by Nina Darnton
He turned slowly. “No, madam. I will stay here.”
“Martin,” she said firmly. “Don’t make me fire you.” Then her voice softened. “Don’t you think that Pauline has suffered enough? Just for a few days. Come back next week.”
Martin sighed but finally agreed. “I will go, madam. But please take care.”
She would, but in case anything happened to her, she wrote down everything that had happened and all that she suspected. When she was done, she put the package and the pages in her safe. She wrote the combination to her safe on a piece of paper, put it in an envelope, and wrote Vickie’s name on the front. She would deliver it to her at the embassy to ensure that the statue would be found. She walked to the intersection and hailed a taxi—she was too shaken to drive—and told the driver to take her to the American embassy. The go-slow was particularly bad and the heat stifling. The driver seemed unaccountably nervous. “No good stop heah . . .” he muttered, almost to himself. Soon a small group gathered, peering into the car. Sweating profusely, he reached over to make sure the doors were locked. Outside, a mob was growing. Lindsay became seriously alarmed when the crowd started to rock the car, yelling something in Yoruba.
Suddenly, someone smashed a brick through the window and an arm reached in, released the lock, yanked open the door, hauled out the driver and carried him away. Lindsay sat dumbfounded as the crowd dispersed as quickly as it had formed. She climbed out of the cab and noticed an old woman who had been watching from behind a stack of canned goods.
“What was that? What happened?”
“Ayah. He no pay his union dues.”
Lindsay sighed. She scanned the street and saw another taxi pulled over on the side of the road, the driver asleep in the front seat. She woke him and told him she needed him to take her to the American embassy and then wait for her.
“I go take you, but you need buy petrol.”
“If you don’t have petrol it will take hours to wait at the station. I can’t wait.” She started looking for another cab.
“I got petrol.”
“I thought you wanted me to buy it.”
“From me. It take me half day-o. You go pay meter plus fifty naira for wait.”
It was outrageous but she agreed. On the long hot ride, she tried to calm down. Once there, she got out, walked up to the marine guard, and handed him the envelope, telling him to be sure it was delivered to Vickie Grebow. Then she got back in the cab and steeled herself for the trip home. Now she’d have time to warn James before Vickie saw the statue, and if Mike or his cohorts hurt her, Vickie would know how to get into her safe.
She saw James’s car in her driveway as the taxi pulled up and felt a surge of relief. She rushed into the house, flung her arms around him, and held him close. He pulled back, smiling uneasily.
“Hey, hold on. I was only gone for a few days.”
“I know. I’m sorry, but wait until you hear what has happened.”
She made him sit down. Then she told him about Mike, being kidnapped, and finding the statue in the shed. James took in the information about Mike with restraint. He just nodded, his mouth set tightly. When she finished, she asked him if he wanted to go to the embassy with her. He seemed to think about it for a long time.
“No,” he said, finally. “I’ll take care of this myself.”
“But they might suspect you were involved.”
“I wasn’t, so I don’t have to worry. I need to check with my supplier to see how many of the statues have disappeared. Can you hold off for a little?”
“No. I sent a note to Vickie. If I know her, she’ll be here first thing in the morning, if not in the middle of the night.”
He was quiet. “All right,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out.”
He bent down to kiss her and she pulled him closer. They had the house to themselves. He lay on the couch and she lay on top of him; a few minutes later they moved to the floor. He was less controlled, more passionate and impulsive in his lovemaking than ever before. For a little while her anxiety lifted. She almost felt happy.
CHAPTER 30
Vickie didn’t come over that night. She didn’t appear the next morning either, and Lindsay slept late, waking up with a start at 8:30. She had to be at Mike’s in half an hour. James had begged her not to keep the date. He thought it would be too dangerous. But Lindsay was determined to see this through and feared that Mike would be suspicious if she didn’t turn up. Afterward, she planned to go straight to the embassy.
When she reached Mike’s house, it was dark. Since no one answered, she tried the door and found it unlocked. Going in, she called Mike’s name several times, but didn’t get a response. She figured he was still asleep and decided to go upstairs to wake him. She knocked on his bedroom door and when he didn’t answer, she barged right in.
“Hey, Mike, get up. We have a date, remember? It’s past nine . . .”
She stopped suddenly. Mike was in bed lying on his back in a pool of blood. An ugly gash slashed his throat from ear to ear, the blood coagulated in a thick black band. Blood also stained the sheets and had dripped onto the floor near the bed in thick, rust-colored puddles. Mike’s eyes were open, staring and glassy, as though surprised. She backed into the hallway, horrified. As she passed the spare bedroom, she heard a rustling sound. She froze. Her eyes glued to the door, she saw Billy Anikulo standing there, unshaven, dressed in wrinkled pants and a dirty shirt. She started to run down the stairs.
“Wait,” he shouted. “It wasn’t me. I couldn’t stop them. I hid.”
She charged out the front door and into her car and drove to the American embassy. After she told Vickie the whole story, Vickie picked up the phone and asked Dave Goren to join them. Goren entered and Vickie quickly brought him up to date. Before he could respond, Lindsay turned to Vickie.
“Why didn’t you come to my house this morning? Didn’t you wonder why I left you the combination to my safe?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I gave a letter to a marine at the gate and told him to get it to you.”
“I never saw it. Anything hand delivered that isn’t expected is sent to security first.”
Dave Goren looked impatient. “Lindsay, we need to talk. First of all, we’ve got to pick up Anikulo. You say he’s still at Vale’s house?”
“He was when I left. I think Mike was the Solutions operative. Maybe Anikulo killed him.”
“Was anyone else there? The steward?”
“No.”
“Good. We can pick up Anikulo, clean up, and take the body without being seen. I’ll make the arrangements.” He walked out. Lindsay looked quizzically at Vickie, who was visibly upset.
“Okay. I’m going to try to fill you in,” Vickie said. She got up and locked her door. “I’d appreciate it if you’d hear me out without interrupting. You can ask whatever questions you have after I’m done.”
Lindsay nodded.
“Mike Vale was not the Solutions operative. He worked for us.”
Shocked, Lindsay started to say something, but Vickie stopped her.
“Let me finish. Mike managed to get a lot of information about what’s going on. The operative we’re looking for works with the northerners. They’re narco-terrorists. They bring in drugs from Colombia and Mexico and smuggle them to the Canary Islands and from there to Europe. They have ties to the new government and can operate with impunity. But Mike uncovered a second operation. Hired thugs are stealing important life-saving medicines from Lagos hospitals and sending them up north. The leader of the operation, who uses Solutions to pull it off, is a guy named Abdul Abdeka. He’s becoming a major player in the new government. He sees himself as some kind of Robin Hood, but the Solutions operative who worked with him was only interested in the cash.”
“What about Billy Anikulo?” Lindsay asked.
“Mike was offering him asylum in exchange for information. The new government is arresting all of Olumide’s ministers.”
>
“But what does he know?”
“He knows about Solutions, Inc. As I said, they work for cash and they work for anyone. They have no ideology and no loyalty. Olumide used them—probably for the Agapo killings among others—and Anikulo might know the name of the man on the ground here.” Lindsay was silent, worrying about James.
“When did you find out that Mike had the statue?” Vickie asked.
“I saw it a while ago, but I only found out it was stuffed with drugs yesterday.”
“Did you tell anybody?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you tell me James was exporting statues and that Mike had bought one from a trader?”
“I thought so, but I was mistaken.”
“How?”
“It was a different statue, a different style.”
“And are you sure you didn’t mention anything to James?”
“James was in Kano. Remember, Vickie, I was worried that he hadn’t called me.”
Vickie looked skeptical. “So you didn’t see James last night?”
“I’m beginning to feel like you’re interrogating me, Vickie, and I don’t like it.”
Lindsay got up to leave. “James’s statues were stolen. He had nothing to do with this.”
“Maybe not. But we ought to talk to him.”
“Do what you have to do, Vickie. I’ve got to go.” She pushed past her and walked out the door.
She was scared. She had lied to protect James and even though she was certain he wasn’t guilty, she knew it looked bad for him. If they learned she had told him about finding the drug-filled statue at Mike’s house before she had evidence to clear him, he would be their prime suspect. She knew Vickie suspected she was lying, but Lindsay honestly believed the statues had been stolen from James. It could be anyone. Still, for the moment, she decided not to tell James anything more. Just in case.
It occurred to her that J.R. had been amassing information about the Northern Alliance. Maybe he had some useful intelligence about the possible thief.
She walked to her car, climbed in, and started the slow hot drive to J.R.’s house. She let her mind wander and, resisting at first, eventually allowed herself to consider a possibility that had been lurking for some time, one she had been reluctant to examine: James might actually be guilty. She had told him about Mike and the drugs, after all, and Mike lay dead less than twelve hours later. The thought upset her and she shook it off. She made a sharp left turn onto J.R.’s street.
CHAPTER 31
The first thing she noticed was an army van parked in front of J.R.’s house and three soldiers standing guard. The sight unnerved her. As she drove closer she noted that the shades were drawn. She wondered if she should leave, but the decision was taken from her when one of the soldiers started to walk toward her.
“What you want?” he asked.
Lindsay pulled out her press credential, given, she realized after she showed it, by the overthrown government. But that didn’t seem to matter. The soldier was predictably impressed by the officially stamped document. He lowered his rifle slightly.
“This place off-limits,” he said. “Government order.”
“But where is the family?”
“No family here,” the soldier answered. “This rebel cell. Terrorists.”
“But there was a family who lived here. J.R. and his wife and children. Can you tell me where I can find them?”
“No.”
“Well, is that because you don’t know or because you can’t say?”
The soldier was losing his patience.
“Nobody here. Nobody go be here. You not allow here. Go.” He stepped forward, shouldering her back.
“Could I speak to your supervisor?” asked Lindsay.
The soldier walked away, sulking, and after a few minutes, an officer walked over. “You wanted to speak to me?”
“Yes,” Lindsay said. “I’m a journalist. From America. I need some information.”
“I’m sorry; you will have to go to the ministry for that. We are not permitted to talk to the press.”
She didn’t know what instinct prompted her, but she blurted out, “I think you can talk to me. I was sent by Abdul Abdeka.”
“I received no order about this,” he said nervously.
“I think your commanding officer must have,” she said, counting on the officer’s fear of making a mistake. “Mr. Abdeka wanted me to write a story detailing how the new government controlled the violence,” she bluffed. The officer didn’t respond. “Of course, if you’d rather I didn’t, I can leave and tell him I tried. Could you tell me your name?”
The officer hesitated.
“You will wait,” he said, finally, walking away.
“Of course. Thank you.”
Lindsay knew this could end badly and wondered who he was consulting with. A small boy from a neighboring house ran in front of her, chased by his mother, who caught him by the arm. Lindsay stopped her.
“Please,” she said. “I’m looking for J.R. and his family. Do you know where they are?”
The woman glanced apprehensively at the soldiers standing nearby.
“You tell dem I don’ know you,” the woman said anxiously.
Lindsay nodded. “But J.R.? Where is he?”
“J.R. be dead. He be shot right here.”
Lindsay closed her eyes.
“Who shot him?” she asked.
“Who you tink? Dey.” She gestured with her head toward the soldiers.
“And his family? His wife? His children?”
“Don’ know. Dey take dem way in Black Maria car.”
The woman noticed the soldiers were watching her. “You go now. Don’ come here more.”
She picked up her son and walked quickly away.
J.R. was dead—what a goddamned tragedy. In spite of everything that had happened, she could hardly believe it. She started to walk toward her car. Before she reached it, the officer approached her respectfully.
“I’ve checked, madam. My senior officer hadn’t received the order, but if you have cleared it with Mr. Abdeka then, of course, I am authorized to talk to you.”
“Good,” she said carefully. “As I said, he told me to report on the progress of the new government in controlling the opposition. Can I have a look inside?”
The soldier hesitated. “I have orders not to let anyone in.”
“But I need to see for myself. Maybe you should ask again.”
He looked uncomfortable. “No,” he said. “Go inside, but be quick.”
He stood in the doorway and allowed her to inspect the room.
It was in shambles. Drawers were emptied on the floor, an opened can of Carnation condensed milk had been thrown off a table, its thick, sticky contents mixed with papers and files that had been tossed in all directions. Lindsay walked into the back room where she had talked to J.R. and his colleagues, peeking into the bedroom where the children had slept. She saw blood stains on the wall near the bed and, unwillingly drawn toward it, she approached. On the bed was the family dog, a black and white mongrel, shot dead. At first she felt a wave of relief that it was not the children’s blood, but when she bent down and saw the dog’s mottled fur she gasped and struggled to control herself, choking back her tears. Then she walked out of the room.
“When did this happen?”
“Yesterday, madam. During the rebellion.”
“What rebellion?”
“There was a terrorist rebellion against the new government,” the officer said. “The group they called The Next Step.”
Ah, Lindsay thought, this is how this massacre will be explained.
“But where are the residents?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I know that J.R. is dead,” she answered, trying to encourage the soldier to confirm it. “He was killed by soldiers defending the government, is that right?”
The officer sounded relieved. “Yes,” he answered, “the terrorist known as J.R. was
killed in the gun battle. We arrested his family and they have been taken to preventive detention.”
“The children too?”
“They are with their mother. They have been sent to their home village.”
“Do you know where that is?”
“No.”
“And J.R. was firing at you?”
“From this room. Near the bed.”
Lindsay walked down the hallway. There were no bullet holes in the walls, no evidence of shots fired from the room, only shots into the room. But she knew enough about Africa to know that you don’t contradict the soldier with the gun.
“And the dog? Why did you kill the dog?”
Her composure was threatening to give way again. The dog, the only physical evidence that remained of the murder, had become a symbol of the utter madness of the whole business.
The officer shrugged. “It got in the way.”
He walked out to his men and left Lindsay alone. She stepped into the sitting room, where she had once sipped orange Fanta and listened to J.R. explain Nigerian politics, where she had met his friends and heard their brave vision for their country’s future. Sitting on the worn armchair, she knew that the depth of her grief went beyond the current tragedy. She was grieving for the agony of the country, the everyday brutality of life here.
She knew she had to get to J.R.’s village to find his wife and children. Acting as though she were in a rush, she mouthed a thank-you to the officer and walked directly to her car. The man looked after her, probably glad she was going to relieve him of any decision. Aware she had cut this much too close, she drove away.
CHAPTER 32
Back home, Lindsay flipped through her notebooks until she found the name of the village. It was on the outskirts of Badagry, a few miles from the Nigeria-Benin border.
She locked the notebooks in the cabinet and carefully zipped the key into a side pocket of her purse. Feeling hungry, she found some eggs and made herself an omelet. Just as she finished, the lights went out and the air-conditioning shut down. The generator was supposed to kick in during blackouts, but she remembered that Martin had turned it off. She lit a candle and went to the basement where she fumbled around until she found the switch. When she pressed it, nothing happened.