419

by Will Ferguson

  Drink my blood? Is that what you want?"

  Nnamdi was baffled and embarrassed. "No, sir. My mother, you see..."

  Ironsi-Egobia fought his anger down. He comes in here, stinking of the Delta. "The girl. Her, I can find work for. Cleaning rooms, washing toilets. And you—I will find something for you. And you will pay back this debt, cousins or not. You understand?"

  "Yes, sir." Nnamdi's smile was gone.

  "Tunde will take you." Ironsi-Egobia scribbled down a name and an address. "The Ambassador Hotel," he said. "In Ikeja. Ask for housekeeping. Now go—go before I change my mind."

  As they were hustled away, they could hear the coughing begin anew, deep bronchial rasps, wet with blood.

  Amina didn't have her market stall, but she had work. And Nnamdi? He had a cousin protector.

  "We are blessed," he whispered, as much to the child as to Amina.

  CHAPTER 91

  "Hello, Mr. Driscoll? My name is Laura Curtis."

  "Laura who?"

  "Curtis. I was the copy editor on your book. We met at the launch."

  "Of course! How are you, Laura?"

  He didn't remember her, but they must have met. She was with his publisher, after all.

  Gerry Driscoll, CEO and founding president of WestAir, was an upstart young cowboy who'd taken on the fat cats of the airline industry and won. Or at least, that was how he'd spun it in Mavericks of the Sky: The WestAir Story, his business memoir-cum-motivational tract. "If you can think it, you can do it!" Pliant airline regulators and a rejigged corporate tax scheme helped as well. "In business, as in life, you must put yourself on the right side of history and then blaze a trail toward it!" It was a book rife with exclamation marks.

  "You gave me your card," she said. "At WordFest."

  "Yes! Of course!"

  He had no idea who she was. Laura had been hired to copy-edit Mavericks of the Sky: punctuation, grammar, the usual. The platitudes and bromides had been someone else's editorial responsibility. Laura and he had dealt with each other only via email, and amid the hubbub of the book launch, Gerry Driscoll, heady on wine and the sound of his own voice, had mistaken her for his actual editor. That editor wasn't there that night, but Laura was. It was one of the few outings she'd attended all year, so it may have stood out in more detail for her.

  "You offered me a weekend getaway," she said. "Anywhere that WestAir flies."

  Of course he had.

  Mr. Driscoll was constantly comping tickets to people, both as a way of repaying social debts and, just as importantly, engendering obligations in return. After all, a favour received is a debt unpaid! He didn't remember this particular editor exactly, but it was easier just to give her the freebie than try to welch on the offer, especially when his as-yet-to-be-written follow-up—a memoir that she would presumably be working on—was titled My Word Is My Bond!

  "Sure thing," he said. "Where would you like to go, Laura?"

  "Nigeria."

  He laughed. "I'm sorry, I thought you said Nigeria."

  "I did."

  There was a pause. "You know, I give out a lot of flights. Most people pick Hawaii or Cancun."

  "Nigeria, please. Lagos."

  "We don't fly to Lagos. We don't fly to Africa."

  "But you partner with Virgin Air, and they do. The schedules line up. I checked. Four flights in, three flights out, every week."

  Mr. Driscoll comped tickets through his partner carriers all the time, and they did likewise; it was one of the perks of being CEO. Certainly WestAir had flown in enough Virgin employees and families over the years, en route to Banff, to more than make up for it. He sighed. "Okay," he said. "If that's what you want. I'll put you through to my assistant, and you can work out the details with her. Good to hear from you, Laura."

  "Thank you. And Mr. Driscoll?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'll need a hotel as well."

  CHAPTER 92

  Dear Mr. Ogun,

  I must apologize for the mix-up at the airport.

  Colonel Mustard and Mrs. Peacock no longer work for our organization; please ignore any further communications from them. I will be arriving at Murtala Muhammed Airport in two weeks' time, on Flight VS651 at 15:05.

  I believe you and I have some unfinished business.

  With best wishes on behalf of Corporate Living Unified Executives

  (a division of Parker Bros.),

  Miss Scarlet

  Laura was at the top of a tall tower, feeling empty and unafraid.

  When the CEO of WestAir had first offered her those tickets to anywhere, there hadn't been anywhere she wanted to go. If nothing else, she now had a destination.

  She looked out her window, down at the city shimmering below, and slowly, she began to tie her long, flowing hair to a bedpost...

  CHAPTER 93

  The heat was making her queasy. "I'm sorry, but who did you say you were? Airport security? Police?"

  He slid a business card across his desk. "EFCC. The Nigerian Economic and Financial Crimes Commission."

  She looked at the card, embossed with name and number.

  "Well, Mr. Ribadu..."

  "David, please," he reminded her. "Up against Goliath, I'm afraid. The EFCC has been charged with addressing 419 crimes.

  Bank fraud, advance fee swindles, cyber crimes, et cetera. Such activities are damaging Nigeria's reputation. They are hurting our chances with legitimate investors. When people hear the word

  ‘Nigeria,' it is too often the swindle merchants and never-do-wells they imagine. Suffice it to say, these crimes have caused our dear country and its many innocent citizens a lot of embarrassment abroad. Of course," he held her gaze uncomfortably long, "when it comes to obtaining wealth through false pretenses, the white man is still the expert. I'm afraid the black man is an amateur when it comes to 4l9ing others. One might say, my entire country was obtained under false pretenses."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Ribadu, but I'm not sure what this has to do with—"

  "We at the EFCC have been taking the hunt to the hunters.

  We have raided the cyber dens in FestacTown, we have rounded up the forgers along Akwele Road. We are authorized to trace emails, reclaim ill-gotten wealth. Indeed, madam, we have such powers as to confiscate assets, seize passports, freeze bank accounts. We can impound luxury cars, even take away the homes of 4l9ers.

  And, if we are not winning the war, we are at least harrying our foes. Unfortunately, every so often, some—shall I say?—gullible foreigner arrives and mucks things up, causing many sorts of trouble. It is precisely why we at the EFCC maintain an office here at Murtala Muhammed."

  Laura hadn't even made it out of the airport, and already things were starting to derail. If it got nasty with Inspector Ribadu, she needed to know who to appeal to, who to go to above the inspector's head. "I'm still a little confused," she said. "You answer to the police?"

  "The police answer to me."

  I see.

  "Am I under arrest, then?"

  He laughed. "Arrest? No. We are having a conversation, that is all."

  After he'd checked her documents and repacked her carry-on, Laura asked, "So... I'm free to go?"

  "Madam, these gullible foreigners I mentioned, the ones who keep showing up at our airport, are lured to Nigeria. They are lured by the promise of easy money. But I assure you, it is skulduggery, plain and simple. These foreigners come to Lagos thinking they will claim a lost inheritance or take possession of trunks filled with money, dyed solid black with ink, so they are told. They are swiftly robbed by the 4l9ers. The lucky ones, at least. Some are kidnapped for ransom, some are tortured, some murdered. And we in law enforcement have to deal with the mess. The paperwork alone is very distressing. Embassies are involved, and so on.

  Wouldn't you say, madam, that it's better if these foreigners had never come?"

  "I suppose..."

  "You seem tired, madam. Such a long flight, for such a short stay. With the stopover in London, it must have taken
, what? A day or more just to get here."

  "Something like that, yes."

  "And returning so soon. I dare say, you will probably spend more time in transit than you will here in Nigeria. A strange sort of holiday. Tell me. You aren't one of those foolish people, are you, madam? You haven't come to Lagos to reclaim your lost millions, have you?"

  "No." Not millions.

  "Well, you have my card. You may ring me any time, night or day, should any difficulties bedevil you. It's best you don't go to the regular police, and certainly not to some random officer on the street. Contact me directly instead. The police in Nigeria are woefully underpaid, you see. Mostly hard-working fellows, but some have been, how shall I say, compromised. Madam, we are cracking down hard on the 4l9ers. Please do not get caught in the middle. It won't end well."

  He rose and walked her to the door, opened it for her with a gentlemanly grace. "Enjoy Lagos, madam. Enjoy the music, enjoy the food, enjoy the friendly nature. But please take care for your safety. Don't be fooled by smiles. Shady characters abound. Promise me you will take precautions."

  "I will." I have.

  CHAPTER 94

  He was younger than she expected—and handsome, though she noted this more with a sense of detached judgment than anything.

  She'd spotted him right away on the other side of the fence, holding up his sign: MISS SCARLET PLEASE. A crisp white robe with a matching cap that was tightly fitted and beautifully embroidered.

  He looked like a king, but called himself a chief, and as she crossed the sidewalk toward him he held his arms wide in a regal greeting.

  "Welcome to Nigeria!"

  Such a low baritone from such a young man.

  He watched her coming. On sage advice, he'd donned a full babban-riga. If you were going to present yourself as a Big Man of Africa, you needed to dress the part, and the oyibos were disappointed if you didn't show up looking like a Nubian potentate. But what of her? What effort had she made? Very little from the looks of it. She certainly didn't project the aura of a high-level liaison to an international banking cartel, what with her peasant skirt and wrinkled cotton top. Then again, oyibos were strange; everyone knew this. They didn't behave like normal people. "Treat them as you would children." That too was advice he had received.

  Children with money.

  "Hello," she said.

  He smiled, but not with his eyes. "Greetings! I am Chief Ogun Oduduwa of the Obasanjo, and I welcome you!"

  He insisted on taking her bag as he ushered her through the pandemonium of taxi drivers and waiting relatives to a parked sedan. "Only this?" he said, referring to her sole carry-on.

  Tinted windows, cobalt blue. A uniformed driver. A flutter of fear, pushed down, denied a foothold.

  Chief Ogun Oduduwa of the Obasanjo opened the sedan's back passenger door for her.

  "You seem awfully young for a chief," she said.

  "A hereditary title. My grandfather and such. Please. Get in.

  We are parked illegally."

  She stepped through the open door, into the sedan. The heat followed her in.

  "I'm afraid the a/c is out," he said.

  As she struggled with the seatbelt, Chief Ogun Oduduwa of the Obasanjo settled in beside her, her carry-on bag atop his lap.

  He had seen Miss Scarlet being whisked away by airport security earlier, had hung back and waited, ready to bolt had she reappeared flanked by officers. But no, she was alone. It had been a simple demand for dash, he imagined. Officers appeased and a woman set free.

  She clicked the belt into place, straightened her skirt. Smiled at him.

  "So," she said. "We meet."

  "You have the money?" It wasn't a question, not the way he said it.

  CHAPTER 95

  A cold snap, followed by wet snow piling up across the city, and now this: chinook winds moving in, melting everything, turning snowbanks to slush and revealing, like a tablecloth trick, a pair of bodies below the Bridgeland overpass.

  Sergeant Matthew Brisebois trudged up the riverbank, through the slush and snow. Above him, on graceful arcs of cement, a procession of brake lights curved across the river, blinking red as they made their way over the bridge and into the city.

  Another false call. No vehicle had been involved. There were no traffic fatalities for him to investigate—only bodies, and as such, the scene was beyond his realm of responsibility. He didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed, or whether to feel anything at all.

  Under the overpass, patrol cars had blocked traffic in both directions, their lights washing back and forth.

  "Drinking, from the looks of it," he said to the officer in charge.

  "Found an empty bottle of Jack Daniel's. And Baby Duck. Must've fallen asleep."

  They had died propping each other up. Would have been a cozy scene, except for the dying part. Some by fire, some by ice. Where had he learned that? In choir, as a boy? In a song? He was tired. And try as he might to focus on the banter and jibes of the other officers, his attention kept drifting over their shoulders, up to the city skyline and a pair of apartment buildings on a crest of hill beyond.

  The Curtis file was closed. So why did his gaze keep drifting upward? As he drove home along Memorial Drive, he leaned forward, neck craned, looking up at the corner apartment. The lights were out. The following morning, the lights were still out, and would be the next night as well.

  Where do you suppose she went?

  CHAPTER 96

  "You have the money, yes?"

  Horizontal vertigo. If such a thing were possible, that was what she was suffering from. The airport off-ramp had poured them onto a cloverleaf and from there onto an eight-lane expressway, with the sedan veering across lanes to turn sharply onto another curl of asphalt, as she slid first against the door and then against Chief Ogun. The hotel was indeed beside the airport; she could see it from here. But there was a maze of elevated asphalt to manoeuvre through first.

  "Do you have the money?"

  "No, but I can get it," she said. "It will be waiting for me at the hotel." Until they get their money, I'm the safest woman in Lagos.

  Chief Ogun smiled when he heard this. "Good, good." The smile became a grin, gap-toothed and wide. "And which hotel would that be, Miss Scarlet?"

  "The Sheraton."

  From the travel guide in her carry-on: "The Airport Sheraton in Lagos, Nigeria, is one of the most modern and secure facilities in West Africa. Its safety and amenities are well known, and the hotel remains the preferred choice of embassy staff, UN administrators, and visiting dignitaries. (See index for a full list of Western accommodations near the airport.)"

  "Ah yes," said Chief Ogun. "The Sheraton, a fine establishment. I know the concierge."

  She smiled. That would be worth noting if it was where she was actually staying, she thought. He didn't really think she was going to complete this transaction at her own hotel?

  "We will be there in a quick jiffy," he said. "It isn't far."

  And from curve to vertiginous curve, they came at last to the gates of the Sheraton itself. Armed guards. The flags of nations.

  Manicured lawns and a three-tiered fountain, spilling water like a wedding cake.

  As the sedan rolled to a stop—at the far edge of the parking lot, she noticed, away from any doormen or cameras—Chief Ogun turned to her. "Here we are."

  Beyond the Sheraton, on the other side of the overpass, she could see the Airport Ambassador, the hotels like mirror images of each other.

  A 747 was coming in, sunlight on white wings. She could feel the vibrations even from here.

  Chief Ogun nodded toward the entrance of the hotel.

  "I don't know the name of the person I'm going to meet,"

  Laura explained. "I have to present myself, with my passport, to the front desk. The front desk will then page the person in question's room and the money will be brought down. I have to collect it in person, for security reasons. Silly, I know. But the international bankers I
work for—the ones financing this—have become very concerned."

  "Concerned?"