by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 8
Whether Chelsea liked the idea or not Dobson decided that meeting his father was a good move.
The rest of the plan was also simple enough. Vigo would take on Chelsea as an 'apprentice', paid for by Dobson. Chelsea's first job was to help empty the Solomon Trading warehouse, which Dobson knew contained sellable merchandise - medicines, car parts, books. The money raised would easily cover expenses that might start racking up and, anyway, if they didn't empty it soon, someone else would.
Vigo put the proposal to Chelsea. "OK here's the deal., Mr Scum. You work for me. Learn da business, OK?"
"What business, sah?"
"Insurance business," said Vigo uncertainly. "Money business, buy 'n sell business, garage business. Work now and again with Mr Dobson. You interested?"
"How much, sah?"
Vigo walked towards him, shook his first finger, then slapped him on the nose with it. "You gotta lot to learn, Mr Scum. Never ask a prospective employer how much till you got the job. OK?"
"Yessah."
"OK. Listen up. Mr Dobson has a very important client. Pastor Gabriel Joshua. You know about him?"
"Yessah."
"Right then. Me and Mazda help Mr Dobson. If you help us we pay you. You even get expenses - new phone, fresh SIM, top ups, fuel for car."
"You can fix my jalopy, sah?"
Vigo looked at Mazda. "I like this fella. You like him, Maz?"
Mazda took a swig from his can. "He seems promising."
"Who you know at Pink Lips then, Mr Scum?"
"Benji, sah."
"Big Benji? Top man. Wah!"
Dobson chipped in. "But I need to clear things with your father, Chelsea boy."
"No, no no, sah. Don't tell about Pink Lips sah."
"Listen. Here's the deal. You work for us and I won't tell your father. One small mistake and Chelsea senior gets to know everything. OK? Deal?"
"Yessah,"
"But I still want to speak to your father because he knows Pastor Gabriel right?"
"Yessah."
"Right. Let's go to the Red Cross Pharmacy."
The Red Cross Pharmacy was a red and orange painted concrete structure with a blue corrugated roof, yellow bars at the windows and two signs, one sporting a Red Cross, the other a green cross and Rx written across it. It was very colourful.
To one side, a power generator roared inside a concrete box sporting a matching blue roof. The road outside was crammed with cars, vans and motorcycles caked in dried, red mud but a clean and shiny Mercedes was parked right up to the front door.
Inside, George Obodi was watching a Nigerian soap opera on TV but jumped up and switched it off with a look of embarrassment when Chelsea, with Mark Dobson standing right behind him, knocked on his door.
Obodi senior was a smart, quietly spoken, middle aged man with a touch of grey in hair that was receding from his forehead. He had the look of a cosy family man who would have found it hard to believe his son capable of violence and daylight robbery. Much the same could be said of many parents with teenage sons who found it hard to find a role in society, Dobson supposed.
Surprised by the sudden appearance of his son with a white man, Obodi hurriedly pushed bare feet into black lace-up shoes, stood, shook hands. and proudly presented a business card as Chelsea falteringly explained that Dobson was his new boss.
"Ah, that is good. You live in Lagos, sir?"
"Just passing through."
"And what is your business, sir?"
"I'm an international investigative consultant."
"Ah. That is a very good profession. Do you have a business card?"
"Sorry, they're out of print."
"My son needs a good career, Mr Dobson, but he dislikes the smell of medicines since he spent a week in hospital with amoebic dysentery."
Dobson said nothing about nearly putting him back in hospital with strangulation. Instead he listened as Obodi senior described his business and apologised for the bars at the windows. "It is not like England, sir. Here, people come at night."
"They come at night in England, too, Mr Obodi. Criminals are not unique to Nigeria."
As Obodi senior talked, Dobson glanced around. Between the filing cabinets, catalogues and stacks of boxes of sanitary towels, hung a number of photos showing that George Obodi was a graduate of somewhere and an enthusiastic church goer.
"So, Zak is your assistant. I am pleased. I have two daughters at University, you know and Zak has been - I am an honest man, Mr Dobson - a problem. He won't mind me telling you this......."
Chelsea squirmed. "Pops, not now."
"Quiet! And what is that mark on your neck? Zak is not as academically minded as his sisters. Zak is a man of action who would live dangerously, facing the troubles of the world. He wants to be a racing driver, Mr Dobson. Do you know anyone in Formula One?"
"Sorry. No. Call me Mark."
"I'm George."
"Are you married, Mr Mark?
"No."
For Dobson that was enough about family matters. He changed the subject. "Zak says you know Pastor Gabriel Joshua, George?"
"Ah, Pastor Gabriel. A good Christian. He is very popular in America now so we don't see him so much but....." he nodded enthusiastically. "One of the best. But he has no church. We see him in the street, in the Church of the Good Disciple and in the Community hall. I have spoken to him. An honest man. A good man. He is not like the others. There are too many fakes and frauds."
"In the future, you might see him in prison," Dobson said.
George's mouth and eyes opened wide.
"He's in a spot of trouble," Dobson added. "He's my client."
And Dobson went on to mention the arrest warrant, the FAA contract and Solomon Trading. When he stopped, George Obodi's mouth was still wide open, but he was soon talking again, about losing a pharmaceutical supply contract for dubious reasons. George was clearly angry about fraud and corruption being the way of life in Nigeria,
While he ranted, Dobson pulled out his laptop and switched it on. "I need some help," he said turning the screen around. "Do you know any of these people?"
Obodi's eyes widened again. "God's bones!"
It was an expression Dobson had not heard before but, encouraged, he clicked up another photo, pointing at someone Colin Asher had labelled Pastor Lazarus.
"Waaah. Yah. Fat man, run the Church of Our Lord of Mercy and Forgiveness. Crazy man. Cry like baby. Talks of confessing sins or go to hell. Like Catholic man. Church look like Chinese jewellery shop, Mr Dobson."
Dobson continued to click
"Waaah. Church of Our Lord of Mercy and Forgiveness. Father Adebola."
Then: "Waaah, Bishop William of the Disciples of Jesus School of Ibadan. And there, Pastor Ayo. All no good, all bad, Mr Mark. Not good, honest Christian, more like businessmen. You wanna know about Lazarus and Ayo and Adebola?"
Dobson nodded and listened for another five minutes. It was scam after scam. They had probably netted millions. Bishop William ran a business that guaranteed, for a large fee, boy babies if you wanted a boy or girl ones if not. If his guarantee turned out wrong, he'd blame the couple for getting the conception process wrong. If they took his advice for a second time then it was a good two to one chance he'd get it right, but it was still down to them to perform right on the night. Since reading about Bishop William on the internet, Dobson wished he'd thought of it. "If business drops off," he'd told Colin Asher. "We could run it on the side as a pension fund,"
But Obodi wasn't finished. "Lazarus's brother is one big shot in the Ministry of Aviation. His cousin is State Governor in Warri. His brother's wife is in the Federal Airports Authority."
Solomon, Dobson recalled. had once related a story about how Gabriel had upset Lazarus and Ayo. In a population of 180 million was linking all this with the failed FAA contract significant or not? Dobson parked the thought for the moment and moved to a list of people connected with the FAA itself.
"That," Geor
ge pointed, "Is the wife of Kenneth Balogun."
"Janet Balogun. Kenneth being the brother of Pastor Lazarus who works in the Ministry of Aviation?"
"Yaaah. It is like family. Like the mafia. Kenneth is something big, I don't know what. There are others..... shhh, Mr Mark, don't say but this is big, big corrupt."
There were other photos with names like Abubakar, Omole, Ibrahim, Onu. It took a while to work through the list because George Obodi had put his glasses on and started clicking himself. "Waaah, waaah," at every photo.
"Yaah. This is some big list. You know....waaah."
But then he sat back, removed his glasses, looked at Mark Dobson and grasped his arm. "You want to know the bigger bigger names?"
"Are they bigger than the big names?"
"Sure sure." And Obodi started counting them off on his fingers - Samuel Tami, Abdul Hakim, Precious Johnson, Festus Fulani - and Mark Dobson wrote them all down with George Obodi's comments about each one.
Finally: "Well, I must thank you George. This has been very useful."
"Good, good. I am pleased that Zak has found a good career.......You must learn by listening and watching Zak. Watch, listen and learn from an expert then one day you will also be a...."
"An international investigative consultant," Dobson prompted.
"That is it. Zak doesn't talk much but he is a good listener."
"He'd make a good taxi driver, George," Dobson added. "He knows the back streets of Ikeja like the back of his hand."
As Chelsea drove away Dobson phoned Colin Asher in London. "Names for checking out, Colin. I'll put them on the site tonight."
All incoming and outgoing messages between Dobson and Asher were encrypted and read through another password protected site. What it needed was a reasonable internet access. But, right now, Dobson turned his attention to the road and Chelsea's driving. "If you want to be a F1 driver perhaps you should consider taking lessons, Chelsea."
"Lessons, sah? But I already know."
"OK," Dobson said. "In that case, while you drive, let's discuss strategy, where we're going and why. Listen up. Pay attention to me as well as the road."
Chelsea turned his heard to pay attention.
"Listen. There's no need to look at me. Understand?...........Now, Michael Fayinka is the boss at Solomon Trading. Remember that."
"Yessah."
"Your job is to go in and talk to Michael. But Michael is not there."
Chelsea, confused, turned his head and narrowly missed a motorcycle.
"What did I just say?"
"Listen not look, sah. But how will I talk to someone who is not there?"
"Pretend you don't know he's not there. In the trade, we call it bullshit. Many consultants earn fortunes from bullshit. But overdoing bullshit can be fatal. Here's the plan."
And then they hit a go slow - another Lagos traffic jam. Bedlam on all sides with the risks to life and limb of selling a single disposable lighter, a stick of barbequed sweet corn or another brown leather cowboy hat there to see. But Mark Dobson had seen it all before so he closed his eyes recalling another incident from his meeting with Gabriel and Solomon in Hammersmith.
He'd finally left the Hammersmith house after twelve hours of talking.
At the front door, Gabriel had shaken his hand. "I have probably become a persona non-grata," he admitted. "I'm someone with no mandate. People in power hate being undermined by someone without authority. At best, they'll try to ruin me. At worst, they might want to kill me, or both of us." Then he'd laughed. "Perhaps all three of us."
And with those happy thoughts Dobson had left, determined to walk back to his flat in Queensway for some fresh air. He'd headed towards Shepherd's Bush and only got as far as the Dry Cleaner's on Hammersmith Grove when his phone rang. He'd assumed it was Colin Asher.
"It's not Colin, it's Sol. Where are you?"
"Right now, Trussley Dry Cleaners and Launderette."
"You brought dirty clothes with you?"
"No, just passing. What's up?"
"Can we talk?"
"Christ, Sol. Wasn't twelve hours enough? Where are you?"
"Outside the house. Can we meet?"
"Where?"
"Hammersmith Station. There's a pizza place. Hasty Tasty."
"I've already had one pizza today."
A few minutes later Dobson found Solomon standing, shivering in a cold wind swirling around the corner. "I need to get some food, Mark, otherwise Femi will ask where I've been." Like a man escaping his wife for five minutes.
"King Street," Dobson had said. "Plenty still open this time of night."
"It's Aron Kaplan," said Solomon.
"Oh yes." And Dobson remembered what he'd witnessed earlier.
"They're stitching us up."
"Tell me."
Solomon had then talked non-stop, slowing them down, dragging on Dobson's sleeve. When they'd got to TK Maxx Dobson understood exactly why Solomon had looked like he did a few hours back.
Aron Kaplan, whose trade mark was a silver topped walking stick and a full but neatly trimmed white beard was sixty something, maybe seventy, a billionaire from plastics, security, oil, gas and aluminium with a history of massive takeovers and liquidations behind him and property in New York, Paris and London.
Solomon described their last meeting to discuss funding for the Project in Kaplan's isolated Cotswold stone mansion somewhere on the border of Gloucestershire and Wiltshire. "Femi had met him several times without me," he said. "He was always full of promises but we never saw anything. But when we got there someone else was already waiting."
It had been a much younger man, tall, upright, blonde hair, casually dressed in a tee shirt that Solomon remembered said 'Glock' on the front. This was Aron Kaplan's son, David.
"David will take over from me," Aron Kaplan had explained.
"David is fully briefed?" Gabriel had asked.
"Of course, it is time for action. We have talked too much."
A good sign it seemed until David Kaplan took over the discussion. "My father says that today you will confirm the contribution from your side. What is it you call it? The Miracle Church?"
Solomon had corrected him. "The Household of God's Miracles Church. The funds come from Solomon Trading."
"My apologies. But it seems your contribution is not nearly enough to provide the guarantees we need. And do your private donors - people like Richard Fischer of Atlantic Gas - know how their money will be spent?"
That had been the first shock.
Names of private donors were supposed to be confidential. Yes, Richard Fischer was one, but it sounded as if the Kaplans had been checking things out, asking questions, getting answers and perhaps some freely given opinion.
"We have talked to Richard," Gabriel had said as calmly as he could. "His investment plans in Africa have been on hold for years due to security. A cement plant was closed after theft of explosives and a construction business finished after the 2015 incursion."
Aron Kaplan had then spoken. "That'd be Mitch McCain's venture, right?"
Another shock. McCain was another donor. Three billionaires, two American and one Russian, close enough to be sharing secrets. So, who else knew?
Gabriel, Solomon said, had tried to brave face it. "Mitch hates losing. When he sees progress, he might stump up more. But there are interests in agricultural projects and infrastructure investment from other organisations. Africa should be far more able to look after itself with better security."
"And better infrastructure, better transport links and better management." David Kaplan had interrupted. "Your contribution is small. My father said it would be at least eighteen million."
"There are always unknowns," Gabriel had replied. "But if we include the profit we make from the Federal Aviation Authority FAA Security equipment contract that I mentioned to Aron for instance......"
"Ah yes, the FAA contract " David Kaplan interrupted. "But it is still small. You're heavily reliant o
n your business interests."
"Of course," Gabriel replied. "Aron will remember me using the expression 'honest, legitimate and ethical' when we first met. He told me then it would be a miracle to achieve that in Africa, but I've always believed in miracles."
Gabriel, Solomon said, had tried to encourage some laughter but failed. "Business was always the preferred route to deliver on our promises," he'd then said.
"What promises?"
"You should listen to my talks, David." Gabriel had been desperately trying to avoid confrontation.
"OK. Seems I'd better start listening. So, explain this X Ray equipment contract."
Solomon had seen a look pass between the two Kaplans as if they already knew about that contract.
"It's for airport security, all body scanners. Things take time," Gabriel had said.
"Yeh. Five years, I heard. And you expect the profit to be around ten million dollars?"
By then Solomon and Dobson were passing banks - HSBC, Lloyds, Nat West. but they stopped walking because Solomon had been getting madder by the second. He'd grabbed Dobson's arm again. "What I saw in David Kaplan's face didn't show any understanding of honesty, or legitimacy and all the time he was playing with his fucking phone."
The conversation with the Kaplans had then moved onto funding for the Project. "But we need to provide security," Gabriel had said. "COK attacks are a big problem in the area."
"The Project, huh? Are you saying you've got a team in place?" David Kaplan had asked as if he also knew something about that.
Gabriel had hesitated. "Some."
"So, where are they? We need to know."
"Why?"
"We need to know."
"In training."
"Where? What equipment?"
"That's why we need the funds."
"What exactly do you want?"
Gabriel had then deliberately turned away from David Kaplan to his father, to Aron Kaplan. "Basic arms, ongoing equipment and material to support a team of specialists who can train and lead others. And we'd like to buy one piece of very sophisticated equipment."
"Such as?" David Kaplan had leaned forward as if demanding Gabriel address him directly.
Dobson and Solomon were now standing outside Marks and Spencer, London night traffic still roaring past and Solomon again grabbed Mark Dobson's arm. "Gabriel looked at me, Mark. I should have stopped him but I didn't. Kaplan was a fucking bastard but, I thought, let him hear it."
"What did Gabriel say?" Dobson had asked. "What piece of equipment did he need?"
"The Predator B drone. You can imagine the response from the Kaplans. They looked at one another. Laughed. 'How much?' Kaplan asked, and Femi looked at me again. 'We could purchase one for a few million dollars,' he said. 'How many do you need?' Kaplan said. He was laughing now. We should have left right then. Got up and left."
"Did Gabriel answer his question about how many drones?" Dobson had asked.
"'One to start,' Femi said. 'Only one? Why do you need even one?' 'Surveillance.' Femi said 'To track enemy positions. To pinpoint them.' 'Can't the fucking Americans do that?' Kaplan asked. 'And do you know how to fly them - remotely?'
Solomon stopped walking. It had also started to rain.
"Christ," was all Dobson could think to say.
"Gabriel knew he was being dragged into giving information he had no wish to give, Mark, but he still wasn't finished."
"What else did he say?"
"That we wouldn't be firing rockets indiscriminately from them. We'd use them to track terrorist movements. That would give us an advantage."
"Is Gabriel serious about wanting one of those bloody great drones the US military use, then?" Dobson had asked.
Solomon had paused before replying. "No, I don't think so. Femi always says if you don't ask you don't get. Bill Larsen finds it preposterous. All Bill wants is something to carry out low level surveillance and map the area. But Femi just goes on talking about it like that's what we want. Aim high, he says. Sometimes I think he's right. But you don't go around talking about things like that to people you don't trust."
Sitting in the slow-moving traffic jam, breathing dust and fumes, Dobson could remember feeling thankful for Solomon's touch of reality.
"Explain to me again, Sol," he'd said. "In your own words. What exactly is the point of your private army?"
Solomon had been in no doubt about that.
"We want to provide a ring of security, a barrier of defence against outside interference and terrorism so that investors feel confident about investing. When we first approached Aron Kaplan it was for agricultural and water projects. But there was always one proviso. That investors brought jobs, new ideas for businesses, employed locals, introduced new skills, trained them and built a culture of wealth creation, dynamism and optimism amongst the poorest who have, for far too long, been left behind."
Dobson remembered Solomon had coughed as if he'd upset himself talking like that. He'd brushed rain drops from his face.
"And who would get all the infrastructure problems sorted, the infrastructure, health, education. What did you tell the Kaplans?"
"Femi would do it. Femi would change everything. Femi would change the world starting with African politics."
"And how did that go down with the Kaplans?"
"They laughed. And the laughing really shook Femi. I remember, he stood up and went off on one of his rants as if he was speaking at a rally. 'Did Al Qaida seek legitimacy? Did ISIL seek it when they invaded Iraq and Syria? Did Al Shebaab? Did Boko Haram seek legitimacy for their murderous attacks? Has the COK ever sought permission before attacking villages? Before abducting schoolgirls?"
Solomon had done a very good imitation of Gabriel. "So how did it all end with the Kaplans?"
"David Kaplan laughed and Aron Kaplan went to look out the window."
As they walked on, now in silence with the rain falling and the cold wind gusting around Hammersmith, Mark Dobson had done what he often did in situations like that: Deliberately ask a short, direct question to force a quick self-analysis and put a stop to the beating about the bush. More often than not it would neatly define the problem. From the answer, he usually got a much clearer sense of direction. Right then had been one of those moments.
"So, what conclusion did you draw from seeing Aron Kaplan looking out the window Sol?" he'd asked
"That we were about to be screwed." Solomon had replied.