Chelsea had switched on the TV during this conversation. Dobson switched it off. "So," he said with only one thing on his mind. "Who is Pink Panther? Who is Godwin?"
"Top man. Big connections," said Vigo.
"Top man where? Connections with who? What's his real name?"
Chelsea looked blank. Vigo shrugged but said "Mazda knows one of the girls."
"What would she know?"
"She belongs to Pink. She's his floo."
Chelsea grinned and corrected him. "Floozy."
"Yeh, OK.," Vigo said, unusually embarrassed. "So, what the fuck's a floozy?"
Dobson had no problem there. A wealthy German client in Bangkok, fleeced by his Thai wife had once given him a list of a floozy characteristics: "Bloody promiscuous, fucking hussy and schlampe, bloody tart, ungrateful whore and slut," he explained to Vigo.
"Yah," Vigo said, "That's Marina. I'll phone Maz."
As Vigo went about trying to find Mazda, Dobson logged onto the Asher & Asher secure site. There was another string of messages, but Vigo interrupted.
"Mazda's just delivered a BMW we painted in sparkling purple for Babe Sophie," he announced.
Dobson looked up. "Do I know Babe Sophie?"
"You watch Flowers?" Vigo asked
"Growing?"
"TV show mon. Babe Sophie is the starlet with the big eyes and cowbells."
"What's it about?"
"Never watch it, mon."
"So, where's Mazda now?"
"Having his photo taken with Babe lying on the car. Then he'll go to Pink Lips. He'll keep his receipts for you."
"Good, I was worried about that. Where are you staying tonight? Only you look very comfortable on my bed."
"We'll sleep here, Mark. No rush. Protection, advice, errands and watch the spy hole."
Dobson went outside to speak to Dickson in the car park hut. "Can I use your phone, Dickson?"
"Who you call, sah?"
"One of my partners in London - Craig Donovan."
"What's the number, sah?"
Dobson gave him the number and they went to sit in the Toyota.
"Where's the boss?" Dobson asked as Dickson untangled the phone.
"In his office, sah."
"Razor wire hotel?"
"Yessah."
"Can he listen to the call I'm about to make?"
"Yessah."
"Can I speak to hi
m first?"
"One minute, sah." Dickson pressed some numbers on the console, then handed Dobson a set of headphones.
"Mark."
"I'm about to call Craig Donovan in the UK," Dobson told Martin Abisola. "I'd like you to listen in."
Five minutes later, Donovan picked up the call. "Yeh."
"Craig? It's Mark.......Abuja.........It's a safe phone......Yes, thanks, Martin Abisola is listening in......Listen. I'm getting updates from Colin on all the financial stuff. Good work, Craig. But what I need is your opinion......Cast your mind back to how things were when you worked at the US Embassy here.......Give me the Steve Barnett perspective." He listened for a while. Then: "Barnett's in Stuttgart? Would that mean AFRICOM to you?......Now then, you've read my reports to Colin about what Martin Abisola's told me.......Correct.......we're party to some top intelligence here, I realise that. What I need to know is whether what we know about the COK, the guys behind COK funding and the suspicions of a terrorism-led plot to overthrow the government has reached the ears of US and UK Intelligence?"
Craig Donovan spoke longer this time.
"So," Dobson concluded. "They're sceptical, are not necessarily believing it, might be putting it down to Presidential nerves and paranoia, they're playing things down, treading carefully as always."
That seemed to concur with Donovan's view.
"So, why's Steve Barnett with AFRICOM right now? Are they changing their minds? Are they getting concerned? Is your friend Commander David Fernandez behind a change of tactics, starting with improving surveillance ops?"
"I'd say Fernandez is finding it a good time to force through some decisions he's wanted for some time," Donovan replied.
"But it also looks like the US are making moves without fully involving the Nigerians."
"That wouldn't be the first time."
"So, if you were Steve Barnett right now, what would you do? Advise Daniel Bakare to cancel his PR stunt here tomorrow evening?"
"Tough one," said Donovan. "Don't forget Gabriel's involvement here. Gabriel's been in the US lobbying for attention and might like the idea of a PR stunt. You've also got Gabriel's buddy, Senator James McAllister, pushing everyone for action. And then you've got Defence Secretary Douglas Martin who, also don't forget, McAllister detests. Martin will bend in any wind if he thinks he might end up on the losing side. If you ask me, I reckon he's already bending. Meanwhile Bakare thinks his time for fame has come."
"So, what you're saying is Bakare won't be encouraged to abandon his plans."
"Dead right. And he definitely won't welcome advice coming from an English private investigator."
Dobson thanked Dickson and handed the headphones back.
"Noted," came the single word reply from Abisola and Dickson switched off.
"Have you seen anything suspicious today?" Dobson asked Dickson as they still sat in the Toyota.
"No sah. We check all cars."
"What about people already inside the hotel?"
"Hotel responsibility, sah."
"You see anyone who blinks like this? Dobson winked rapidly at Dickson in demonstration. Perhaps for the first time in his life, Dickson smiled. "No sah."
"Big guy, suit, maybe pink colour?"
"Maybe staff, through back door, sah."
"Are they checked?"
"By hotel, sah."
"Deliveries?"
"Back door sah."
"Thanks. Please tell the boss I've got my own security team here now. He'll know who I mean."
"Yessah."
Dobson returned to his hotel room to find Vigo asleep on the bed and Chelsea watching TV, something loud that might well have starred Babe Sophie for all Dobson knew. Chelsea didn't even look up as the door opened.
"Turn that down," Dobson said. "And next time I'm out put the security lock on and don't let anyone in who you don't recognise through the spy hole, OK?"
"Sorry sah."
Vigo was snoring. He snored even as the room phone rang again.
"Yes Dickson."
"I just think, sah. The only cars we don't check are the police."
"Have any come? Yesterday or today?"
"One car yesterday. I was away having shit, but Mohamed said they had ID."
"Mohamed's one of the car park security guards, yes?"
"Sidney until chop time, then Mohamed, sah."
"How long did the police stay?"
"Mohamed say maybe ten minutes. I still shit."
"You take copies of IDs?"
"Not police, just look."
"How many police were in the car?"
"Wait, sah. I ask Mohamed..............three sah. Two in the front, one in the back."
"How many came out?"
"I ask Mohamed??Mohamed says only two. He now very scared."
"Did Mohamed know them? See them clearly?"
"I ask Mohamed, sah.............no sah. Sorry."
"Do you trust the police, Dickson?"
"No sah."
