An Honourable Fake

by Terry Morgan

CHAPTER 27

  Ayo and Lazarus were half way to London in comfortable first class seats with visas kindly issued by the British High Commission enabling them to come and go whenever they felt like it.

  Mark Dobson, meanwhile, had slept on a thin mattress beneath the table inside Abisola's windowless room. He woke to the smell of coffee.

  "Room service," Martin Abisola announced putting a mug on the floor. "I've got to go. Dickson will call here in an hour or so. Feel free to use the Wi-Fi. The password is the barcode on a bottle of water in the 'fridge. Go to the Sheraton. It's as secure as anywhere. Stay in a public place. Buy another phone and SIM and give Dickson the number. Trust him. I'm meeting the President at eight."

  Dobson took his coffee to the table, found the water bottle with its bar code number and logged on to the internet. Then he wrote a long, encrypted message for Colin Asher.

  Around nine, Dickson arrived. "Boss says to take you to the Sheraton."

  Dobson nodded. "Via somewhere where I can buy another phone please, Dickson."

  He followed Dickson to the outside door. The morning sunlight hurt his eyes but he looked around. The sheet metal gate was shut, the razor wire on the top of the concrete wall glinted in the sun. Tyre marks in dried mud showed that traffic also went around the side of the building. Dickson's Toyota was parked by the steps, a blue one this morning with two aerials on the roof.

  Stepping inside it was clear the car belonged to a law enforcement agency. It had all the paraphernalia of a police vehicle with a purpose built central console box with fixed phone, a satnav screen, wires, headphones and loose cables. On the back seat lay a black leather, multi-pocketed vest along with a tangle of other stuff.

  "We're using the other exit," Dickson said as he drove around the side of the building.

  Looking up, Dobson could see that windows had been bricked up turning the building into one big concrete cube enclosed by a concrete wall. Two large aerials and a satellite dish rose from the roof and, at the rear, sat more parked Toyotas and two high powered BMW motorbikes. The second exit was just another plate steel gateway set in the concrete wall. It slid open automatically as they approached.

  An hour later Dobson found Taj Harding and Daniel Bakare eating late breakfast at the Sheraton.

  "Still in one piece, then?" Bakare said as if he thought last night's discussion about security had been exaggerated. Dobson nodded and helped himself to coffee as Bakare set about a pile of pancakes.

  "We'd like to talk to Gabriel," Harding said as if Dobson was Gabriel's minder.

  "But I don't know where he is."

  "Solomon?"

  "Ghana. But I'm entirely reliant on Colin Asher in London for communications."

  Bakare wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  "Jesus," he said as if he felt surrounded by inefficiency. "Then let me update you. I've spoken to our Embassy people in Niamey. They, too, have had an email from this girl - Halima isn't it? She's asking for funds but it's vague because, well let's be frank, not many sixteen-year-old American kids could find the right words for a funding application let alone a Hausa speaking Nigerian teenager. Anyways, they passed the emails around and they ended up with the USAID contact in Niamey - Liz Abraham's her name. I spoke to Liz this morning. Seed money for viable projects is available but they need information, facts, figures, you know the way it is. They've replied to Halima but got nothing back. How do we contact her?"

  "Can't your friend Liz drive over there?" Dobson knew he was being facetious. Travel safety for US staff was paramount.

  Taj Harding joined in.

  "I also spoke to the UK DfED and got through to someone involved in West Africa. Niger is not on their list so no-one recalls anything from Halima. But, an hour ago, I managed to speak to the Under Secretary of State. I gave a brief summary, not long enough but I'm waiting a call back."

  "I'd like to get Halima down here," Bakare said. "Let's get her to meet Gabriel here. Get the media in. Stir some action."

  And then they continued where they'd left off the night before. Dobson listened, sipped orange juice and drank coffee.

  Then Bakare's phone rang.

  He answered it and listened saying yes or no. When he'd finished, he tapped out a message and then sat back looking serious.

  "Problem?" Harding asked.

  Bakare nodded. "There were two Americans in the group of Christians rounded up by the COK in that football stadium in Banfola. Remember that? "

  Dobson did.

  "They were injured during the siege," Bakare went on. "The Joint Force broke it up but one of the Americans just died - a black Pastor from Florida." He paused and checked his phone again. "Excuse me. Something else."

  Dobson feeling this was interesting but not for his ears spotted a vacant seat in the lobby where he could sit with his back to the wall. He picked up his laptop bag, moved there and logged on to the secure site.

  Earlier that morning he'd briefed Colin Asher on his overnight discussion with Martin Abisola and, with Abisola's permission, given Asher the account details at the Islamic Bank. By co-incidence it was the Edgware Road Branch not a hundred metres from the Asher & Asher office. He'd also suggested it was a good time to bring Craig Donovan back into action.

  On the screen now was a new message.

  "Morning Mark. Really impressed by Colin's homemade encryption stuff. How can I help?" It was Craig Donovan.

  Dobson typed back: "Surveillance op, Craig. Ayo and Lazarus are due in shortly. BA from Abuja." Then he hit the 'encrypt' button and 'send'.

  He then phoned Dickson with a request. "I'll check with the boss," Dickson said.

  Within twenty minutes he had a scanned list of names and addresses and some bank details - all Nigerians and many on George Obod's original list. Within thirty minutes the list was with Colin Asher.

  When Dobson glanced up from the screen for the first time in an hour, he saw Daniel Bakare, ear to his phone, in another corner of the hotel lobby. Call finished, Bakare walked over. "Where's Gabriel?" he asked.

  Dobson had already told him he didn't know. Undeterred, Bakare took the chair opposite. "Gabriel's getting his wish," he said leaning forward. "We're investing fifty million dollars in an old airbase in Agadez in Niger to deploy anti-terrorism surveillance drones."

  It was Ayo's trilby that Craig Donovan saw first.

  Lazarus was trailing behind dragging a case on wheels. Both were wearing big thick overcoats as if expecting snow.

  Donovan was expecting them to take a taxi or possibly a train into central London but, instead, they stopped in the concourse. Ayo, trilby now in his hand, stared up at a directions board, pointed and then led Lazarus outside to the hotel courtesy bus stops. They dropped the bags and mingled with other newly arrived passengers.

  Donovan stood back and watched. When the Radisson Blu Edwardian bus pulled up, Ayo pointed at it to Lazarus and picked up his bag. So, they weren't heading for central London but the Radisson close by.

  Donovan, carrying just a simple back pack, jumped on board, sat by the window and saw another Nigerian with no luggage standing amongst the passengers and bags. Lazarus, puffing and blowing in his oversized coat clambered up into the bus, but Ayo hung back and Donovan watched the unknown Nigerian sidle up to him. In less than a second, Ayo had passed him an envelope and something else. The unknown Nigerian then walked away.

  Lazarus was seated near the front of the bus, struggling to remove his vast overcoat when Ayo boarded and took a seat directly behind him. As the overheated bus moved off, Ayo's trilby tumbled to the floor as he, too, struggled to remove his coat. Fifteen minutes later they had arrived outside the Raddison Blu.

  Donovan got off quickly and watched the two Pastors fuss again with bags and discarded coats and summon a bellboy to help. They checked in, two rooms next to one another, and walked to the lifts. Donovan then booked himself in: single room, one night only.

  "I need to sleep, Ayo. Maybe an hour. And I will pray. In
a stressful world, the safest place is close to Jesus. Air travel is so tiring."

  Ayo was grateful for any break from the man he'd already been with for twelve hours. Anyway, he had other matters to organise that started with a phone call.

  Blessing was a distant cousin who managed a small newsagent's business in Slough and supplemented his meagre wage with night-time taxi driving and other nocturnal activities. Blessing now had Lazarus's passport and an envelope rifled by Ayo from the side pocket of Lazarus's bag.

  "Lazarus Bola Lyabo," said Blessing as he sat in his Ford Mondeo in a back street of Slough examining the passport. "Is that he?"

  "That is he," Ayo replied, copying Blessing's unusual English. "It is the passport for bank accounts."

  "Which bank is he?"

  "Why ask Blessing? Read the damned papers. You will see he is the Baroda Bank. And Lazarus will soon see he has lost everything. He will panic. But you will visit the bank first thing in the morning, you will withdraw the cash by copying the signature and showing the passport. You do not need anything else because I have already checked. You must ask for Mister Joshi. Only Mister Joshi, OK? Mister Joshi will receive his tip."

  "This man Lyabo he look like me," Blessing said pointing and smiling at the passport photo, not that Ayo could see him.

  "It is no bloody co-incidence, Blessing. But if you think you look like Lazarus I advise you to lose some weight. To look like Lazarus is not good." Ayo paused. "Now listen very carefully, Blessing. This is important. Tonight, I will ask you again to repeat what I am about to say."

  "I understand. He is very important."

  "At the Baroda Bank you will say 'I am Mr Lazarus Lyabo and I wish to speak to Mr Joshi.' Do you understand?"

  "Mr Joshi."

  "You will take out two hundred thousand pounds in cash which you will ask to be put into two envelopes. Understand? Then you will say to Mr Joshi that you want to close the account and transfer the balance to the Islamic Bank in Edgware. I will give you the account details this evening. Do you understand?"

  "The Islamic Bank."

  "You will show the passport to Mr Joshi, give him the Islamic bank account details and sign the papers. You will check the amount that is in the account before it is closed and write it down. Understand?"

  "Write it down. How much is it, Ayo?"

  "Maybe eight hundred thousand pounds."

  "Waah! He is a lot, Ayo."

  "There is just one problem. Mister Joshi will need to see a plastic card. I will obtain this from Lazarus this evening. Understand?"

  "He is understood, Ayo. So, what is my present?"

  "Your present will come when you have finished your job, Blessing. From the Indian Bank, you will go to Edgware Road. That is where I will meet you. You will give me the two envelopes with the two hundred thousand pounds. That is when your job is finished."

  "So, what is my present?"

  "Between nothing and five percent. If you fuck up it's nothing."

 

  As Lazarus slept and Ayo phoned Blessing, Colin Asher's contact at Heathrow Airport passport control called Craig Donovan.

  "That BA flight from Abuja this morning," he said. "Colin asked me to phone you. We spotted two other Nigerians, a Moslem man and a woman who come and go regularly, always overweight on their way out. They're on a watch list. You want names?"

  And Craig Donovan ticked two more off the list given to Mark Dobson by Abisola. He messaged Mark Dobson just as Dobson was digesting the US drone information from Daniel Bakare.

  "I can't track them all," Donovan added. "And Colin's busy. He's with a guy from South Korea all day today. What do you suggest?"

  Dobson thought for a moment. Colin was obviously dealing with the Korean client that should have been his job. Never mind. Somewhere on his laptop was a coded phone number. Five minutes later he replied to Donovan: "Call this number. Freddie Paterson is a buddy of Colin's at the Metropolitan Police. Tell Freddie what's going on and ask for help. Once Colin's free, update him."

  Mark Dobson logged off and looked up to see Martin Abisola coming towards him carrying the small case he'd left at the Ibro. It mostly contained dirty washing. After several days, Dobson was beginning to feel as unkempt as Abisola looked. A toothbrush and shave would go down well, though. "Very kind of you, Martin."

  "Thank Dickson. You wouldn't have enjoyed the Ibro anyway. The two guys in the size 12 trainers are still there." He then sat down where Bakare had just been. Something else was on his mind.

  "Today's BA flight to London had some interesting passengers on board," he said.

  "I know," replied Dobson. "Besides Ayo and Lazarus there were two others from your list - Alhaji Ahmed and a woman, Nabila Alhassan. They married or something?"

  "They're partners," Abisola replied in a way suggesting the partnership was in crime.

  "How do they fit it?"

  "What do you say? Kingpins? They are regular visitors to London. They run businesses - freight forwarding, import-export, second hand cars, a clothing business and a suspected passport forgery business with a couple of Vietnamese. Getting enough evidence for a conviction in the UK is like nailing a jellyfish to the wall, but they are multi-millionaires with property in London and Paris. They also have a friend called Festus Fulani."

  Reunited with his toothbrush and razor Dobson checked himself into the Sheraton, showered, left a bagful of laundry with the domestic staff and wandered downstairs again where Taj Harding was playing with his phone.

  "Daniel has left for a meeting in Jo'burg," he said. "And, according to the High Commission, Benjamin Simisola's body was taken to Agadez. The US picked it up from there and are organising an airlift to London."

  "I should phone Graham Parker-Stanley to thank him for organising that," Dobson said. "Can I borrow your phone?"

  Dobson called him and thanked him, but Parker-Stanley, it seemed, wanted to talk some more. Business was obviously slow.

  "I'm hearing good things about Pastor Gabriel," he said. "And his project over the northern border.......interesting work It was Taj who told me.........then there's this young Hausa girl, Halima.......seems a good story there..........I've told Taj we'll liaise with Daniel Bakare and get her down to Abuja and if we could find Gabriel.......well, you know, we might be able to plant some seeds of progress at last........do our bit to bloody the noses of the COK etcetera, you know what I mean?

  "Taj is at a loose end at present," Parker-Stanley went on, "I wondered if you'd like to join us for dinner tonight........ talk security issues.......expound on life in the private sector........ my wife cooks a mean sage and onion stuffed chicken, potatoes, gravy, the works. Are you free?.......Good man, look forward to it. Seven thirty. Taj knows where. He joined us for cottage pie and processed peas last night."

  Dobson handed back Taj Harding's phone. "I'm joining you for dinner tonight. Perhaps I'll try speeding up my laundry."

  Craig Donovan was sitting in the lobby of the Radisson when Lazarus and Ayo appeared from the lifts. He could sense immediately that something was wrong. They passed right by him, the shorter, fatter Lazarus hanging on the sleeve of Ayo's dark blue suit.

  "It was there, I tell you, Ayo. In my bag. How could I come through immigration without my passport? Maybe it was that bus driver. We should check with the reception, maybe it dropped out, maybe............"

  They headed to reception, Lazarus leading the way, almost running on his short legs. But then he stopped, suddenly, Ayo colliding with him. "Yaaah," he screeched. "My bank papers. They were in an envelope." And he ran back to the lifts as Ayo, seemingly unconcerned, wandered along the corridor in his trilby, past the disabled toilet and stood looking into the gift shops.

  Donovan watched as Ayo found a seat, checked his nails and his Rolex, removed his trilby, placed it next to him and leaned back to stare at the ceiling and the crystal chandelier.

  A porter walked over, nodded and spoke to Donovan. "Nice weather, sir."

&n
bsp; "Very pleasant."

  "Where you from, sir?"

  "Washington, USA."

  "Enjoying your stay, sir?"

  "Quiet so far."

  But the quietness was broken by a shout from the lifts area.

  "Bloody hell," whispered the porter. "It's one of the Nigerians. What's his problem?"

  Lazarus was running in circles in the reception area. "It's gone, it's gone."

  The porter went up to him. "Sir, sir. Please. What's the problem?"

  Genuine tears ran down Lazarus's fat cheeks. "My passport is gone. My bank letters are gone."

  "Please sit sir, take a moment, relax."

  The porter's patience, Donovan decided, was worthy of the 'employee of the month' award. "Let us go through what happened.........where did you last see it?.........did you use it at the airport?........yes, of course, you must have.........the bus driver?.......I can check sir......Is this your friend coming?"

  Ayo appeared, looked at the tears on Lazarus's cheeks but felt nothing as Lazarus started again. "We are finished, Ayo. We will die. We cannot fall further when we are already on our knees. It is the bastard Azazi, the bastard Osman, the bastard Gabriel - a conspiracy."

  It took twenty minutes to calm him. Eventually Ayo suggested they return to Lazarus's room and search the contents of the bags.

  "Yah, yah, maybe that is it," Lazarus said running to the lift. "My father always told me: 'Whenever things are dark, follow the Son.'"

  Twenty minutes later, as Lazarus lay on his bed sniffing and trembling, Ayo left the room with Lazarus's plastic debit card concealed in his pocket.

  Craig Donovan was halfway through a John Le Carre novel when Ayo appeared once more. He followed him outside to the car park and saw him get into a parked Ford Mondeo.

  "Can you get me a taxi?" Donovan asked the friendly porter.

  "It might take a few minutes, sir."

  "Just as quick as you can."

  Twenty minutes later, Donovan's taxi had arrived but Ayo was still sitting in the Mondeo, talking to the driver. But then the door opened, Ayo got out and walked back to the hotel. Donovan decided to use his waiting taxi.

  "Follow the Mondeo."

  "The 06 registered one?"

  "That's the one."

  The Mondeo took the M4 motorway and headed west. It was now dark, heavy M4 commuter traffic almost at a standstill but the Mondeo was only a few cars ahead. "Just keep following it."

  "How far he's going, mate?"

  "I've no idea."

  "Christ, mate, we could end up in bloody Wales."

  "It's OK, I speak Welsh."

  "Yeh, right, mate. Pull the other one. Americans can't even speak English proper."

  But the Mondeo turned off at the Slough central turn, headed for the town centre and then into a maze of roads in a low-cost housing estate. "You still want me to follow him?"

  "Sure. Keep on his tail."

  "You fucking CIA or something, mate? Now he's stopping and getting out. See?"

  "OK. Drive past, stop and wait for me."

  Donovan walked back to the Mondeo, checked the registration number and the house number and returned to the taxi. Half an hour later he was back at the Radisson. Then, hoping Colin Asher was now free of the Korean client, he phoned in.

 

  Mark Dobson had chosen a freshly laundered blue shirt and red tie to wear with his suit for dinner with the Deputy High Commissioner, his wife Jane and Taj Harding.

  It was his first proper meal for days. The chicken wasn't bad, he decided, the apple tart average and the squirt of whipped cream like any other.

  Over coffee, Harding began a discussion about Halima. "The camp is not suitable for a sixteen-year old girl," he said. "But she's very bright and talks well. If we got her down here we could probably find her a school place. She could make a huge difference to PR and funding."

  Dobson listened and by eleven o'clock when a Commission car was summoned to return them to the Sheraton, Mark Dobson had roughly caught up with their plans. Two of the main characters who had so frustrated Gabriel for years were, it seemed, now running the show.

  By midnight, Dobson discovered that whilst he'd been eating roast chicken, the Asher & Asher secure site had been busy. Colin Asher had also spoken to Martin Abisola.

  "The Mondeo is registered to a Nigerian called Blessing Akami of 67 Thompson Road, Slough," Colin Asher's message read. "He runs a corner shop and a night taxi service. No prison record but here's a photo."

  "Most likely theory is Ayo will use Blessing to take money from Lazarus's bank and deposit it at the Islamic Bank on Edgware Road.

  "Proposed action is this: Craig will watch the Indian Bank in Southall. If we get movement there, Craig will follow. Meanwhile, I'll take a walk down Edgware Road and sip tea at Zabiollah's opposite the Islamic bank in case Craig loses them or they go somewhere else. The only problem is how much mint tea I can drink in one morning."

  "And any news of Gabriel?" Dobson asked in his reply message.

  "None."

  At eight next morning, Ayo hammered on the door of Lazarus's room. From inside came a moaning sound accompanied by the shuffling of feet and a chain being drawn. The door opened an inch and a red eye appeared.

  "I am leaving for my bank Lazarus."

  In response, the red eye blinked.

  "As you were careless and lost your passport and bank cards, I now have to take full responsibility for resolving our financial problems. Do you understand?"

  The red eye moved up and then down.

  "Do you want to debate serious financial matters through the crack of a door, Lazarus?"

  The red eye moved from side to side.

  Ayo sighed. "I will withdraw half of what we owe. Then I will go to the bank of our friend. Do you understand, Lazarus?"

  There was a wet sniffing sound as if Lazarus's nose lay flat against the other side of the door. "Something happened, Ayo," he sniffed. "Someone stole everything."

  "Nonsense. It is your stupidity, your carelessness."

  "I am fastidious in my ways, Ayo. My father always said a clear conscience makes a soft pillow. Something happened. Someone stole it, Ayo. Someone close to me. Someone who I thought was my friend."

  "Do you have any friends, Lazarus?"

  "A rich man without compassion is a poor man with money, Ayo," Lazarus whispered. Then the door closed and the bolt was slid back.

  Ayo spoke to the closed door. "Another fine saying, Lazarus, but do you know the real meaning of the cross?" He paused. "The cross is God's way of turning a minus into a plus." Then he laughed and wandered away down the corridor.

  Southall, just a few miles from Heathrow, has a historic reputation for being the largest Asian community in the UK. Nigerians are not uncommon but are far outnumbered by Indians. Craig Donovan had asked Colin Asher why a Nigerian like Lazarus might have an account at the Bank of Baroda.

  "It might be linked to jewellery or gold deposits." Asher said. "Lazarus's father owned a jewellery shop."

  It was a clear, sunny morning when Donovan arrived in Southall Broadway. He was early and hoped to find a decent coffee shop but made do with a can of iced coffee from an Indian mini supermarket. Being on a dual carriageway, it was also a poor place for a stakeout so Donovan waited outside the supermarket.

  He was on his third can when he saw the Nigerian, almost hidden inside a black, hooded anorak. He was carrying a brown envelope and, as he stopped to look up at the Bank of Baroda sign, Donovan moved. The bank had just opened but an orderly line of customers was already waiting inside - long beards, brightly coloured saris and white turbans dominated.

  "Can I help, sir?" An Indian girl in red uniform asked Donovan.

  "I'd like some information on mortgages for a friend," Donovan said. "Do you have a leaflet or something."

  "Just one moment sir." and she pulled a leaflet from a bundle on a table. "If you need more help, sir, please ask."

  "Thank you. I
'll read it here if you don't mind."

  "Of course, sir. Please take a seat." And she went straight to the next customer who had come through the door, the Nigerian. Donovan was the only white person in the bank. He rang Colin Asher, said "He's arrived" and switched off.

  Blessing Akami of 67 Thompson Road, Slough stood for a moment and then joined the queue. He pulled his hood back a fraction, scratched his face and the girl in red saw the uncertainty. "Yes sir?"

  "I forgot," Donovan heard him say. "I have an appointment. He is Mr Joshi."

  "Ah yes, sir. Your name sir?"

  "My name? He is, uh........." Blessing fumbled in the envelope, pulled out the passport, opened it, went to the name page and the envelope fell on the floor. He retrieved it, then read, far too slowly: "He is Lazarus Bola Iyabo. I want to see Mr, ah, Mr Joshi."

  The girl looked at him perhaps suspiciously. To all intents and purposes Blessing Akami possessed all the classic looks of an opportunist bank robber. "Please wait a moment, sir." She went to the counter said a few words to another girl and pointed towards Blessing.

  And Blessing came to sit beside Donovan, his unnecessary anorak rustling as he rested one trainer-clad foot on his opposite knee, almost rubbing its street dirt onto Donovan's clean and pressed trousers.

  Donovan, watching him stuff the passport back in the envelope, said: "Good Morning," and continued reading his mortgages leaflet.

  Blessing nodded and waited perhaps five minutes until the girl in red came over and spoke to him "Mr Joshi will see you now. Counter five."

  Donovan watched the transaction - quiet, muttered words, a dark green passport handed over, a letter from the bank on headed paper, a plastic card and a signature that Blessing struggled with. Another piece of paper that Mr Joshi struggled to read. Then another signature and a wait as Joshi typed things into a computer and stared at the screen. The electronic transfer that would empty and then close the account? Then another wait. Blessing looking around. Donovan looking away. Then two envelopes were passed over, thick white ones held together with wide rubber bands and Blessing with no sign of a thank you walked out of the bank with the envelopes inside his anorak.

  Donovan followed him west along the Broadway, turning right, then right again. At a corner, Blessing walked into Habib's Tyres and Exhausts Centre and there was the Ford Mondeo. As Blessing drove away, Donovan phoned Colin Asher.

  "Right, I'm on the case," Asher said. "Mr Joshi, did you say? OK leave it with me. Get down to Edgware Road. I'll be in Zabiollah's."

  Colin Asher then phoned a friend, the Director of Organised Crime at the UK National Crime Agency. Within an hour two men from the NCA had called at the Bank of Baroda, flashed a card and asked to see the manager.

  By then Craig Donovan had arrived at Zabiolla's Iranian tea, coffee and pastries shop in Edgware Road. He found Colin Asher sitting in the window drinking mint tea and watching the bank opposite.

  "Anything yet?" Donovan asked settling onto the stool next to him.

  "Nothing. Listen I need to get back. The transaction at the Baroda bank is already being looked into. If things happen as expected, we'll then deal with the bank opposite."

  "You can do all that Colin?"

  "Not me personally but someone from the National Crime Agency. We feed in evidence, add it to what Martin Abisola has supplied, throw in evidence of other misdemeanours and watch events. Try the kataifi - it's very good."

  Donovan ordered tea, took out his John Le Carre, opened it at the curled-up corner and was taking his first bite of the kataifi when he saw the heavy overcoat and trilby of Pastor Ayo.

  He was standing in a shop doorway next to the bank, one hand grasping the handle of a bag on wheels at his feet. Seconds later, the hooded anorak of Blessing rounded the corner and the two white envelopes were handed over. Ayo flipped the rubber band off one of them, withdrew a bundle and, hidden between his own overcoat and Blessing's anorak, passed it over. Blessing nodded and scurried away. Ayo bent to his case, stuffed both envelopes inside, glanced around and waved down a passing black cab. It had all taken less than a minute.

  Donovan dropped a twenty pound note by his mint tea, ran outside and hailed another passing cab. Ayo's taxi was already stuck in traffic further up Edgware Road

  "Where to sir?"

  "Follow that cab. Just don't lose him. OK?"

  "Got it. You American, sir?"

  "How did you guess?"

  The driver grinned through the partition. "Don't tell me. FBI."

  "National Crime Agency," Donovan said and immediately liked the sound of it.

  "Bloody hell."

  Ayo's taxi turned into Sussex Gardens, then onto Bayswater Road, then travelled west through Holland Park and, within twenty minutes, they were on the A4, Hammersmith Flyover and heading towards the M4 motorway.

  Donovan phoned Asher with another update, adding that he assumed Ayo was returning to the Radisson. He was wrong. Ayo's taxi turned off and headed for the Heathrow airport tunnel. Ten minutes later Ayo checked in at the Air France counter and headed straight to Departures. Donovan phoned Asher again.

  "Christ. OK. Stand by, Craig. I'll see if I can find out where he's heading."

  Twenty minutes later Asher phoned back. "Sorry Craig. We've lost him. My suspicion is he's used a different passport to check in but I can't get anyone in security to respond. But where the fuck is Lazarus?"

  "Last time I saw him he was at the Radisson. What can I do now?"

  "Stick around while I do some more checks. Go and read your book."

  "I can't. I left it at Zabiollah's."

  "Buy another. But an interesting morning's work, Craig. Ayo has emptied Lazarus's bank account, taken a huge amount of cash for himself and moved the balance to the Islamic bank. We're now checking how much was moved."

  Craig Donovan bought a newspaper and sat down to wait, but after an hour and nothing fresh from Asher he phoned to say he was returning to the Radisson. For some reason, he felt worried about Lazarus.

  He asked at reception. "No sir," he was told. "Neither of the two Nigerian gentlemen has checked out yet."

  Deciding it was not his business to tell them he'd just watched one of them take a flight out, probably back to Nigeria, he took a walk along the corridor outside their rooms. A 'Do Not Disturb' notice hung on one door so he returned to reception. "Would you mind checking if there is anyone in Room 218."

  "Of course, one minute, sir.........Sorry sir, there is no response."

  "I'm worried about the occupant," Donovan said.

  "That is the Nigerian gentleman who lost his passport, sir?"

  "That's the one."

  "Is there cause for concern, sir? He seemed very upset yesterday."

  "His partner has already flown back to Nigeria - alone," said Donovan.

  "Mmm...... without checking out it seems. I'll get someone to check."

  Donovan was there when the Portuguese maid knocked on the door of 218 with its 'Do Not Disturb' notice. She called but got no response so opened it with her universal key. Donovan followed her inside and was right behind her when she pushed open the bathroom door and screamed. She turned, collided with Donovan and rushed out, her hand over her mouth.

  Lazarus's naked body was lying face down in a pool of blood that had spread across the tiled floor to the door.

  The Radisson called the police.

  Craig Donovan called Colin Asher. Asher phoned a contact in the police and, at last, Heathrow security did something. The London police called the French police, but no-one called Ayoola Eniate was on the passenger list of any Air France connecting flights even to Abuja. They were now checking CCTV. Colin Asher then phoned Martin Abisola. Abisola spoke to his man in London and then phoned Mark Dobson at the Sheraton.

  "No-one resembling Ayo boarded the Abuja flight or any other flight this afternoon," Abisola said. "I think he's gone to ground in Paris or taken a train somewhere. And Lazarus was alive after Ayo left because the maid sa
w him."

  Mark Dobson logged onto the Asher & Asher site to find another long list of updates.

  "Blessing Akami's been arrested over the bank fraud but we know where he's been all day so he's not a suspect in Lazarus's killing."

  The next message said: The ICC Commercial Crime Services (CCS) is now acting on something we've given them that they've been following for years. CIA, FBI, Interpol involved."

  Then: "FraudNet, the global network of law firms that specialise in tackling business crime is back on a string of cases just through one single piece of evidence we gave them."

  And then there was the less formal message: "It's pack of cards time, Mark. I never thought I'd live to see things happen so quickly. Police arrested a guy called Alhaji Ahmed and a woman, Nabila Alhassan who were on the same flight in as Ayo and Lazarus. Since then, one name led to another. They're going down like flies."

  As Mark Dobson lay on his bed at the Sheraton waiting for more updates there was a light knock on his door. He logged off, shoved the laptop into its case and squinted through the security hole in the door. Looking back at him was the distorted image of Taj Harding.

  "Mark? You there?"

  Dobson slid the bolt. "What's up?"

  "You heard from Gabriel?"

  "No. Come in. Make yourself at home."

  "He's in Washington. I just spoke to Daniel in Jo'burg. Gabriel flew to Washington straight from Nairobi."

  "What's he up to?"

  "He's being led around by Senator James McAllister. You know him?"

  "Gabriel's mentioned him." Dobson said.

  "McAlister's had him on TV, interviews with the press, a long interview with The African magazine, off the cuff remarks to anyone who listens about the COK, corruption, African politics, education, health, the economy. He's also got wind of the Halima story. 'Heroic Nigerian girl outwits COK' says one headline. They're buzzing for details. Halima and Bill Larsen are arriving Friday so I've booked Ballroom 2 for a press conference."

  "The ballroom? Jesus."

  Dobson was flabbergasted. How many people were they expecting for God's sake? This was not his scene at all. He just didn't do press gatherings, promotional events and public demonstrations directed at entertaining the masses at peak viewing times. Neither did Colin Asher who would be scared witless if he knew he was on the periphery of these sorts of shenanigans. Asher & Asher operated behind the scenes, deliberately keeping their heads down and for damned good reasons. Look what had happened to him when someone heard he was visiting Lagos for a client they didn't approve of.

  "I hope ballroom two will be big enough," Harding said.

  "Bloody hell."

  And Dobson's mind reverted to Gabriel in Washington. And Solomon. Did Solomon know what Gabriel was doing? Did Bill Larsen know? Did Martin Abisola know?

  "So, what've you been up to today, Mark?" Harding asked as if it nothing was likely to have been as important as his and Bakare's achievements.

  "Looking into ways the COK benefits from money laundering, organising a watch on someone's UK bank account being emptied, the transfer of that money to an account run by the COK, theft of some of that money in cash by someone who then disappeared back to Nigeria and the death of the guy whose account was emptied. Watching the Nigerian criminal fraternity's banking arrangements break down. All in a day's work."

  "I see. So, nothing to do with Gabriel today."

  Mark Dobson hadn't yet sat down but if he'd been sitting he'd have stood up now. He looked at Taj Harding, tried hard not to shake his head in disbelief and tried even harder not to punch the guy. Instead:

  "Fuck me, Taj. Everything's to do with Gabriel. One bloody thing leads to another bloody thing. We've just got Gabriel released from detention in Nairobi based on a forged arrest warrant. Why? Because people are either trying to take advantage of him or destroy him.

  "If you're running a press conference you might like a session on why and how the COK runs its campaign of atrocities like the abduction of schoolgirls, like the beheading of Benjamin, the shooting of Kennet Eju and this afternoon the killing of another Nigerian pastor. You and Bakare might like to know what the fuck really is going on here. How long's your bloody press conference scheduled to last?"

  Dobson was getting so worked up with Harding that he was pleased when the room phone rang. He turned to look at it. He really didn't like hotel room phones these days. They struck a strange fear in him, but he picked it up.

  "Mark. Dickson's outside. Five minutes. Bring your toothbrush."

  He replaced the phone and looked at Taj Harding. "I have to go out," he said. "A meeting with the Secret Service."

  Harding looked at his watch. "I see. But it's almost midnight."

  "Good and evil work side by side, Taj. Twenty-four seven."

  He saw Harding to the door, reluctantly wished him good night, stuck his toothbrush inside the laptop bag and went downstairs.

  Martin Abisola was sat with his feet on the table, phone clamped to his ear when Dickson ushered Dobson into the room. He beckoned Dobson to sit but continued his conversation.

  "You're in charge, Musa. You decide but don't expect more resources." He looked over at Dobson. "It's what the English call running a tight ship......that's it..... efficiency. Call me when you've made the arrests."

  He switched off, dropped the phone into the top pocket of his ruby red shirt and put his hands behind his head. "Guns, semi-automatics, found at the back of a shop belonging to the brother of a State Governor. They were easy to find but why are they there. That is the question."

  Dobson shrugged. How would he know?

  "Great operation by Colin Asher today, Mark. A pity Pastor Ayo disappeared but we're on the case. An even greater pity about Lazarus. He was never suited to this business. He should have stuck with his church."

  "So, what happened at the Islamic Bank?" Dobson asked.

  "It's why you're here," Abisola said taking his feet off the table. "Colin Asher phoned me. He's seriously concerned for your safety."

  "I'm touched."

  "That single transaction at the Bank of Baroda triggered a whole chain of events. Several arrests were made during the day for money laundering linked to criminal activity. Alhaji Ahmed and the woman Nabila Alhassa were among those detained."

  "Might there be an unwanted chain reaction from elsewhere?"

  "Not if we move fast enough. The UK police are raiding properties across London and Essex in the next few hours. One raid will be on a house in Essex used by Osman Olande and owned by Festus Fulani."

  "So, what can I do? Why am I here? I'm starting to feel left out."

  "OK. Listen. Colin Asher is still, fortunately, a mystery to people like Osman Olande, Festus Fulani and Zainab Azazi. They do not understand who he is, what he is or where he is, though I understand Olande once phoned him on Kenneth Eju's old phone to try to trace him. On the other hand, you, Mr Hicks, Mark, are not such a mystery. I think you are as much of a target as Gabriel would be if he suddenly turned up here. That's why you're sitting here now."

  "I'm doubly touched."

  "But first," Abisola stood up. "Can you tell me where Gabriel is?"

  "He's in Washington," Dobson said, "I learned that forty minutes ago."

  "Washington!"

  "He's doing press interviews and appearing on TV."

  "Is he spreading good news or bad news?"

  "One man's good news is another man's bad news, but Gabriel prides himself on not telling lies. He says he only offers opinions though he'll admit they're strong ones."

  "My opinion is if he comes back here we'll see an attempt on his life."

  "But Gabriel ignores the opinions of others."

  "I've noticed. And where's Solomon?"

  "Probably still in Accra."

  Abisola took a short stroll around the table. "Staying at the Sheraton is not good for you, Mark. You need to get out more."

  "It was you told me to stay there."

 
; "I thought you'd ignore me."

  "I would normally but I've been busy directing matters remotely and I'm as much in awe of the Nigerian SSS as you are with Asher & Asher."

  Martin Abisola gave a lop-sided smile.

  "Staying at the Sheraton has other advantages," Dobson added. "I hear things. For instance, I hear a big media event is being organised starring Halima. Bill Larsen's bringing her to Abuja. She's being billed as a bright young heroine and a reason why terrorism never wins. The Sheraton's ballroom has been booked." He let that sink in for a moment.

  "How long have you known this?"

  Dobson checked his watch. "Forty-two minutes."

  "Whose idea is that?"

  "Primarily Bakare's with the US Embassy. Americans like that sort of thing, especially black Americans. Right now, though, Bakare's in Johannesburg."

  "Why don't we know? The President should be told. And what about security? Who's invited? Do they think this is just some friendly get together with the world's press?"

  "I think they intend to use Halima to focus on Gabriel's Project - for funding. I can see the attraction. The problem is they don't understand the security risk. Talking to Taj Harding I don't they understand anything at all."

  The knot on Abisola's tie had slipped so far down that he pulled it off, screwed it up and dropped it on the table. Dobson continued. "Do you know about the US decision for a military surveillance operation out of Agadez?"

  "This morning. A note via Steve Barnett. The President then spoke to Hama Dosso. It's welcomed."

  "Do you know that Gabriel probably influenced that decision? That he lobbied for funds for surveillance drones for his Project?"

  "No. But why doesn't that surprise me?"

  "If you want my cynical opinion on why they made the decision I'd say it was because a couple of Americans died in Burkina Faso."

  "Of course - Banfola "

  "So, there you have it, Martin. America must defend its own and America must also show it's the reason for all good news stories."

  Right then the phone that had been lying next to Abisola's crumpled tie vibrated and turned a full circle. He picked it up. "Yes, he's here. It's Colin Asher."

  "Have you finished in Nigeria yet?"

  "It'll never ever finish, Colin."

  "Then for fucks sake get out."

  "Don't worry so much," Dobson said.

  "Well, while you may not be too concerned, Pastor Lazarus certainly was. It wasn't murder. He cut his own wrists. He took a nice picture of garden flowers off the wall and used the broken glass. Suicide."