by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 7
Mark Dobson had first met Craig Donovan in the bar of the Bristol Hotel in Beirut.
It was exactly the right sort of place to throw up a budding friendship between two men with similar interests. Donovan had proffered a card with not much on it except a phone number. They'd kept in touch and even met for a drink in London when Donovan passed through
Donovan had served in the US Marines, moved to the US Foreign Service and then into jobs with US Embassies in the Middle East and Africa. Nigeria had been his last posting and, although he'd never fully admitted it, Dobson knew he was ex CIA. He was now sixty something, recently retired, living mostly in Washington with his English wife Zoe, and Dobson knew he still craved some action. Donovan was exactly the sort of person to fit into the Asher & Asher team whenever a suitable opportunity arose.
With that in mind, Dobson had phoned Donovan before leaving London to ask if he'd help on a case involving a Nigerian fake pastor.
"Jesus, man. You got one of those money-making bastards as a client?"
"This one's different, Craig," Dobson had replied and then briefed him on the case starting from when he'd been robbed at the airport.
Now, as Dobson sat waiting for Vigo in the stifling heat and increasingly sweaty stench of the Peugeot with Chelsea tee shirt, his phone rang. It was an American accent.
"Where are you?" asked Donovan
"Sitting in a car with the guy who robbed me last time."
"Jesus, he caught you again?"
"I caught him. I'm now waiting for back up. What's up?"
"A catch up, Mark. Gabriel and Solomon just arrived in Washington. I'm seeing them later. Meanwhile, I've been asking around like you suggested. Nothing untoward but one of Gabriel's buddies is US Senator Daniel Bakare."
Chelsea tee shirt moved so Dobson yanked on the rope. Movement stopped.
"Bakare passed through Nigeria a few times when I was there. Back then he ran a security equipment company. It might be co-incidence but I called him. Old times' sake. He remembered me and I'm seeing him in the morning. He said he's scheduled to see Gabriel later today."
"Good man. Listen, I can't talk right now. You remember I told you about Vigo and Mazda? They've just shown up. Call me later Craig."
"Hold it, Mark. I've got something else. Another contact says there's an enquiry running around for a second-hand Predator B Drone for west Africa. It's a French security company operating in West Africa protecting French mining interests."
Dobson's ears perked up but were distracted by another sound - the car horn of an old V6 Honda right next to where he was sitting.
Donovan was still talking. "I thought it was a joke when you told me Gabriel wanted to buy a military drone. It might not be connected, but Washington suspect a Russian link."
"I tell you Craig, this is one quagmire of big politics and big business Gabriel's involved in. I think he's out of his depth. The security for his Project up on the border with Niger is more like a private army. How legal's that? Meanwhile, who'd have the final say on selling a second-hand US military drone?"
"The President?" Donovan surmised as a head with a fetching brown cowboy hat appeared at the rear window next to Dobson.
"Listen, Craig. Friends have arrived. I need to go. Good stuff. Keep it coming."
Cowboy hats had recently become a popular item for Lagos street vendors as if a container load might have washed up somewhere along the coast. Vigo clearly liked his. He was on top form. "Hey Mercedes man, welcome to Lagos. This the basstad?"
A second head, Mazda's, then appeared at the open front window and a hand was pushed past Chelsea's left ear towards Dobson in the back. Dobson grabbed it and shook it with his spare hand. "You tie basstad like sack of yams, Mercedes."
Mazda pinched Chelsea's neck just above the rope. "He moved, Mercedes. He's alive."
"Just. We need to get him to your car, take him to your garage and decide what to do with him."
"What's his label, Mercedes?"
"I call him Chelsea Scumbag. He's a God-fearing Christian who visits the Pink Lips Club, don't you Scumbag?" Dobson yanked on the rope.
"Yessaaargh."
"That's one big co-incidental, Mercedes." Vigo sniffed at Chelsea and wrinkled his nose. "I just renewed my membership. Never seen him there, though. Looks a bit young for business. How old are you Mr Scum?" He prodded Chelsea's left cheek.
"Nineaaaargh,"
"Only nine?"
They bundled Chelsea into the back of Vigo's Honda as a group of Chinese businessmen pulling cases stopped to watch. "Police," Vigo said flashing the business card he hung around his neck for occasions like that. "Drunk basstad."
Dobson threw Mazda the troll key to drive the Peugeot and off they went.
Vigo's business was a concrete block construction in a side street off the Lagos Ibadan Highway. The front was an oily garage, cars with bonnets open, engines hanging on pulleys and it echoed to the sound of compressed air, spanners being dropped, shouting and Nigerian music on a radio perched on a pile of bald tyres. To the rear was a sweltering, unlit and mostly empty warehouse with a corner partitioned by more concrete blocks and a plastic door. This was Vigo's office and where they dragged the prisoner. Vigo pushed the door shut with his foot.
The flickering strip light showed a desk piled high with paper, boxes, newspapers and empty Heineken cans. There was a refrigerator covered in oily finger marks and two dilapidated swivel chairs permanently tilted backwards. They tied Chelsea's hands behind his back with one end of the rope, the other end to a wooden pallet. Then they sat him on the pallet. If Chelsea wanted to run he'd have to drag a pallet with him. Vigo then went outside "Some calls. Back soon."
Mazda, relaxing in Vigo's chair behind the desk, produced a packet of cigarettes. "Smokes, Mercedes?"
Dobson didn't smoke so he sat in the other chair and examined Chelsea's dejected looking face. "Now then Mr Chelsea FC. What's your real name?"
Chelsea turned his head and felt his neck. The rope was gone but the dents and pink marks were still there. "Zak - Zakarias, sah."
"As in Zakarias the ancient prophet?"
"Yessah"
"Nice. But can we call you Chelsea?"
"Yessah."
"You follow Chelsea football club?"
"Yessah."
"Where do you live, Chelsea?"
"Ikeja, sah."
"Big place. Where in Ikeja?"
"Red Cross Pharmacy, sah."
"You live in a pharmacy?"
"My father, sah. He is the pharmacist."
Dobson looked at Mazda. Mazda shrugged and blew some smoke. "Does your father know you're a hired killer?"
Chelsea panicked, jumped, his ankle catching in the pallet and he fell back down. "I'm no high killa sah. Just do job."
"You want me to tell your father?"
"No, no, no, sah. Just do job, sah."
"A job to kill Pastor Gabriel Joshua."
"I didn't know sah. Gabriel good man, sah. My father knows him sah."
Breakthrough.