A quick worker, Beano had already proved useful. After the ambassador called, an idea popped into Sinclair’s mind. Interesting. Perhaps it might work. What harm could there be in trying?
He dialled 8 for an outside line, plus 011 for international, then 234 for Nigeria.
Following a long, enlightening conversation, he shut down his password-protected files, locked his cabinet, then headed to the weekly meeting with Cheeseman, settling into a chair opposite Mary so that he could keep an eye on her. Beano entered with a wink. Everyone cracked open their bottles of water—something to suck on during the forthcoming ordeal.
After an uncomfortable ten-minute wait, Cheeseman appeared, tufts of unruly chest hair poking out of his denim shirt. Why did the man not have the dignity to wax? And his pants were hitched so high, it looked as if his balls had been sliced in half. Sinclair shuddered as a dense concentration of fear punched the pit of his stomach—an emotion only Cheeseman could prompt, despite the fact that Sinclair knew that even Cheeseman was expendable. No one quite knew who maintained the tank; it appeared to be a self-generating system.
The boss sat down and spread his legs wide. “First of all, I wanna welcome Mr. Bates to the team. He’ll be working on Acquisitions Sahara and Sub-Sahara.”
A round of applause. Mary paled, an act that accentuated her blue veins. She forced out The Slash, then whipped it back into its impassive shelter, challenging anyone to identify the underlying panic.
“Now, Mr. Bates, water is a diminishing, finite resource—most people don’t know that. They look at the oceans and think, “That’s water.” Well, it’s not. It’s brine. We don’t deal in brine. No one drinks brine. Taking salt out of brine is very expensive, and then you have to figure where to dump the salt, right?”
“Right.” Hair fell into Beano’s eyes, but he did not even blink. He simply sent forth a boyish smile in Cheeseman’s direction.
“But it’s pretty useful for us that yer average Joe thinks he can drink it.”
“Sure is.”
Mary could tell that the hair was stinging Beano’s eyeballs. Still he did not blink. A mere boy. An adolescent simpleton. Why would Sinclair want him?
Cheeseman leaned back in his chair. “We deal in water—stuff you find in aquifers, in the mountains, in streams and rivers. Water, Mr. Bates, is the oil of the twenty-first century. Wars will be fought over it. What the hell, the world is already fighting over it. TransAqua plans to own it. And I mean own. Licences and rights. We’re gonna be the ones controlling it and how much money it’s sold for.”
“Blue gold, as they say, Mr. Cheeseman, blue gold.”
“Exactly. You get my point. So we’re making sure that international trade agreements define water as a commodity, not as a human right as some tie-dyed Y-front-wearing hippies are demanding.”
“You mean the Senate and Congress?” Beano blushed into another smile.
Sinclair cackled.
Cheeseman rocked back and punched out a concession of laughter. “That’s great—gotta tell the boys that one.”
Beano finally managed to whip the hair out of his eyes.
“Okay,” Cheeseman slapped a hand on the table. “Glass—update.”
“All going well,” Mary replied with a strained smile, her thin lips disappearing entirely. “Kolo has agreed to sell the entire length of the Niger, but in exchange he wants us to insist he rename it. And he’s after the biggest dam in the world.”
“What?” Sinclair blurted. “Is he crazy?”
“He’s looking for over twenty thousand megawatts.” She flicked her pen in circles on her index finger as she talked. A neat trick. Sinclair stared at it, wondering whether there were any hit men for hire in Santa Fe.
“What’s the cost?” Beano asked.
“Over $30 billion,” she replied, looking at Cheeseman rather than Beano. “They’d get World Bank financing, but we’d need to pitch in. We’d own most of the power supply to West Africa.”
Sinclair felt his chest constrict, as if he had swallowed an entire handful of peanuts and triggered full-blown anaphylactic shock. His life expectancy at TransAqua had probably just been reduced to hours. Beano whistled through his teeth, making Sinclair unaccountably jealous. He had recruited him; it was to him that Beano’s adulation should be directed.
Cheeseman tried to shove his hands in his pockets. Only the tips of his fingers made it. “Okay. We need a dedicated meeting. Two o’clock tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir,” Mary replied, two miniscule circles of blush on her angled cheekbones.
“Good girl. Round of applause fer Glass.”
The whole room clapped, but only the associates smiled.
“Now, Sinclair. What’ve y’all been up to?”
There was nothing to lose at this point in the game, and he had an inexperienced devotee to impress. Sinclair lounged back in his chair. “Just been getting inside information on Kolo. He won’t last long, I’m afraid. General Abucha is planning a coup. He’s willing to talk about rights to the Niger too, but plans to build a much smaller dam. Less outlay for us. I think he’s worth pursuing. Cost us less in the end.”
Mary accidentally flicked the pen off her finger.
“Who told you this?” Cheeseman asked.
“I’ve been speaking to Abucha himself.”
“Well, that kinda shit’s gonna block the drain, don’cha think?” Cheeseman fingered the eagle on his sterling silver bolo tie.
“Not really. A bird in the hand is worth two …” he winked at Beano, “… in the bush. I’m happy for Ms. Glass to pursue the Kolo angle. I’ll follow Abucha. Either way, we get the rights.”
“Excellent! Excellent, Sinclair. Well done.”
He started to clap and the rest of the directors followed in thunderous acclaim.
Cheeseman then turned to the numbers. “This chart shows our projections for this month.”
Details, details. Sinclair’s attention drifted to the pinpricks that represented Mary’s breasts.
Cheeseman spoke softly. “Maybe one day Mr. Sinclair will pay less attention to his colleague’s projections and more attention to these!” Cheeseman banged the chart.
Sinclair’s scrotum shrivelled in fright.
A wash of pink fanned around the angles of Mary’s face.
After the meeting, Mary sped from the boardroom, cold rage freezing her blood as it pulsed through her fat-free body. She slammed her door and hit the tenth memory button on her phone. She had no intention of letting the slug Sinclair put her future in jeopardy.
“Good evening. Residence of the president.”
“Hi. It’s Mary Glass, TransAqua.”
“Yes. Just a minute,” the voice trailed off, “just a minute, just a minute” until it diminished into silence.
Five minutes later, another voice answered the phone. “Hello, Ms. Glass. I meant to thank you for the box of chocolates. How can I help you?” Kolo was sucking again.
“I’ve just heard some bad news. Abucha is planning a coup.”
“What?” he coughed. “That’s not possible.”
“It is. He’s been speaking to a colleague about rebuilding Kainji.”
“Who did he speak to?”
“John Sinclair. This morning.” She bit some skin off her thin lip.
“This is very serious.”
“Mr. President, with all due respect, I would highly recommend that you deal with Abucha.”
“I’ll do no such thing, Ms. Glass.” Kolo put down the phone.
A cold, venomous rage froze the blood in every vein of her Type A constitution. After all she had suffered at TransAqua, with twice the barriers he faced, and this so-called politician could not even rouse himself to action!
For Africa, this was the deal of the century. And if TransAqua managed to obtain rights to such a prime piece of fluid real estate, the rewards would be immediate. They would, to all intents and purposes, own Nigeria, as they would proceed to own India through the Ganges and Egypt vi
a the Nile. For Mary, there would be the final and lasting approbation. And this deal was about to slip through Mary’s spider fingers.
Two agonizing days passed with Mary fossilized into inaction. Then she noticed an interruption to the looped broadcast on TV Afrique that played constantly in her office. Reports were flooding in of the unfortunate death of General Abucha in a car accident. The car had exploded after impact, leaving little trace of his or his driver’s remains. Kolo, in tears and wearing a black armband on his golden dashiki, declared a national day of mourning for his dear friend. He looked heartbroken, his rash flaring red from sorrow.
Watching the lucent images felt unsettling, as if she were diving into her own psyche. This man had adopted a veneer of composure, a glossy coating. Like her, he had to construct an outer shell that, to others, seemed believable. Mary knew much more lay underneath. She did not know, however, what experiences had driven him to such highly polished performances.
Sinclair smiled as he read about Abucha’s death on the Internet. Glass had fallen for the bait. The president would no longer have the general’s vital military support, leaving him vulnerable. He dialled 8 on his personal cellphone, then 011, followed by 234 for Nigeria.
“Office of the minister for the environment,” a female voice announced with pride.
“Hello. Nkemba, isn’t it? What a pretty name. How are you? I bet all the men love that name.”
“Oh, Mr. Sinclair. I’m fine, sir. Thank you, sir. Fine. And you? How are you also?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
“You want speak to the minister, sir?”
“That would be fantastic. Thank you, Nkemba.”
After a couple of minutes, the minister was put through. “Mr. Sinclair. How are you?” A broad accent in a baritone growl.
“Dangerously well, sir, dangerously well. And yourself?”
“Feeling as dangerous as yourself, my friend.” He issued a hearty hee-haw.
“Well, as you see, I was as good as my promise. Now—do we have a deal?”
The minister hesitated for a second. “Yes, sir. We have a deal. Can I ask how you managed to deal with the, em, situation?”
“I didn’t have to lift a finger. A colleague told our man in mourning that his best friend was planning a coup against him. Your path should be pretty clear now. Without the army behind him, you-know-who will soon be too weak to continue. Time for you to make a deal with the military.”
“Walahi!” the baritone croaked.
“Don’t you worry. There’s no risk here. Absolutely nothing to worry about. You’ve got our government behind you.”
They exchanged a few pleasantries, then Sinclair signed off, relieved.
Only a few minutes after he had put down the phone, it rang again.
“Hello? Please may I speak to John Sinclair?”
“Speaking.” Sinclair clipped on his headset and leaned back in his adjustable chair.
“This is President Ogbe Kolo speaking.”
Sinclair jerked to attention, cricking his back. “Yessir. A privilege.”
“The privilege is mine, sir.”
“To what do I owe this honour?” With the tips of his toes, Sinclair rotated to face the window, away from inquisitive eyes outside his plate glass office.
“I understand you are interested in water rights near Kainji.” Kolo sounded as though he were sucking on something. “And that you have been discussing such rights with some of my colleagues.”
“Yessir. TransAqua is interested—”
“I would be most honoured if you would in future address your concerns to me directly.” The voice had a musical quality to it, behind the sucking.
“Yessir.”
“Perhaps we could meet in London?”
“I would be honoured.” Sinclair was in excruciating pain.
“No, please. The privilege is mine.” The phone clicked off.
A bold man, Sinclair thought. He must have balls of titanium. Well, let’s jack him off too and see who spurts first. If it’s not Kolo, then back to Plan A. He swivelled his chair around towards his desk so that he could lever himself into an upright position.
Early morning free-riding eased Beano into his day. He sprang up the stairs to his new enclosure and leaned his snowboard on the wall, then pulled up the sleeves of his black polo neck and ruffled his hair. Its blond extravagance had been too long hidden in Sewage. He planned to grow it.
From his tiny glass office down the Africa Acquisitions corridor, Beano could glimpse Sinclair’s corner tank situated on a dais. His relationship with it felt more than visual, it was carnal: an incorporation, an embodiment, a union. Four doors down stood Mary’s office, also on a plinth. It had little effect on him.
An artist friend had designed a phone that contained bubbling water. On this gadget, he called Nigeria. “Hey, Dad! It’s Beano. Howzit going?”
“Don’ask. I hate this damned country. The Brits get knighted once they’ve served over here. All we get is high blood pressure.” After a groan of self pity, he asked, “So, have you finally wiped the shit off your ass?”
Although he resented the disparagement of his previous role, Beano’s dimples deepened with determined good cheer. “Yeup. Still, everything’s a bit precarious. I don’t know how you cope, Dad.”
“You’re dealing with Nigeria, son! Whaddaya expect? It’s stormy seas from here on in. And if you think you’ve spotted land, you can be sure you’re hallucinating.”
“I hear Kolo—”
“Don’t mention that upstart’s name! Arrogant prick with that damned aristocratic accent. Why doesn’t this place just go back to military rule? It’s easier to deal with.”
Beano adjusted a picture of the Sewage division at karaoke, which he’d propped on his desk to remind everyone of his humble origins. “That’s actually what I was calling about, Dad. Did you tell Sinclair about the minister for the environment?”
“As instructed. When did you suddenly become so efficient?”
“Gotta get dirty sometime. My body might be in water, but my mind is still in the gutter.”
His father groaned. “D’ya have to keep mentioning it?”
“So, who do you think’s gonna replace General Abucha? I told Sinclair I’d get him a name. Can you try for Major General Wosu P. Wosu?”
“Wosu? Almost impossible! Why?”
“It’d be a real help. I mean, if you’re looking for a military coup, he’s a Muslim who’s migrated to the Middle Belt, Dad. So the army will accept him. But he’s not originally from Benue State, so in the meantime Kolo won’t feel too threatened by him, right?”
“By an Igbo? No, ’course not.” He paused. “But you want an easterner? Why?”
After two months of negotiation, Mary had finally managed to secure a meeting with Kolo on the 8th of March; at the weekly meeting, she had announced a much later date to build in time for delay. She purchased some wax earplugs, which she placed securely in each ear for her first-class flight to London so that the pressure change would not topple her physical or mental equilibrium.
The flight was without complication. But in line at Immigration, she heard a familiar, unctuous snigger that sent the skin crawling up every rib. Her freeze-dried frame ducked behind another passenger and scouted out the territory.
Sinclair.
What was he doing here in London? There were only two possibilities. He was either following her or he had his own meeting with Kolo. She tracked him for a while. Easy. Like a slug, he left trails wherever he went, this time to a giggling flight attendant.
There was only one conclusion to draw. He had come to meet Kolo.
Mary jumped into a limousine in the madness of London’s traffic, heading towards the city’s core. She tried to figure out if Kolo had contacted Sinclair or vice versa. In the final analysis, it was unimportant. Either way, Kolo was double-dealing.
Mary had agreed to meet Kolo for tea in the marbled halls of the promenade within the elegant, old-wo
rld splendour of the Dorchester Hotel. London disoriented her with its complicated array of architectural styles, its twisting, crowded streets and dishevelled population. However, the Dorchester, harking back to an era of opulence and defined status, provoked a sense of calm and relaxation.
Kolo was shorter than she had expected, and sported a rash across his face that did not match the colour of his hands.
“Thank you so much for this opportunity,” Mary began as they sat down together at a small table, her small, blunt teeth appearing behind a wide smile. “I appreciate that this is a difficult time for your country and for you personally.” She sounded harsher than she would have wished.
“The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Glass.” Kolo smiled, the rash cracking somewhat as his facial muscles pulled. “Perhaps we can get down to business.” He clicked his fingers to order tea.
Mary opened with a lateral move. “I would certainly be relieved to get our terms down on paper, Mr. President.” She crossed her legs to display a bony kneecap. “My colleague, John Sinclair, has been dealing with so many different parties in Nigeria, I think it would be best to bring this to some closure under your leadership.”
Kolo froze.
Mary took a bite out of a crust-free cucumber sandwich.
“Mr. Sinclair is dealing with whom?”
“Unfortunately, that’s confidential. That’s always been his strategy. Negotiate with everyone. See who ends up on top.” She shrugged with a remorseful smirk.
“Really? Many separate parties?”
“Well, that’s how he got to where he is. He’s our best negotiator.” She flipped a sprig of parsley into her mouth. Check. “I personally prefer to deal with one person at a time.” Mate.
“Indeed.”
Kolo looked distinctly out of sorts, out of depth and out of choices. She pulled a folder from her briefcase and opened it.
Two days later they had signed the deal. He had guaranteed TransAqua a 70-percent annual return on its investment, tax incentives, shipping rights and exclusive rights to all water in the district.
With men, Mary mused, all you have to do is throw them some meat and they think it’s dinnertime.
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