An Honourable Fake

by Terry Morgan

CHAPTER 31

  Bill Larsen couldn't sleep.

  He'd felt positive and optimistic when he'd finished talking to Halima at nine o'clock the night before but, since then, Colin Asher had phoned him twice. The second call had been long. "Mark asked me to call you, Bill. We're very concerned about security."

  What followed had been a summary of the last few days - arrests in London for money laundering and bank fraud, the suicide of another pastor, shootings in Lagos and Abuja and evidence that the COK was not so much a terrorist organisation but the front for a sophisticated crime led organisation with political aims. Gabriel was last heard of in Washington, Sol was in Accra and Mark Dobson was working with the SSS but holed up in the Abuja Sheraton after escaping one shooting attempt.

  "Jesus Christ," was the most appropriate thing Larsen could think of saying after ten minutes of this. That was until Asher had added another:

  "And phones calls are being hacked and smart phones tracked - yours included."

  Larsen made himself some tea and lay on his back, thinking, staring into darkness, breathing Saharan dust whipped up by a wind that had swirled through the camp for several days.

  It had been the black American Major Sam Collins who'd broken the news of the media event in Abuja. "She's a fucking hero. We can use her to show the COK are a bunch of fucking failures," he'd said.

  Larsen had put the language down to US military hard talk but it didn't mean he liked the tone. "Cocking a snoop," he'd replied in his own style.

  "Cockin' a fucking what?"

  "Throwing insults, poking fun, deliberately ignoring."

  Orders for the cocking of the snoop had, it appeared, come from way up the command structure so what could he do? Already feeling isolated, he'd gone along with it. After all, Halima couldn't stay at the camp for ever and, with all the other problems, it seemed the camp itself might not survive long anyway.

  And what sort of bloody press conference was this? Larsen hated public meetings. Colin Asher had made it sound like a mega event for the international media whereas he'd imagined a small gathering, questions from a few press people, perhaps a few photos and then some private discussions with Halima about her future.

  "It's also bothering Mark," Colin Asher had said.

  "So, what should I do?" he'd replied.

  Asher's reply hadn't helped at all. "Tough call."

  The passengers on the Turkish Airlines flight from Istanbul to Cairo were mostly Turks and Egyptians but amongst the group pulling cabin bags towards Immigration Control was a neatly dressed Nigerian. On spotting the 'Visa Here' sign he peeled away from the crowd, waited in a short queue and looked around. Security seemed high this evening but he'd been through Cairo airport before. It wasn't unusual, but he'd had this nervous feeling in his chest ever since leaving London.

  When it was his turn he gave his Nigerian passport to the clerk, handed over $20 dollars in cash and waited as she stuck a visa on the first blank page of his passport. Then, after nodding his thanks, he made for the Immigration desk queue and chewed on his fingernails until it was his turn. Chewing reminded him of Lazarus.

  "Reason for your visit, Mr Onu?"

  "Holiday with my brother."

  "Your brother's name?"

  "Mr Christopher Onu."

  "He lives in Cairo?"

  "Yes."

  Two minutes later Ayo was collecting his bag off the conveyor. Still no problems. Next up, customs control and nerves again, but he took the green, nothing to declare, channel and made his way outside to find a taxi and another queue. He waited until his turn came and then watched his case being loaded into the back of the taxi. "The Nile Ritz Carlton, please."

  The European man who'd joined the queue right after him heard the instruction. Mark Dobson, fresh off the Abuja flight, took the next taxi but quickly lost Ayo's in heavy traffic.

  It did not matter as he still arrived at the skyscraper Nile Ritz Carlton overlooking the Nile as Ayo's bag was being lifted out again. He watched Ayo pay the driver and then stand, looking for help. It was too bad. A coach full of Chinese had just arrived. Help was in short supply.

  In Abuja, Monday called Abisola. "Cairo just sent a list of Nigerians arriving in Cairo today. One arrived from Istanbul using a passport in the name of Abraham Onu. That's one of the names we have for Pastor Ayo, sir."

  It was hot, clear and starry night, noisy with Cairo traffic and Ayo waited, moving his weight from one foot to the other. Dobson went inside with just the laptop bag he'd brought with him on the Egypt Air flight. Travelling with anything bigger posed all sorts of problems when following someone, so he'd planned on buying a change of clothing when he found the time. From inside the entrance he watched Ayo bend to his flight bag, zip his passport into a side pocket and retrieve something else. Out came the brown felt trilby. He put it on and adjusted it in the reflection in the glass. Dobson tapped out a short text and sent it to Monday at at Abisola's NCHQ.

  Monday called Abisola. "Dobson confirms Ayo's staying at the Nile Ritz Carlton, room 302. Dobson has also checked in."

  In room 302 Ayo unpacked, hung up his suits and silk shirts in the closet, took a shower and came out wearing pale yellow silk pyjamas with the name of his church - 'Christ's Centre of Holy Visions emblazoned across the chest. Around his neck, hung a large golden cross on a chain. He un-zipped his smaller bag and withdrew a mobile phone, a Bible and a note book of sermons that he always carried in case he was asked to prove his occupation. He then checked an address book and made sure he had the Cairo number Zainab Azazi had told him to call. In the morning, he would call the number, deal with the problem of the stolen money and then go home a richer man.

  As Ayo slept fitfully Mark Dobson went midnight shopping, returning with a new set of boxer shorts, a fresh white shirt and a pair of light chinos. He cut a short slot in the elastic waist band of the new shorts, inserted the memory stick for his laptop, rinsed out his only pair of socks, set his mobile for a wake-up call at 5am and put it next to his pillow. Then he closed his eyes. Minutes later the phone rang.

  "How de body man? Fightin' fit?"

  "Gabriel."

  "Why are you in Cairo just as I decide to visit you in Nigeria?"

  "You must have phoned Colin to get this number. Didn't he tell you?"

  "Someone fired a gun at your arse."

  "Not my arse, Gabriel. My head. Did Colin say anything else?"

  "That Pastor Lazarus had gone to his maker, that Ayo had taken his money, that all hell was breaking out with Nigerians with overseas bank accounts and that you'd gone to Cairo."

  Dobson, having already decided this would not be a quick five-minute call sat up and put his feet on the ground. "Listen," he said. "Ayo's here and so, probably, is Festus and billions of laundered dollars, most of it stolen from ordinary Nigerians. Some of it is probably what we saw being handed over by David Kaplan to Ayo and Lazarus in London. How much did Colin tell you about what's been happening since you got arrested in Nairobi?"

  "He called it a short summary and told me to call you. He was in the middle of a meeting with the police."

  "Then you've got a lot of catching up to do, Gabriel. Did Colin have time to tell you that Bill Larsen and Halima are heading to Abuja tomorrow?" Dobson checked his watch. "Correction. Later today. For some sort of media event with a worldwide audience?"

  "Yeh. Sol got an email from Daniel Bakare and a phone call from Bill Larsen.

  "And Benjamin?"

  "Deeply saddened, Mark?..it's why I left Washington."

  It took almost an hour for Mark Dobson to update Gabriel. He ended with," So where are you now?"

  "The airport in Accra, waiting for the first flight to Abuja," Gabriel replied. "We should be there midday. Where's Ayo?"

  "Probably asleep a few floors beneath me."

  There was a long pause. "You're living dangerously Mark. What is it you say? Going beyond the call of duty?

  "My choice, Gabriel. Just don't you, or Sol, spoil
it for me by getting killed."

  Dobson's phone woke him at 5am and he felt cold. He switched off the AC, pulled the curtains and looked down on night-time Cairo. It was a far cry from his view over Kano of a few days before. Street lights and headlights from cars, taxis and trucks heading along the Corniche and across the 6th October Bridge, sparkled off the Nile. With nothing to do but wait for Ayo to make a move he watched the view for a while but then checked his watch. Gut feeling told him the Nigerian would move early and he needed to know where. He shaved and showered, pulled on his new chinos and shirt, dragged on the damp socks he'd washed the night before, then squeezed his feet into his dusty black loafers. He put the laptop in the room safe, picked up his room key and mobile phone and went down to the lobby. It was 5.45.

  Three floors above, Ayo was lying awake, restless and apprehensive. He had not slept at all well and had a headache throbbing across his forehead. He felt the pulse in his neck. It was racing. Time, on the other hand was going too slowly so he dragged himself out of bed and fished out his 'Pastor's Mega Pack' from his flight bag. Then he began to read a pre-prepared sermon on the Good Samaritan that he'd once downloaded and printed. But he couldn't concentrate. He thought about Lazarus and wondered if he was still sitting and crying at the Radisson Blu at Heathrow Airport. The fool was not suited to this sort of business. He should have stayed with the jewellery shop he'd inherited from his father, not tried playing serious games with big players or even running a small church. His high-pitched, whimpering voice had never attracted big congregations and big income. Ayo wanted to laugh but felt too nervous. His nerves were then further shattered by his mobile phone ringing.

  But it is night time, he thought to himself and wondered if it was Lazarus in London. He picked it up. "Ah. Yes?"

  There was silence but Ayo felt sure someone was there. "Ah, who is this please?" He heard someone breathing.

  "Pastor Ayo. Come all de way from London to Cairo to see me. How de body, pastor?"

  It was the voice that gave Ayo nightmares. A fresh rush of nerves ran through his entire body cramping the muscles of his stomach.

  "How friendly, Pastor, to come all de way to Cairo to see me," Zainab Azazi said, laughing. The laugh stopped. "A car is waiting outside."

  Ayo's muscle cramps spread to his chest. Beads of sweat oozed from his forehead. Ayo liked a tidy, orderly life not things sprung on him unexpectedly. Zainab Azazi was supposed to be in Abuja not waiting outside his hotel in Cairo. Holding onto the table top, Ayo stood as dizziness now added to the growing pain in his chest. Wiping his forehead, he looked in the mirror and saw a much older man than he imagined. "Oh, my Lord Jesus," he said to himself.

  "Are you there, Ayo?"

  "Yes," Ayo stammered, "But I thought??."

  "Do not think, Ayo. It is a waste of time. Come down."

  "But I am not dressed?"

  "Then dress. Five minutes." And the phone went dead in Ayo's hand.

  Ayo staggered around in circles. Washing and dressing were art forms, not things to be hurried. Instead of washing he splashed aftershave, grabbed his blue silk shirt and grey suit with the silvery thread from the closet. He dressed hurriedly, looking at his watch every few seconds. Then he picked up his small leather bag containing everything that was important, put his hat on his head and hurried out of the door.

  Mark Dobson had ordered coffee and was relaxing with the latest copy of Al-Ahram when the lift opened.

  Ayo squeezed out almost before the door opened. His trilby fell to the floor, he bent to pick it up and almost ran to the hotel entrance.

  Dobson stood up, dropped his paper on the table and followed him outside. It was 6.15 with a few pink clouds in a light blue early morning sky, and Ayo was nervously walking up and down, checking his watch, clutching a bag. A taxi turned up and dropped off two men with briefcases but Ayo ignored it and continued to nervously scan the approach road.

  It was Dobson who made a move for the vacant taxi. "You free?"

  "Yes sir. Where to sir?"

  "Pay by the hour OK? If it only takes five minutes I pay for an hour."

  "Yes sir."

  They agreed a generous package, Dobson prepaid and then went to sit in the rear seat.

  "Yes sir?"

  "Just wait down there," he pointed. "We'll be following a car or another taxi."

  Behind them on the approach road, a shiny new Mercedes drew up, Ayo got in and Dobson texted Abisola. Back came a reply from Monday.

  "EHS traced a short phone call to Ayo's mobile at 05.56. The caller was close-by but not yet recognised."

  "OK," Dobson acknowledged. "Ayo was picked up in a Mercedes. I'm on his tail heading west but I've no idea where we're going."

  Carrying his small, leather bag, Ayo had tumbled into the rear seat of the Mercedes. Looking at him over the front seat was a big, smiling face with large white teeth.

  "Welcome to Cairo, pastor," Zainab Azazi said. "How's Lazarus?"

  Ayo, still struggling with cramp in his stomach and chest took a deep breath. Sweat trickled down his cheeks as the car moved off merging into heavy, early morning Cairo traffic - horns were blowing and people were walking in the street.

  "You look sick, Ayo," Azazi was still grinning. "Need a doctor?"

  "Yes," Ayo said weakly now feeling a numbness in his arms. He sat, resting his head back, his heart beating or trying to.

  "You must wait. Business first."

  Ayo, holding his bag hard against his pounding chest saw nothing of the bridge over the Nile or the Nile itself but they were heading west on Al Haram and then off into a maze of side streets. Azazi and the driver were silent. Ayo closed his eyes as, on all sides, millions of Egyptians began their day.

  After thirty minutes or so, the Mercedes finally stopped, blocking the middle of a narrow street of tall, grey, stone block buildings with overhanging balconies. Ayo opened an eye. Leaving the engine running, the driver got out, opened the rear door and Ayo, breathing heavily, struggled out. Azazi was waiting. "Already too hot, pastor?" he laughed. "It's going to get hotter."

  The driver got back in and drove away.

  Dobson's taxi was not far behind. "OK drop me off here. You have a phone?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Pick me up here when I call."

  Dobson got out, looked around and saw Ayo being half carried, half dragged through an open doorway by a big Nigerian. It was as if Ayo was sick or drugged.

  When he casually walked past and looked inside, Dobson saw a bare, dusty entrance with stone stairs that wound upwards. There was no lift so Ayo was being forced up, a deep Lagos-accented voice urging him on.

  Brass name-plates fixed to the wall outside caught Dobson's eye. One in particular read: 'Thahab Enterprises: Third Floor.'

  Beneath it, others - 'Doctor Mustapha Tawfik, Urologist, Floor 4, 6pm to 11pm' and two in flowing Arabic script that Dobson couldn't read, except for opening hours, 10am to 4pm.

  He looked up. The four-floor building, was a typical old style Cairo home now used for small business, but it was only 7.15am. Nothing much would be happening just yet. Certainly, Doctor Mustapha Tawfik's private urology clinic on the fourth floor would be empty.

  And then a thought struck him. It was the name: Thahab. After several years of working around the Middle East Dobson knew the word. 'thahab'. It meant gold. Thahab Enterprises meant Golden Enterprises just like Golden Churches, Golden Opportunities and Golden Finance.

  And then thoughts of Mazda's night-time work at Pink Lips and Martin Abisola's explanation of Godwin, Pink and Abubakar. "Abubakar Aliu owns other businesses called Golden," Abisola had explained. "Pink, known as Pink Panther to most of Pink Lips, actually works for Abubakar's Golden Opportunities and calls himself Godwin. But it's drugs, prostitution and protection. Abubakar is a friend of Festus Fulani and Zainab Azazi."

  And Dobson was now sure that the man he'd seen pushing Ayo into the building was Azazi.

  Upstairs, he heard a doo
r slam, echoing down the stairwell.

  "This is Nigeria, Mark," Abisola had said. "Organised crime, gangsters on a par with Chinese Triads and Italian Mafia."

  Dobson's taxi had driven off, hidden amongst a mass of slow moving traffic, parked cars and people. Standing there he wondered if he'd see the taxi again and also whether he was being tracked through his own phone by someone at Egyptian Homelands Security. He hoped, in a way, he was but could not be certain. The Nigerian SS and the EHS struck fear in the hearts of many Nigerians and Egyptians, but Dobson had a high regard for Abisola and Abisola seemed to respect Sherat. And the EHS had become involved through Colin Asher and the National Crime Agency. And all of this had stemmed from trying to help Solomon Trading. Meanwhile, he was just a small-time private investigator operating on foreign soil. Whatever he did next, he needed to be careful.

  He texted Abisola. "Send me photos of Zainab Azazi and Abubakar Aliu to my phone."

  While he waited, Dobson mounted the stairs to the third-floor landing. There was only one door off but with no sign on it. He put his ear to the door but could hear nothing.

  Ayo had been pushed by Zainab Azazi up dirty steps that never seemed to end. By the third floor he was ready to collapse but Azazi opened a door with a key and pushed him inside to a small room that smelled of cigarettes and dust. He was told to sit and wait on a shiny, black plastic sofa as Azazi disappeared through another door.

  Ayo looked around. Despite the cheap, disagreeable plastic texture of the sofa Ayo wanted to lie on it not sit. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief and sensed something was missing. His hat. It was gone, left in the car, on the back seat, maybe on the floor. Panicking, Ayo tried to stand but his chest pounded with exertion and he flopped back down.

  Outside the door, Dobson heard Ayo mumble something but then two, much louder, Nigerian accented voices sounded from downstairs. He slipped quietly up to the fourth floor to stand outside Doctor Mustapha Tawfik's urology clinic.

  Ayo also heard more voices and, at the same time, Zainab Azazi reappeared.

  "Water," said Azazi handing him a chipped cup. Ayo looked at it in disgust but then grasped it, turned it to the unchipped side and was gulping it down when the door opened.

  "Ayo, my friend," said the first man who entered. "I'm told you're sick. But not too sick to fly to Cairo to collect your commission. No?"

  It was Festus Fulani in black trousers and open necked white shirt and, beside him another Nigerian Ayo didn't recognize. This one looked down at him, shaking his head as Zainab Azazi stood grinning, now holding the empty cup.

  "Ah, Pastor Ayo. Long time," the second Nigerian said, shaking his head.

  Ayo couldn't stand. He only had enough energy to nod, but his memory still worked and, for the first time he looked up, past Festus's head to a red and yellow poster on the wall. 'Golden Finance' it said and Ayo now remembered this other man's name.

  Abubakar Aliu's growl was as menacing as Azazi's. "Fucked everything up didn't you, Pastor?" he said.

  Ayo, wide eyed, mouth open, had no idea what he was talking about. He thought he'd done everything. He'd used Lazarus to find the money they'd said was owed, transferred it to where they'd wanted it, kept a bit back for himself and now he was here to........

  "You fucked it up. Because of you, international money transfers were stopped because police were crawling over everything. You're a wanted man, Ayo. Money laundering, fraud, corruption. And another problem for you is no funds means no commission. Understand?"

  "Sah," was all Ayo managed to mutter so Azazi kicked Ayo's foot.

  "Stand up, pastor. Show some respect. Bow your head. Kneel. You once told me you wanted to meet Babban before you died."

  'Big' himself? Ayo, his life shattering around him, struggled to his feet, felt his chest again and stood, unsteadily. "Babban?" he said weakly.

  Abubakar nodded. "Welcome to the COK headquarters, Pastor."

  Outside the door of Doctor Mustapha Tawfik's clinic, Dobson's phone sounded with a short message from Martin Abisola. The photos were attached. Dobson sat on the dusty top step, tapped out a quick 'thanks', hit 'send' and then began a message to Colin Asher. But then he stopped and deleted it. It was probably time to call for some help, for re-enforcements. The problem was who?

  Dobson had spent most of the flight from Abuja to Cairo pondering on that one and now, if this nondescript building in a back street of Cairo was, indeed, the headquarters of a Nigerian fraud operation and maybe even the COK, then he needed the right sort of help.

  He'd discussed it with Colin Asher but then, just a day ago, it had all been hypothetical - if we find this, if that, then what, who, how? But they'd faced dilemmas like that before.

  Once, under a different name, Dobson had uncovered a plot to make money by spreading a lethal virus created by a scientist who believed the world was overpopulated. Crazy? But true. By the time governments had been convinced enough to act it was almost too late. For Asher & Asher, operating internationally, uncovering crime that crossed borders, in places where priorities, laws and policing varied and where things were sometimes ignored or even encouraged for political reasons, had always been a challenge towards the end. This time it looked like crime, politics and security in one country was being run from another.

  So, right now, Mark Dobson was alone, sitting in semi darkness on a dusty stone step somewhere in Cairo and in a dilemma.

  Martin Abisola had suggested help from his Egyptian equivalent, the EHS but Dobson wasn't sure if this fell under their remit which was counter intelligence, internal and border security and surveillance. It was not money laundering or plotting against another country

  Then there was the General Intelligence Directorate and the Egyptian Interpol National Central Bureau (the NCB) run by the Public Security Sector of the Egyptian Police. All of them were bureaucratic organisations with processes and procedures who took instructions from government. All of them would ignore a foreign private investigator's plea for urgent help even if it was backed up by the Nigerian SS. It could take hours at best. Days or weeks at worst. And neither did he want this opportunity to be lost.

  Whatever was happening right this minute on the third floor, a few steps down, might not be happening in an hour or later in the day if they got wind of something and cleared out.

  Dobson, still keeping an ear on what was happening down below and thinking that at any moment they might leave, phoned Colin Asher. "It's Interpol, Colin. A raid looking for one or more of the names on the list. Can you do something? How soon?"

  "I'll start now but you know what it's like, Mark."

  "Sure, but listen. Would you phone Martin Abisola? Discuss it. Give him a longer explanation and do what you can because I have a feeling something might happen here any minute. Meanwhile, I need to get inside their office."

  "Bloody hell," said Asher.

  "And there's always Adel. When in need call a friend."

  "Adel? Is he still going?"

  "I spoke to him only a few months ago."

  Adel Helmy was Dobson's Egyptian equivalent of Vigo but without the garage. Adel was a rarity in Cairo - a full time private investigator."

  "Give him a call would you, Colin? Tell him I'm in Cairo and might need some help. When I'm free I'll call him myself. And don't forget, he knows me as Simon Smith."

  "Bloody hell," Asher said again.

  Dobson was still sitting in semi darkness in the dust.