by Nina Darnton
The AP office was in chaos. Lindsay looked around desperately. At the back of the room was Maureen’s young assistant, a Yoruba woman who had studied in London. She was weeping inconsolably. Lindsay rushed over.
“There was just a news bulletin,” the girl gasped between sobs. “They said there were four dead . . . Maureen was one of them.”
CHAPTER 21
Afterward, when Lindsay tried to remember what had happened in the hours after she learned of Maureen’s death, it was a jumble of chaotic images. She must have gotten home somehow because she remembered lying in her bed and weeping. James must have come over because she could call up a picture of him holding her. He had seemed as upset as she was. Who was responsible? he kept asking. Who could have done this?
Eventually, Lindsay had to stop crying and make plans. First, she braced herself and called Maureen’s husband, Mark, who had already been notified by AP and whose voice sounded hoarse and barely audible. He didn’t mention the pregnancy—maybe he couldn’t bear to deal with both losses at the same time—and Lindsay didn’t bring it up. James sat next to her, his hand on her back to steady her. He took the phone from her when she couldn’t go on, adding a few useless words of comfort of his own and asking about the funeral. Mark said it depended on how long it would take for them to transport Maureen’s remains. Then he broke down, said he would get back to them. Lindsay knew she should call Maureen’s parents next.
First, she poured herself a stiff drink. A neighbor answered and said apologetically that Maureen’s parents were too distraught to come to the phone. Relieved, Lindsay left a message of condolence, saying she would try again. She hoped that they didn’t know about the pregnancy, that they wouldn’t have to mourn the loss of their grandchild as well as their daughter.
The phone rang as soon as she hung up. Joe Rainey sounded harried and upset. The story was already on the wires, and he expressed his sympathy for Maureen’s death. After a pause, he asked, “I know this is hard, kid, but when do you think you’ll file?”
Lindsay closed her eyes.
“Soon,” she said. “I was on the scene minutes after the bomb went off. Give me an hour.”
“Good girl.”
She hung up and turned to James.
“Should I go?” he asked.
“I don’t want you to, but maybe you should. I have to file.”
“I know.”
“Maybe you could come back later.”
“Of course.” He reached out to embrace her. She folded herself into his arms, resting there a moment. Then she pulled away and began to write.
By the time she finished and dictated it to the recording room, the power had gone out. She sat in the growing darkness as Martin walked around silently lighting candles. He looked like he too had been crying.
“I am so sorry, madam,” he said gently. “Please, can you eat something? Maybe some soup?”
“No, thank you, Martin. I’m not hungry.”
“I know. But it will help you to have something. Maybe some tea and a biscuit? Please?”
She sighed and accepted, more for him than for herself. After he served her, she sat alone in the flickering candlelight thinking about Maureen, leaving the tea and biscuit untouched. When James returned later, he insisted she lie down, and he lay beside her. She couldn’t sleep and finally took a sleeping pill, falling into a deep, dreamless slumber.
She awoke late and groggy. Lying in bed, she struggled to consciousness. For a minute, she didn’t remember what had happened. Then the dreadful memory swept over her. She turned toward James, but he had gone. When she went downstairs, Martin was already in the kitchen and he poured her a cup of coffee.
“Mr. James say he will be back later,” Martin said. “Please, madam, this morning you must eat.” She wanted to hear the BBC broadcast to see how they treated the bombing, but when she looked at the clock she was shocked to discover it was already 9:30—too late for the early broadcast and too early for the next one. She was pouring herself a second cup of coffee when she heard a knock at the door. She motioned to Martin that she didn’t want to see anyone. Martin opened the door and there was a small commotion before Vickie pushed her way past him and barged into the kitchen.
“Lindsay, I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to see anyone right now, but we’ve got to talk.”
Lindsay was actually glad to see her. Vickie’s straightforward personality was just the distraction she needed.
“Sit down, Vickie. Have a cup of coffee.”
Instead, Vickie pulled Lindsay out of her chair and hugged her.
“First things first,” she said. Then she released her, looked around for a clean cup and poured herself some coffee.
“Have you eaten?”
“No. I’m not hungry.”
Vickie turned to Martin.
“What does she usually eat for breakfast?”
“She eats eggs and toast.”
“Well, bring her some toast and jam, please.”
Relieved, Martin moved quickly to prepare it.
It felt good to be taken care of, and when the toast was ready, Lindsay nibbled it obediently.
“The government is moving faster than I’ve ever seen it. They’re sending Maureen’s body back today. The funeral will probably be in a few days in London.”
“Thanks for telling me,” Lindsay said. “Of course, I’ll be there.”
“Actually, you can’t go,” Vickie said.
Lindsay looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Lindsay, if you leave the country, they’ll never let you back in. They don’t want the bad publicity of throwing you out, but they’ll never renew your visa. Not now.”
“Then I guess this country will just have to self-destruct without me. I have to be at Maureen’s funeral. My priorities aren’t so screwed up that I don’t know that.”
Vickie paused.
“We need your help. What’s more important, going to Maureen’s funeral or helping us discover who killed her? Sympathy isn’t enough. This is a time for revenge.”
That stopped Lindsay short. “What could I do that you couldn’t do without me?”
“You are the one person with contacts both in the journalistic community and in The Next Step.”
Lindsay considered this. “Do you have any idea who was behind the blast?”
“I need to know if you will stay and work with us before I can fill you in.”
“I’m still a journalist, Vickie.”
“I know, but you’d have to agree that anything I tell you is off the record until I give you the go-ahead.”
Lindsay shook her head. “I can’t do that.”
“Maybe this is the moment to decide whether or not your priorities are screwed up. You have a chance to help us find and punish the people who killed your best friend.”
“It’s against every principle of my profession.”
Vickie’s voice softened. “What would Maureen want you to do?”
“Maureen would want me to throw you out. She’d want me to cover the hell out of this story without you. But I’m not Maureen. I want revenge. I need to have time to think.”
“How much time?”
“I don’t know. My impulse is to refuse. How can I miss Maureen’s funeral? What would I say to Mark or to her parents?”
“We could work all that out.”
“It’s not that easy. And you’re asking me to trust you, but you haven’t shown that you trust me. Tell me, off the record, what you know. I’ll tell you my decision later.” She pulled out her notebook. “Do you believe this was engineered by Olumide?”
Vickie seemed to consider her answer. Then she got up and closed the kitchen door.
“Some of us did think that—especially the ambassador and Dave Goren . . . but most of us disagree. Killing Fakai isn’t in Olumide’s interest; it creates a martyr. We think it was someone who wants to provoke a movement against Olumide. They’d expect Olumide will be brutal putting down protests. H
e certainly stopped the riots after Bayo’s death. To tell you the truth, we’re puzzled about who the instigator is. We’ve been poring over diagrams of the bomb site and the early lab reports on the materials used and they all point to Solutions, Incorporated. But we don’t know who hired them or who their point man is here.”
“But why kill Maureen? Why target the press?”
“Exactly. That doesn’t make sense. They would want the press to cover the event. We think the bomb went off early. They probably just wanted to kill Fakai and his people and timed the bomb to go off just as the press was arriving. That way, they would all write about the blast. Maureen was collateral damage.”
Lindsay blanched. If only she had persuaded Maureen to wait for her, Maureen would still be alive.
“Come back in an hour, Vickie. I’ll have an answer for you.”
After a while, she picked up the phone and called Mark. His voice was still shaky, but he sounded glad to hear from her. They talked for a few minutes before Lindsay broached the reason for her call.
“Mark, I need to ask you something. I can’t say too much because you never know who might be listening, but I’m told that if I leave Lagos, I won’t get back in, and I want to find the people responsible for Maureen’s death. But if I stay, I won’t be able to get to the funeral.”
“Are you asking me what you should do?”
“Yes. This time I am.”
Mark didn’t speak for what felt like a long time.
“Stay there, Lindsay. Nail the bastards. And then get the hell out of there and come see me.”
As soon as he said it, she knew it was the answer she wanted.
“Will you explain to Maureen’s parents?”
“Yes. Don’t worry. But be careful.”
“I will. Thanks. I’ll be in touch soon.”
By the time Vickie returned, Lindsay had worked out a compromise on her role as a journalist with ties to the CIA.
“I’ll do this much,” she announced. “I’ll promise to hold back on writing anything you tell me for the time being. I’m not filing from here anyway, and I don’t expect to write anything until I leave the country. But then, I’ll write what I want. I’m not one of your agents, and I won’t follow orders. But I will share what I find on my own with you. You’ll have to trust me.”
“What about Mark, and Maureen’s family?”
“I’ve taken care of that.”
“So we have an understanding. And I don’t need to tell you that this arrangement has to be entirely secret, do I? You can’t confide in anyone.”
Lindsay nodded. Before she left, Vickie impulsively reached out and squeezed Lindsay’s shoulder.
“Be careful.”
“I’ll try.”
CHAPTER 22
Several days went by before Lindsay was ready to begin her investigations. There was enough daily news to keep her busy, and she needed some time to recover. She only wrote what she had to—Olumide’s statement of regret and his promise to find the responsible parties, the public funerals for Fakai and his associates, the few surprisingly mild demonstrations against the government. Maureen’s funeral was postponed because despite Vickie’s optimism, her remains were not released quickly.
During this time, James treated Lindsay with a level of affection she had not seen before. He seemed shattered by Maureen’s death, and they comforted each other. He came over every night and little by little the tender moments of physical comfort began to change into something closer to desire. They both felt the irrepressible yearning of the living even while mourning the dead. It was no surprise to either of them one night when James suggested they skip the meal and go upstairs. She followed him willingly, locking her bedroom door and leading him to her bed. He unbuttoned her linen shirt and threw it on a chair, then fumbled over the clasp on her slacks.
“You have to be an engineer to open these things.”
She undid it herself, tossing them onto the chair. She reached up and kissed him, pulling his face toward hers. He seemed to know how to give her pleasure, as if this wasn’t their first time together. She savored every moment, every touch.
When they finished, James draped his arm around her and she snuggled into him, luxuriating in the feeling that she was truly desired by this man she had wanted for so long. But she also felt a tinge of guilt that such happiness should come so soon after her friend’s death—maybe even because of it. She pushed the thought away.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Not anymore,” he answered.
“I mean for food.”
He smiled. “I could eat something.”
She dressed quickly and went down to the kitchen. Martin looked at her knowingly, but only asked if he should start dinner. She told him that she would cook it herself and that he could take the rest of the night off. She opened the refrigerator and saw what he had been planning: chicken, wine, onions. She rummaged in the cupboard and found a jar of bottled mushrooms and decided that there was enough to put together a passable coq au vin. She bustled about preparing the meal as James came downstairs and watched. When they sat down to eat, he praised it with enthusiasm, marveling at her ability to cook an elegant French meal in Lagos. Later they moved into the living room and put on some music—Miles Davis, James’s favorite. They sat close together.
“I’ve been thinking,” she murmured. “You said you’d be ready to leave Lagos soon. I was wondering if you were going to come back after the funeral.”
Did she imagine it, or did he stiffen?
“I’m not sure,” he answered.
“Well, I need to stay for a while. But at some point, I’ll be ready to leave for good. Maybe I could get assigned back to London, if that’s where you’re going to be.”
He didn’t answer for a few seconds. Then he got up and walked to the stereo to change the music.
“Let’s not talk about future plans right now.” He smiled at her. “I want to thank you for the conversation, the music, the great meal. And by the way,” he added, sitting down next to her again and replacing his arm around her, “I think that the coq was very well suited to the vin.”
Lindsay laughed. “I love you,” she said impulsively. He smiled again, but didn’t reply. Then, circling his face with her hands, she asked lightly, as if half teasing, “Do you love me?”
“Of course I love you,” he said. “What’s not to love?”
CHAPTER 23
James had already left when Lindsay awoke anxious and sweating under the thin sheets. She knew she had only been dreaming, but it had felt so real. Usually she didn’t remember her dreams, but this one was so vivid. She couldn’t forget it, and the longer it stayed with her the more vulnerable and frightened she became. Finally she reached over to her night table and pulled out her notebook:
The elephant grass sways on the dry savannah, stirred softly by the breeze. Behind a flat-topped acacia tree the lion crouches, his eyes alert, his body tense, his fur mottled in spots, a tuft torn from his side and clotted with traces of blood. A fight? A battle for a female? The animal’s eyes sweep past me and I can feel the terror rise up to my throat. My heart is pounding so hard I fear the lion hears it. I try to silence the beat, to force myself to breathe slowly. I am as alert as he is. But I know that he is dangerous and that I am no match for him.
The lion’s attention is diverted, suddenly, by a sound behind him and he whirls his majestic head to find the source. A monkey scampers up a tree behind him, emitting a high-pitched squeal. He waits. Then, slowly, he turns his head again. I feel his yellow eyes on me before I see them. I am mesmerized; I cannot move, I cannot look away. And then he stretches like a lazy house cat waking in the morning sun. Slowly, ever so slowly, he starts to walk toward me. I must run. I must hide. I must stop him. He will kill me, devour me, destroy me. I will myself to break my trance and I turn to run. And then I realize that I can’t. I am in a cage in the middle of the savannah. I can’t run away, and he can’t devour me. I must stay there, wa
tching him looking at me. The cage has wide spaces between bars and his paws can strike through them; if I don’t stay alert his claws can rip at my skin. I run to the other side of the cage and huddle against it. I am barely out of his reach. If he moves to the other side, I must make a countermove. Until he tires of me. Oh God, help me. Let me go or let him devour me, but don’t let this cage hold me for the rest of my life. . . .
Writing it out had helped dissipate enough of its power to allow her to shake it off and start her day. She showered, had breakfast, and then set out. She hadn’t arranged for John to drive her. In some ways, she preferred driving herself. It gave her more independence and she didn’t have to worry about John divulging her itinerary to anyone. She climbed into the car and set off to see J.R.
His house looked the same, except that there were more men hanging around. They were young and tough-looking. Their faces registered no interest as they asked her what she wanted. She assumed that they were bodyguards. One disappeared for a few minutes, and then J.R. walked into the room dressed in his usual loose cotton pants and a tie-dyed blue and white dashiki. He greeted Lindsay warmly.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” he said, without a trace of pidgin, holding both her hands in his.
He looked at her with concern and her eyes teared up.
“You’re one of us now,” he said. “You can tell our story from the inside.”
She smiled weakly. She was relieved that he seemed to trust her.
He told her The Next Step was devastated by the deaths of Bayo and Fakai. He expressed surprise that so far, the reaction to Fakai’s death was more grief than rage. Olumide was more entrenched than ever. Still, the dictator was worried enough about the group to make overtures to their leadership asking for some sort of compromise. In fact, in an attempt to co-opt them—and to show he had nothing to fear—Olumide had given permission for a Next Step rally in the sports stadium. J.R. was worried about possible riots. He had the delicate job of inspiring and solidifying their followers without challenging the government outright. He worried that Olumide could use any lawlessness as an excuse to wipe out hundreds of their people in one place.