by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 23
Mr Richard Hicks?"
Mark Dobson had deliberately chosen a different queue at Lagos Immigration this time. It was the same beige uniform and beret and the same badge, blue face mask and blue latex gloves but, this time, it was a male Immigration Officer.
Hopefully CCTV cameras didn't do automatic comparisons with previous ones, but in any case, Dobson's normally sandy hair was now dark brown to match the passport photo - the colour courtesy of a pack that had said 'sultry, healthy and strong' which he hoped would easily wash out.
"Mr Richard Kenneth Hicks," repeated the man with the ink stamps behind the glass. "Business. How long Mr Hicks?"
"Two weeks should be enough." In truth, he had no idea how long it would take. It could take forever. But his Richard Hicks passport was stamped and held aloft. "Have a nice stay."
The passport had been Colin Asher's doing. Asher's other doing was to book him at the five-star Southern Sun Hotel. "Ignore your usual cheap lodgings, Mr Hicks, and lose yourself amongst more discerning guests. It might also be safer."
It was early evening but already dark when he arrived at the Southern Sun.
He checked in as Richard Hicks but then headed to the bar where he'd heard familiar laughter - Vigo, Mazda and Chelsea, probably waiting for him, but meanwhile lowering the tone of the place, drinking beer and talking loudly.
None of them recognised the man in the suit with brown hair until Dobson tapped Vigo on the shoulder. "Waah, Mercedes, man. Nice, cool..........." He was ruffling Dobson's already unkempt head of hair, feeling the quality texture of his M & S suit.
"For Christ's sake, Vigo. Be quiet. Just get me a beer, will you? I'm Richard Hicks, OK? Dobson's still in London."
Huddled in a corner of the bar Dobson spelled out the action plan he'd devised, one that included an early night. He then watched them file out of the hotel looking as if they were already under suspicion by the management. But he called Chelsea back. "What's my name, Chelsea boy?" he whispered, holding Chelsea's shoulder.
"Mr Dobson, sah, but today you are Mr Hicks. Sometimes you are Mr Simon Smith and sometimes Mercedes, sah."
Dobson was impressed, right down to admiring his new pair of florescent yellow Nike trainers - until he saw they weren't Nike but Nuke. "Correct," he said. "But don't talk so loudly, OK?"
"Yessah."
"And how's Pops?"
"Good sah."
Then he went to his room to make calls on a new phone. First up was Bill Larsen on a number Gabriel had given him, a short update on what was going on but a call that would have been longer had Larsen's battery not faded. They arranged to meet in Kano in a few days.
Then he phoned Michael Fayinka in Abuja and agreed to meet during a stopover en route to Kano.
After that he lay back on his bed, stared at the ceiling and tried to calculate the likelihood of achieving anything positive. It didn't look good. Sometimes, though, he concluded, it was not measurable success but positive, lasting influence that really mattered. Then his phone buzzed. Colin Asher.
"Gabriel's been arrested. In Nairobi. He was allowed one phone call so he chose to call me saying Asher & Asher was his lawyer. Someone recognised him in the hotel he's staying at. There's confusion over the name on the warrant and the name in his passport so they've detained him to check with Nigeria."
Asher let that sink in for a moment before landing another one. "I'm told Festus Fulani's back in Nigeria. Someone with that name flew from Cairo two days ago."