by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 26
Colonel Martin Abisola had become very familiar with the drive along the palm lined route to the Presidential Villa at Aso Rock in Abuja. He had an office somewhere inside the complex but had declined the offer of a bigger one and more staff, believing that if he was to perform to his own standards it was best if he did most of the important field work himself.
Yes, he could call upon data and intelligence and receive any other information he needed but those tasks were best suited to administrators, pen pushers and computer experts, men and women who he could rely on to spend most of their time doing what they were paid to do rather than looking for perks outside the nine to five routine. And there was now a newly appointed and like-minded Inspector General of Nigerian Police who he trusted and could call on when necessary.
As the red topped dome with the backdrop of Aso Rock came into view, he slowed down and parked his usual run-around - the black, Toyota Commuter mini bus with its heavily tinted glass windows and thought, once more, about President Azazi's recent words:
"Ignore the fat men, Martin. They strut and pose because they believe they are above the law." And, in another quietly spoken moment: "We have many brightly coloured peacocks who display on the lawns, Martin, but you are a quiet man who has no need for extravagance. Be your own man and run things in your own style. God knows this country is in need of men who can force change by example."
Abisola had certainly been doing things his way. As soon as the President had asked him to head up the State Security Service, his first move was to expose the only man who came between himself and the President - the National Security Advisor - the man at the centre of the corrupt deal over arms intended for the fight against the COK.
Abisola was popular with the President but he still needed to watch his back.
Meanwhile, he kept on doing things his own way, his mind firmly set on ensuring that President Azazi's promises made during his inaugural speech would be delivered and that the forty Ministers in the President's team took notice, kept themselves clean and gave total and unstinting support to a President with one of the toughest jobs in the world.
That morning, Abisola was wearing beige cargo pants, a green shirt, a heavily patterned, royal blue tie and was carrying an overfilled, brown leather bum bag that had clearly seen better days. He checked his watch. His meeting with the President was at ten thirty. He had asked for privacy, was right on time and the President never kept him waiting.
He was escorted to a room with a panoramic view towards Aso Rock. Around the walls sat a line of gilded chairs with white and gold shiny fabric. In the centre was a wide, ornate desk made of dark wood, empty but for a Nigerian flag, a white, fixed telephone and a green shaded lamp that cast a yellow light on its polished surface.
He didn't have to wait long before the door was opened and President Azazi entered wearing a pure-white boubou, his tall, lean form enhanced by his other trademark, the elaborately embroidered chechia on his head. The door was closed behind him and he strode over, hand outstretched. He had tired-looking eyes but he walked straight and firm. A leathery smile appeared through the nutty brown lines of his face.
Abisola bowed his head and took the hand. Neither said a word as Azazi walked around the desk to a cream coloured leather-clad chair. Only when he was seated did the President beckon to the armless, upright chair in front of the desk. "Please, Martin, take a seat."
Abisola unzipped the bum bag, relieving it of some of the bulging pressure inside and sat down.
"You are well, Martin?"
"Thank you, sir."
"What have you got?"
"This, sir," Abisola stood up again and placed a small voice recorder on the desk before the President. He switched it on, adjusted the volume switch and sat down. It started with a few seconds of silence, but then a voice:
"......it seems no-one knows where the fucking akata Dobson is." There was a rustling sound, then Abisola's own voice: "Unfortunately due to the late arrival of these two I am now late for my other meeting. Would you excuse me."
There was the sound of a door closing followed by another short silence. Then the voices began again, getting louder, then shouting, the words clear, the voices recognisable. It lasted fifteen minutes until there was more rustling and the door banged shut.
Abisola got up and switched the recorder off.
The President shook his head. "Mmm. My young brother," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes sir."
"And two well-known pastors."
"Yes, sir."
"Play it again from the middle, Martin."
Abisola rewound and they listened again.
"That is a long list of rogues, Martin. But some very familiar names."
"Yes, sir."
The President leaned back in the leather chair and sighed. "You have a copy somewhere?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. Leave the matter with me," he said. "I need to think."
"Of course, sir."
Abisola then reached into the bum bag again. This time he brought out his IPad. He switched it on, swiped, touched and handed the sticky instrument to the President. "Watch, sir."
The President picked it up, squinted at the small screen and produced a pair of heavy rimmed glasses from a pocket He put them on and peered at the screen again.
"Ah. It is our well-known friend Mr Kenneth Balogun. Signing something. Looking nervous. Looking dishevelled. You did this, Martin?"
"No sir."
"So, who did?"
"Some private individuals with a grudge."
"What is he signing?"
"This, sir."
And Abisola produced from his bag a folded sheet of paper, a printed copy of what Balogun had signed. "It refers to the arrest warrant for Pastor Gabriel Joshua, sir," he said as he laid a photocopy of the warrant on the desk next to the IPad.
The President picked it up and scanned it, holding the paper close to his face. He turned it over in case there was something on the reverse.
"I recognise the signature and the official stamp," he said putting it down on his desk. "Do all Nigerian judges live in such dire poverty that they feel the need to enrich themselves further? I despair."
The President then stood up, removed his chechia and placed it on the desk in front of him. To Abisola, this was another gesture of trust, appreciation and respect so he, too, stood.
"I have told the Kenyan Government to release Pastor Gabriel and to return his passport. No charges." the President said. "I would be happy to meet him sometime soon. That is not to say I agree with everything he says but we should listen and be tolerant of fresh views. God knows we need them."
There was a longer pause now as the President wandered around, thinking. Then he returned, sat down and put his hands together on the desk. Abisola also sat down, the bum bag on his lap, waiting.
"Do you understand Gabriel Joshua, Martin?"
It was a very broad question that Abisola knew was meant to cover everything that Gabriel stood for.
"Yes sir. I agree we should show tolerance. It is also my view that, for the good of Nigeria, we should not ignore him but involve him."
The President nodded to show he fully understood what Abisola's last sentence meant.
"Meanwhile, sir......"
"Go on."
"I think I should tell you that my main source for this recent information comes from an Englishman whom I've met. This is the man, Dobson, mentioned on the tape. He phoned me earlier today. There has been another COK attack over the border in Niger, sir. A man working for Pastor Gabriel was beheaded along with two local people. The man was British with Ghanaian parents. Black. He was also a scientist with a PhD, Doctor Benjamin Simisola. The UK government will soon become aware and so, I suppose, will the press and international media, sir. The murder took place in Niger but I think we should prepare ourselves for any developments and repercussions.
"And another matter sir. I now know that one
of the Nigerian girls in the Maiduguri school massacre escaped. She is a very brave girl from what I understand. She has been staying at Pastor Gabriel's camp since she escaped. She knew Doctor Simisola."
Azazi stood up once more. "And this information comes from who?"
"Mark Dobson, sir."
"What does this man Dobson do?"
"He is a private investigator specialising in commercial crime, sir - fraud, corruption, money laundering. Gabriel is his client."
"Interesting. Do you trust him?"
"Yes sir. And frankly I now believe he's in as much danger as Gabriel. I would hate something to happen to him either here or back in the UK."
They finished soon after that. But what Abisola hadn't told the President yet was what was on a listening device he'd placed inside a shiny white BMW car. Martin Abisola preferred evidence, not rumour.