by Todd Moss
“Where are you taking me?” Babatunde demanded. This was their third change of vehicles since Tunde was kidnapped from his limousine in Lagos nearly five hours earlier. He could hear multiple footsteps around him. He could tell that the gang that had taken him was well organized and highly disciplined, like a tightly knit team of elite athletes who knew each other’s rhythms. Or brothers. They had struck with smooth military precision and near-total silence. Only one man spoke.
“Keep walking,” said the voice.
“How much do you want?” Tunde pleaded. “This is about money, right?”
“You know our fight, chief. We want justice, eh.”
“I can get you money,” Tunde said. “My agent in New York. Let me call him. He can get you whatever you need.”
“Ehe. There is plenty of money right here in Nigeria. We only want what is ours,” the voice said.
“Who are you? MEND? Are you taking me to a MEND camp?” Tunde asked as the ground under his feet changed from soft mud to a hard wooden surface.
“MEND is nothing,” scoffed the voice. “They have become corrupt. Just like the others.”
“Who are you?” Tunde swallowed hard. “Boko Haram?”
“We are the true freedom fighters, eh. For the people.” A hand shoved Tunde forward. “For Nigeria.”
“Maybe I can help you? Promote your cause. Get you training in America. Get you on TV.”
“New York City?” asked another higher voice.
“Eh, yes, I can do that,” Tunde said.
“Silence!” shouted the first voice, followed by a loud slap.
“If you let me go,” Tunde said gently, “I will bring you to New York City. Courtside seats. Free tickets. Cash. School. Whatever you want.”
The hand grabbed Tunde’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. “Texas?”
“Texas? Yes, I go there all the time. Dallas, San Antonio. I go to Houston.”
“Hakeem Olajuwon?”
“Yes, of course. I know him.”
“You know Shaq? Kobe? Do you know . . . Michael Jordan?”
“I’ve met them,” Tunde said. “Yes, if you let me go, I will take you to America. To Chicago. To California.”
“Houston,” said the voice. “I want to go to Houston.”
“After New York City, we can go to Houston. If you let me go, I’ll take you to Texas.”
“There are many Nigerians in Houston, eh?”
“That’s right. Plenty of Nigerians in Texas.”
“The boys. They all root for you, chief,” he said, his voice softening. “We watch you on the satellite. You are a hero to the boys in the creeks.”
“Is that where we’re going? To the creeks?”
“We are taking you somewhere safe. No one can find us there. Until they pay.”
“Who will pay?”
“The president. The governor. The minister. The ones who steal our oil and give us nothing. They must pay. They have two days.”
“Or what?”
“Or they will be sorry.”
“Brothers, I am like you,” Tunde pleaded. “I’m not a big man. My papa was a kerosene hawker. My mama brewed ogogoro. You know, push-me-push-you. You drink that?”
“Ehe.”
“See? I come from the streets in Lagos. I am like you. I can help you, my brother. I can help you tell the world about the problems in the Delta. We’re all in this together. I am Nigerian.”
“You are American,” said the voice. “Get in,” he said, pushing Tunde onto a plank that ran from the wooden dock down into an open-bow wooden boat. Once all the men had climbed in, the voice demanded, “No. You cannot trick us with your false promises. You cannot take us to America. No. They must pay.”
The outboard motor fired up and roared away, deep into the creeks of the Niger Delta.
25
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
WEDNESDAY, 11:22 A.M. EST
Why would Russian oil companies be immune from attack? Sunday had run statistical analysis correlating the locations of Russian oil blocks with known areas of violence and found nothing out of the ordinary. He had examined Russian security protocols at their facilities and found nothing unusual there, either. If anything, Russian petroleum assets around the world seemed to rely on low-quality private contractors who applied especially lax protection measures. That should make them more vulnerable. But it wasn’t showing up in the data.
By contrast, Chinese companies utilized extra layers of security: more men, tighter procedures, top-of-the-line monitoring, larger physical buffer zones. The Chinese assets were hardened targets.
Yet the database that Sunday had built showed exactly the opposite—that Chinese facilities suffered the most. Why wouldn’t militants choose the soft targets?
Could it be fear of Russian military? Moscow had once responded to an attempted seizure of a Russian oil compound in Azerbaijan by sending in a special forces Spetsnaz kill team that retook the site. A classified CIA report concluded that the Russians executed all the attackers on the spot.
The Chinese or Indians or Turks would never be able to deploy such a force or get away with such tactics. Neither could the Europeans. The U.S. military had bases in the Persian Gulf and plenty of forward operations near oil regions of the Middle East, but they had not been directly involved in rescue operations for private companies. For years the U.S. Africa Command had run war game simulations for the potential capture of oil assets in Nigeria. But AFRICOM had never come close to real-life deployment. Neither the Africans nor the oil companies themselves had ever wanted American boots on the ground.
But that still didn’t answer Sunday’s question. What was the Russian connection? At that thought, Sunday’s phone rang.
“Aaay,” he answered.
“This is Judd Ryker,” said an impatient voice on the other end.
“Dr. Ryker, um.” Sunday paused. “Nice to hear from you. I still owe you a favor for connecting me with your friend over at the Justice Department.”
“Yes, sure, Isabella was happy to help,” Judd said quickly. “I’m sorry to call out of the blue, Sunday, but something’s come up.”
“Of course. Why don’t you come over to Langley? I won’t be able to say much over an open line, you know.”
“I can’t. I’m at Dulles already. On my way to Nigeria.”
“Very cool. But you know I never work on Nigeria, right? On account of my parents being from there.”
“Yes, I know. But I’m sure you follow Nigeria’s politics closely.”
“Of course.”
“You know anything about advance fee fraud?” Judd asked. “You know, 419?”
“I get those emails like everyone else. Don’t tell me you fell for a scam, Dr. Ryker?”
“Ha. Of course not, Sunday. Do you know how they work?”
“The Yahooze Boys work in teams. They send out thousands of letters and emails and then wait for someone to respond to the bait. They’re just fishing for easy marks.”
“So it’s random?”
“Usually.”
“What about aiming a 419 at a specific target?”
“I’ve heard rumors of crime cells creating a shadow list, but I’ve never seen any evidence that it really exists.”
“A shadow list?”
“Target lists. But that’s just Nigerian street folklore. It’s probably nothing.”
“What about kidnapping for ransom?”
“Sure, it happens sometimes in Nigeria. Just like Mexico and Colombia and the Philippines.”
“You ever analyzed kidnapping patterns in Nigeria? Or ever worked on a case when the U.S. government tried to get hostages back?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Ryker. That’s not the kind of thing they usually ask of an Agency analyst.”
“That�
��s fine, Sunday,” Judd said. “Just one more question before I let you go. You ever heard of Bola Akinola?”
“Judge Akinola?” Sunday nearly squealed. “Are you going to Nigeria to meet the judge?”
“So you do know him?”
“Judge Akinola’s famous in the anticorruption world. He’s taken on some of the most notorious criminals. And politicians.”
“So I’ve heard. He’s supposed to be Nigeria’s modern-day Eliot Ness. You know, the cop who got Al Capone.”
“The Untouchables. I’ve seen the movie.”
“Is Akinola solid? I mean, do you think I can trust him, Sunday?”
“Nigeria is . . . a complicated place, Dr. Ryker. I couldn’t say for sure without doing a deep dive. Is that what you’re asking me to do? Dig into Bola Akinola?”
“That would be great. Don’t go out of your way, but anything you can do to help would be appreciated, Sunday.”
“Sure.”
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you exactly why.”
“I’m used to it. I guess we’re even now.”
“Thanks, Sunday. Text me if you find anything.”
“Dr. Ryker, um . . .”
“What is it, Sunday? I’ve got to go.”
“You know what happened to Eliot Ness’s colleagues, right?”
“No, I don’t remember,” Judd said, with a slight hesitation.
“They all died.”
“What’s your point, Sunday? Are you saying he’s in imminent danger?”
“Akinola is always in danger.”
“Should I be worried? Is that what you’re saying? That I’ll be in danger if I meet Akinola?”
“Do you know what happened to Funke Kanju?”
“Who’s that?”
“You’re going to Nigeria to meet with Bola Akinola and you don’t know Funke Kanju?”
“That’s why I’m calling you, Sunday. Spill it.”
“She’s the investigative journalist with the TV show that’s always exposing corrupt officials. It’s very popular among young Nigerians. I watch her all the time.”
“Should I go see her, too?”
“You can’t. She’s dead.”
26
DUBAI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
WEDNESDAY, 7:55 P.M. UAE LOCAL TIME (11:55 A.M. EST)
Jessica strode off the Air France flight and beelined for her next meet. The Dubai airport’s hallways were jammed with Western businessmen and Arab families. She brushed past a cluster of women in all-black Saudi abayas, peeping through their veils into a brightly lit shop window displaying handbags by Prada and Louis Vuitton.
Jessica entered the duty-free store and found the sporting goods section, which was packed to the ceiling with jerseys and fan gear for the 2018 FIFA World Cup in Russia. She paid cash for a green backpack emblazoned with the Brazilian flag and then quickly moved on to her next stop.
Without slowing down as she walked, Jessica slipped her passport, wallet, and air ticket into the backpack and slung it over one shoulder. When Jessica arrived at McGettigan’s Irish Pub, she took a seat at the bar and placed the backpack on the stool next to hers.
“Grey Goose, rocks,” she said to the barman.
“Hendrick’s and tonic, twist of lemon,” called a voice next to her in an elite British accent. The man was South Asian, probably Indian, wearing an expensive and finely sculpted business suit. “Do you mind?” he said apologetically, signaling to the stool.
Jessica shrugged and moved the backpack to the floor between them.
“So you fancy Brazil?” the man said, settling into the seat.
“Desculpe, senhor,” she said in perfect Portuguese, without looking at him.
“No time to chat. Very well,” he said in the Queen’s English.
“I’m late for my flight,” she said.
“England is looking mighty good for Russia, don’t you agree? This is our year to win the World Cup. Just like ’66.”
“You won’t get through the group stage,” Jessica said matter-of-factly in English with an accent that hinted of the favelas of Rio de Janeiro. “England was a disappointment in Brazil in 2014. I predict it’ll happen again.”
The man was about to reply when their drinks arrived. “I’ve got these, love,” he said, slapping down a fifty-pound note. “Cheers.”
Jessica held up her cocktail, nodded, and sipped her vodka.
“The world’s gone mad,” he said, setting down a carefully folded newspaper on the bar. She glanced at the business section of that day’s edition of the Times. A headline caught her eye:
Another US Oil Co Withdraws from Indonesia
JAKARTA—Texas-based Wildcat Oil LLC announced today that it has relinquished its controlling interest in an offshore oil license in Indonesia following a series of attacks against its employees. This is the third overseas operation that the privately held Wildcat Oil has closed this year. Analysts suggested a deteriorating environment for frontier market prospects. . . .
Jessica drained her drink. “Obrigada. Thank you. Good luck to England in Russia.” She slipped the man’s newspaper under her arm and stood to leave without the backpack.
“Anytime, love. Good luck to Brazil,” he called out.
Jessica walked briskly along the airport corridor, then into the women’s restroom and directly into a stall, where she locked the door. Sitting on the toilet, she tipped the contents of the newspaper onto her lap: an envelope stuffed with euro notes, an Emirates Airline first-class ticket to Istanbul, and a new Brazilian passport. She flipped to the passport’s photo of herself and quickly memorized the name and birth date.
Time to go. She stood to leave, when she had a second thought. Jessica pulled a BlackBerry from her jacket pocket and powered it up. The lights flickered, a few moments later the phone connected to the local network, and then the phone pinged three times with text messages, all from Judd.
All good. Boys fine.
Gotta quick trip 2Nigeria. Sitter moving in. Back before u. See u @home.
sorry xoxo
Fuck, she hissed to herself. Judd’s going to Nigeria?
She quickly flipped through the Times, searching for anything on West Africa. In the World News section, she found only two minor items.
Crime Wave Hits Nigerian Metropolis
LAGOS—The murder of Internet television star Funke Kanju is the latest attack on prominent Nigerians in the past month. The Lagos Deputy Inspector General of Police released a statement denying any connection between Kanju’s death and the disappearance of football legend Nuhu four weeks earlier. . . .
Jessica’s eyes moved on to the next item.
Nigerian Judge to Face Corruption Charges
ABUJA—Nigeria’s attorney general today announced a formal inquiry into the business dealings of a former supreme court judge charged with leading anti-corruption investigations. The surprise move was sparked by allegations in the local press that Judge Bola Akinola, chairman of the Nigerian Crime and Corruption Task Force, had failed to accurately account on his asset disclosures for luxury properties held in Monaco, London’s posh Mayfair neighborhood, and a villa in the Cayman Islands. The attorney general declined to provide any further details of the inquiry, but sources within the Ministry of Justice confirmed that the judge was being suspended from the CCTF and that criminal charges were expected soon. Akinola could not be reached for comment. . . .
Jessica tossed the newspaper into the trash and ran for her gate.
27
WASHINGTON DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
WEDNESDAY 12:05 P.M. EST
Judd squirmed in his seat, thinking about the long flight ahead. He’d just finished sending a text to his highly capable assistant Serena, asking her to dig around discreetly for more on Ambassador Katsina. He needed to know what Landon Parker was really up to
. He tucked a pillow behind his back and tested out the recliner. The soft leather seat went fully flat, perfect for sleeping.
“Hey, not a bad way to fly,” he said, bringing his seat back upright. “Beats cattle class.”
Isabella sat across the aisle, peering out the window and ignoring him. She was steaming.
“If you have to go to Lagos at the last minute, this is the way to go.” Judd nodded to himself. “You ever flown in a G550?”
Isabella still didn’t reply, her eyes laser-focused on the truck outside refueling the plane.
“Isabella, I’m sorry to pull you into this. But I need your help. I wouldn’t have asked for you if I didn’t.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Judd?” she turned on him. “I’m in the middle of something big. Probably the biggest case of my entire career. Months of work. It’s all coming to a head. Everything I’ve been working for. It’s all building up to right now.”
“And I messed it up?”
“My team was saddled up and ready to roll. Three, two, one, and . . . the phone rings. The goddamn attorney general’s office telling me to stand down. My whole operation is on hold because someone needs me to go to . . . where? Nigeria. Qué jodienda! Why? For some State Department pendejo. I just knew it had to be you.”
“I’m sorry, Isabella,” Judd said.
“Liar,” she hissed. “You’re not sorry.”
Judd knew she was right. “What’s the case?”
“I can’t say. You know that.”
“If it helps, this will be a quick trip.”
“I’ve heard that before. How quick?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“If we can sort everything out in Nigeria and get back here, then you can get back to your case. And I’ll be moving onto something big. Landon Parker has—”
“It’s not all about you, Judd,” she snapped. “There are other people in this town trying to do their jobs, too.”