The Missing American

by Kwei Quartey

  “What about how police and other government officials are in on the game?” Gordon asked. “Could he help me there?”

  She pursed her lips. “Maybe, but we’d need to sweeten this up a lot.”

  Gordon nodded. “I fully expected that. How much do you think he would want?”

  “It’s hard to make Ghanaians name a price upfront, but I would say three-hundred fifty would be reasonable.”

  “Three-fifty cedis?”

  Susan looked amused. “Dollars.”

  “Of course. What was I thinking?”

  “You have dollars with you?”

  “I have some back at the hotel, yes.”

  “If you’re short, you can give the rest in cedi equivalent. You want me to text Nii now?”

  “That would be great.”

  Susan did, and about ten minutes later, her phone rang.

  “Hi, Nii,” she said, and Gordon was impressed by how instantly her voice switched to tones of honey. “How are you? I’m fine, thank you. I have a very dear friend from the States I’d like you to meet. He needs help, and I told him I know exactly the person.”

  SEVENTY-THREE

  Independence Day, Washington, DC

  Cas’s body was being ravaged by metastatic lung cancer. He had almost died of respiratory failure in the hospital ER and had spent ten days in the ICU. That could enervate even the most robust of patients, never mind one riddled with malignancy. By the time Cas was back on the recovery ward, he looked like a bag of bones.

  Derek was his durable power of attorney and next of kin by default. Once Cas was strong enough, he would go to an assisted living center to spend the short time he had left on earth. At the bedside of the dying man, Derek felt pity for him and a kind of sad anger.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t attend Gordon’s—your father’s—funeral,” Cas said, his eyes closed, his voice feeble and his words muffled by the oxygen non-rebreather mask over his nose and mouth.

  “You were in no state,” Derek said.

  Cas nodded. “Did you ever get the autopsy report?”

  “Yes.” Derek knew it by heart. “The cause of death was drowning subsequent to blunt force trauma to the left parietal region of the skull. The mechanism of death was asphyxia. In other words, whoever killed Dad bashed in his skull first, and then threw him into the river, where he drowned.”

  A flash of pain registered on Cas’s face. “God,” he whispered.

  “I know the part you played in his death,” Derek said after a moment.

  Cas’s eyes fluttered open. “What?”

  “Urging my father to stay in Ghana. I’m not sure if I should call it encouragement or egging him on to dig deeper and deeper into the case. I don’t know this for sure, but I feel that if not for you, Dad would most likely have safely returned to the States.”

  Cas kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling, where there was nothing more interesting to see than hospital white, and after a while, tears broke the dam and rushed down his hollow, weathered cheeks like water into a craggy canyon. “How did you know?” he whispered.

  “Your emails between you and Dad were all in the cloud,” Derek said. “That’s the only morsel Apple grudgingly tosses to the FBI. So, they dug it up and notified me.”

  “Derek, I didn’t think anything like that would happen to Gordon.”

  “But you were willing to risk it just so you could get a feature in the Observer?” Derek asked, his voice sharpening.

  “I knew I had cancer,” Cas said. “I knew I was going to die. One last round before I go. One final article to leave the world with. That’s what I was thinking.”

  “But what I want to know,” Derek said, voice shaking, “is did you give a thought to what kind of trouble Dad could have gotten into, and did? I mean, did you use him without a second’s thought?”

  Cas turned his head slightly in Derek’s direction. “I took it as a collaboration between us. I didn’t feel I was coercing him. He was free to say no. He wanted to help me the way I helped him get started in Washington.”

  Derek’s lip curled. “So, he owed you, is what you’re saying.”

  “No.” An odd, wheezing noise emanated from Cas, the sound of him weeping and trying to say something at the same time.

  Derek leaned forward. “What?”

  “Kill me. Please. Take my oxygen off and I’ll die in ten minutes.”

  Derek looked at the oxygen meter on the wall. It was set high at fifteen liters per minute.

  Cas followed Derek’s gaze and nodded, yes, that. “Turn it off.”

  Derek drew in his breath and shook his head. “I can’t do it. I won’t.”

  Cas’s eyes beseeched him. “Forgive me.”

  Derek didn’t answer. Perhaps in time, he thought, straightening up. “I have to get going now. I’m your DPA whether I like it or not. All your affairs will be taken care of.”

  When he reached the door, Derek half turned as he heard Cas try for the last word. He had moved his oxygen mask to one side and now he said, in a strikingly stronger tone, “I left everything to your dad. And in his absence, it all goes to you.”

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  March 25, Accra, Ghana

  Nii Kwei didn’t know much about Susan’s American friend: the man was doing research for a book and wanted to know something about how sakawa works. Nii was fine with it as long as Susan had reassured him the guy was okay. Best thing was there’d be some cash in it for Nii as well.

  At seven-thirty in the evening, he pulled up in his white gold Audi Q7 to Champs Sports Bar on Ring Road Central. The parking attendant waved him into a secure spot and Nii gave him a tip to keep an extra watch on his gorgeous vehicle.

  Inside, the bar was alive with music, rowdy conversation, and laughter while an English Premier League soccer match was playing on the wide screens. Nii looked around and saw Susan waving. He walked over to her table where she and her friend were sitting. Susan stood up to embrace Nii before the introductions.

  “This is my friend, Gordon. Gordon, meet Nii.”

  The two men shook hands. Nii thought Gordon seemed familiar, but frankly a lot of white guys looked the same, so initially he didn’t think too much of it. The white man seemed to be scrutinizing him from top to bottom.

  Susan ordered a carafe of white wine while the two men had a Stella Artois each. She did a good job breaking the ice, but Nii felt awkward and imagined the white man did too.

  “So, yes, Nii,” Susan said. “Gordon here is writing a paper on the sakawa phenomenon and I told him you have experience in that world.”

  Nii only smiled.

  “I hope it’s okay to ask you a little about it,” Gordon said politely.

  “No problem at all,” Nii responded, but he felt a chill pass through him like the hot ice of a malarial attack. It was all coming together—hard to believe, but impossible to deny. The voice, the face he recalled from Skype, and the name. Gordon. This was one of his mugus, right here in Ghana talking to Nii live. What did he want? What was he looking for?

  “How long have you been dealing with the sakawa phenomenon?” the white man asked.

  “Just a few years.”

  “Lucrative, huh?”

  Nii shrugged, “Anyway, somehow.”

  Susan interjected. “Nii, I was telling Gordon the sakawa life is not as easy as it’s sometimes portrayed on the Internet.”

  “That’s true,” Nii said. “Sometimes the priest or mallam can make severe demands—like tell you to commit incest or dig up a coffin from the grave and sleep in it every night for two weeks.”

  Gordon looked both incredulous and revolted. “Oh, my God.”

  “And even,” Nii continued, “those are the easy ones. Every month, the sakawa gets a new ritual he must do. To be rich, you have to do some of the ultimate rituals.”

  �
�How do you mean?” Gordon asked. He had finished his beer and signaled one of the waiters over. “Get me a Smirnoff on the rocks, please.” He turned back to Nii. “What is an ultimate ritual?”

  “It involves removing highly treasured parts of the body and giving them to the priest,” Nii said cryptically.

  “You’re talking about things like genitalia and so on, right?” Gordon said.

  “Yes please.”

  “And those are the ones that make you the richest? How much are we talking?” His Smirnoff had arrived, and he started on it.

  “Depends on the person,” Nii said, “and what he’s willing to do.”

  “And if you don’t fulfill the assigned task?”

  “Terrible things can happen.”

  “Like what?”

  Nii sipped his drink. “I know one guy, the priest told him to sleep with his sister and he refused. After a few days, he had boils all over his body.”

  Gordon snorted and shot a dubious look at Susan, but her eyes were down, fixed on the table.

  “Please, you say you are writing an article?” Nii asked Gordon.

  “Right,” he said, sipping.

  “An article for what, please?”

  Gordon sidestepped. “What I don’t get is how doing all this ritual stuff can make you more successful at swindling people online.”

  “My Audi is outside,” Nii said simply. “You can go and look at it, if you like.”

  “I’ll pass,” Gordon said. “I may not understand sakawa completely, but what I do know is it’s out of control. It’s a menace to society.”

  The Smirnoff was unleashing Gordon’s tongue and his feelings. Susan’s eyes came up and flicked Gordon a warning.

  Nii was wondering what was going on. Was Gordon on to him? “Has something happened to you, please?” he asked Gordon. “I can see you are very upset.”

  “Upset? Me? No, not all. I’ll tell you why I’m not upset. Because”—he grabbed his phone from off the table and began to fumble and scroll—“because I came to Ghana to meet this lovely lady. Here she is. See?” He thrust his phone out to Nii. “Yeah, this so-called Helena doesn’t even exist. So why should I be upset?”

  “Sarcasm isn’t used much here,” Susan said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Gordon flapped his hand backward. “Okay, so I am upset, okay? No money is free, Nii. Ever. You might steal some, or even a lot, but one day it’s all going to backfire on you. And all you guys—the sakawa boys, the police, and government big wigs you’re in league with? I can’t wait for you to be exposed, and I’m going to play whatever part I can to make sure that happens.”

  Susan rested her forehead in her palm. “Jesus, Gordon.”

  Nii stared at Gordon. “Please, the way you are talking is not correct at all. We Ghanaians are hospitable to a point, but after that, the hospitality dries up like a stream in the Harmattan.” He stood up.

  “Nii,” Susan said, half standing, “please don’t go. I’m sorry.”

  But Nii did walk out, and in disgust. This is what he came for—to be insulted by this white guy? He got into the Audi, slammed the door, backed out, and gunned the engine. The tires screeched and painted a layer of rubber on the driveway.

  Gordon’s affront gave Nii’s defensiveness a boost, a branch to swing from. Someone like that deserved to be conned, and Nii wasn’t one bit sorry about it. He voice-dialed a number on the Audi phone, and when the person at the other end picked up, Nii said, “That man Tilson is in Ghana, and he’s becoming a problem.”

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  July 5, Accra, Ghana

  The International Trade Fair site, not far from Labadi Beach, is 120 acres of open space, part history as an Nkrumah-era relic of 1960s Ghana, and part modern with its event spaces for anything from weddings to international conferences. As such, it’s an odd mix of updated design with deteriorating infrastructure.

  The Africa Pavilion, with a capacity of up to three-thousand people, was the setting for the UNESCO Conference at which Sana was to speak. Dignitaries were arriving at the grand entrance where the Information Minister and other officials welcomed them to the first day of the meeting. Sana Sana was the keynote speaker for the morning plenary session.

  Security at the event was medium, with uniformed armed police and military at the entrance and minimally armed guards in the car park. The gaggle of photographers was normal, but on this occasion, the tension and sense of excitement were high because Sana Sana was expected.

  About five-hundred meters away ran an enclosing wall and behind that a robust mango tree dense with leaves and ripening fruit. It wasn’t the best place for the assassin to securely position himself and his long-range rifle, but it was the only available fixture in this otherwise rather barren stretch of land. It was an underdeveloped area begging for developers to get their hands on, and indeed, several investors had made a bid for it.

  The assassin had climbed the tree before dawn. He wore a cap that he would pull down low over his face as soon as the mission was completed. The intelligence was that, by arrangement with the organizers of the conference, Sana would use the rear, secret entrance of the pavilion, bypassing all the reporters who fully anticipated his arrival at the front, where everyone else was.

  The wait was long, and the assassin’s quadriceps were aching from locking himself firmly into the tree’s anatomy. He had a secure Y-shaped junction of two branches on which to rest the rifle, but when he fired, there must not be a millimeter’s accidental shift in his stance. This was a far less certain target than Evans-Aidoo had been.

  The assassin came to attention as the black Escalade Sana often used appeared on the access road to the Africa Pavilion and sped toward the rear entrance. The vehicle’s windows were blacked out with the deepest tint possible. It came to a sharp halt in the no-parking zone in front of the entrance. The assassin readied himself. Sana would spend very little time moving between the SUV and the pavilion. One of his bodyguards hopped out, looked around, and then opened the rear door of the vehicle. For a moment, nothing happened, but then Sana, wearing a black Fedora with a curtain of dark beads hanging from the brim, stepped out and walked toward the building with a bodyguard following him. The assassin was a little surprised there weren’t two. He had Sana’s left temple isolated in the scope’s field.

  It was Sana’s decoy who had alighted first from the SUV. The real Sana stayed inside the vehicle with the second of his two bodyguards. The driver kept the engine running.

  A couple of seconds later, there was a sharp crack and the decoy collapsed instantly.

  “Drive! Go!” the bodyguard shouted, pulling Sana down to the seat to shield him. The driver gunned the Escalade, which took off with a roar, tires squealing. The bodyguard waited until they’d completely cleared the fair site before letting Sana up. “Are you okay, my boss?”

  “I’m fine, fine,” Sana said shakily.

  He had survived yet another attempt on his life. It wouldn’t be the first time. Nor the last.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  July 6

  News of Sana’s escape from death was all over the media within half an hour. The UNESCO Conference was immediately adjourned until the following day. In Sowah’s office, no one was getting any work done. Emma and her colleagues were glued to their phones and the lounge TV. Radio discussions were exploding with theories about who might have been responsible for the assassination attempt. Sana’s decoy had been struck not in the head as had probably been intended, but in the back. Fortunately, he had been wearing a bulletproof vest and would survive just fine.

  Emma’s phone rang and her heart jumped when she saw it was Derek calling from the US.

  “How are you?” she said. “It’s great to hear from you and you sound much better.”

  “I am doing better, thanks. And you, Emma? How’s life?”

  “No complaints really.
”

  “I wanted to share something with you,” Derek said. “Do you have a moment?”

  “Yes, of course. Let me move to somewhere quieter.” Emma went to the waiting area where there were no clients at the moment. “Okay, what have you got?”

  “The FBI agent working on my father’s case shared some emails with me. They’re between my dad and his friend and I’d like you to look at them because there could be information you or the police, or someone could use. Can I forward the emails to you?”

  “Thank you, Derek. I’ll call you back after I’ve had a look.”

  The emails came in after some fifteen minutes. Emma sat at her desk riveted to her computer screen as she read the back-and-forth between Mr. Tilson and his friend Cas. Derek was right. Cas had gently but firmly encouraged Mr. Tilson to soldier on, but what jolted Emma was that Gordon knew Josephine, having met her in Washington—Emma had no idea in what capacity—and he met her again in Ghana on the third of March. “Very interesting meeting with Josephine Akrofi today. We met late afternoon and had coffee.”

  It seemed to Emma that the meeting might have been a little tense, what with Mr. Tilson asking about “highly placed officials—government or otherwise” who might be benefitting from Internet cons.

  Then came another surprise.

  Gordon Tilson

  March 27 9:36 a.m.

  Re: Ghana

  To: CGuttenberg

  Susan, the American I told you I discovered on FB, set up a rendezvous with a sakawa boy called Nii Kwei—“boy” isn’t accurate, this is a full-grown man with money—at a sports bar. The plan was to say I was writing a magazine or online article on Internet scams, which is kind of true anyway, and that I would only ask general questions. But I kind of lost it after one too many drinks and I blurted out my story to this Nii, and then let loose with some sanctimonious crap about how I was going to expose a whole bunch of Ghanaians. In other words, things didn’t go too well. I messed it up.