An Honourable Fake

by Terry Morgan

CHAPTER 34

  When Mark Dobson's phone rang, he was in the middle of the deepest sleep he'd had in days. He answered the phone with his head on the pillow.

  "Mark?" It was Martin Abisola. "Gabriel's been shot."

  Dobson was wide awake. "Christ almighty......is he....?."

  "He's in hospital. He was hit twice, once in the head."

  "Oh Jesus. And Sol?"

  "Sol's OK. He's with him right now."

  Abisola explained what they knew. It was very little. Security had been lapse, even Gabriel sand Solomon had got in without any checks. "What time are you due back?"

  "Around midday," Dobson said. "Will he be OK?"

  "I'm not sure. It's not looking good."

  "Is he talking?"

  "He wasn't when I last heard." He paused for a moment and Dobson knew there was something else. "Two others were also hit. They arrived outside the door when the gunman first fired. They were part of your team, Mark. The two I said I'd keep an eye on."

  "Vigo? Chelsea?"

  "Chelsea's dead. I'm sorry, Mark. Vigo's in hospital."

  "Oh, my God," Dobson heard himself saying, though his mind had gone numb. "They were right there?"

  "Doing their job, Mark."

  Chelsea Scumbag, Dobson thought - Zak. Zakarias Obodi. Dead. Just as he'd found something to do with his young life that might have led somewhere, even if it was only with Vigo and Mazda. Despite how they'd met, Dobson had grown fond of Chelsea.

  "Can you call, his father, Martin? George Obodi. Red Cross Pharmacy, Ikeja. Tell him something positive about his son. Tell him that he was there trying to protect Gabriel when he was shot. Tell him?.tell him I'm so sorry and I'll call to see him soon. Tell him?.you know."

  "Sure."

  "But who's the bloody killer? Where is he?"

  "Witness descriptions suggest it was the guy you called Pink, Mark. He'd taken a room at the Sheraton to keep an eye on things, mostly you. He's not gone far. We'll get him."

  There were three hours to go before Mark Dobson needed to check out of the Ritz, so he phoned Colin Asher who had taken to the camp bed in the office for a few hours' rest.

  They commiserated for a while until Asher said: "But you certainly hit the bloody bullseye with that PC."

  Dobson was already convinced he'd found the target by following Ayo. Asher had done the rest. "So, what have we got?"

  "Is your phone safe?"

  "Safe enough and I'm checking out of here in a minute."

  "Abubakar Aliu, called "Babban" or B, in some emails is the top man, though there are dozens of email addresses and I don't think we've got them all yet. Cairo is the HQ but there are emails originating from people in Ouagadougou, Niamey, Accra, Tripoli, Casablanca, Algiers, Lebanon - we're building a structure by tracking things backwards, forwards and sideways. It'll take a while. I discussed it with a MI6 friend and GCHQ will have a look. Meanwhile, Festus Fulani looks like number two although he's also using other names. Zainab Azazi, the President's brother, is a loose cannon. He signs things off as 'Z', but it's a minefield of other names, some linked to false passports. We've found minutes of meetings, written instructions and targets that include names of Ministers. It's the COK, Mark, and enough to prove what Martin Abisola's been saying about a slow softening up, driving people out, weakening the state, a build up to an overthrow or a coup.

  "Oh, and Osman Olande's been arrested and charged with murder," Colin Asher added.

  "And Ayo suffered a massive heart attack when he got to hospital today," Dobson said. "Last I heard he was in a bad way. I found his trilby on a chair in the lobby."

  They paused for thought, both of them realising at the same time that this was about as much as they could do now.

  It always happened in the end. There weren't any loose ends left they could deal with. The job was done. It was time to step back and let officialdom take over. The only part left was to ensure the main client was satisfied with the result.

  But would they ever know?

  Vigo was sitting on the edge of his bed, his back to the door and speaking on the phone when Dobson arrived at the hospital in the early afternoon. He stood and watched him for a while. His left arm was dangling and wrapped in a bandage from elbow to armpit, but there were no other signs of injury and it was clearly Mazda who was getting the health update and instructions by phone. Vigo's voice was OK, which meant his brain was also OK.

  He'd obviously finished taking about Gabriel so Dobson moved outside, leaned on the wall in the corridor and strained to translate the Lagos speak.

  "Wetin dey sub???misyan, mon, no problem??..but Chelsea Scum got hit, mon, he kaput???yeh, mon, I crash bad and tear flow for one minute?.. sniper den he do run??just a bullet mon, no yawa, no problem??eke he check my mind, doc he check my body but no free me. Maybe tomorrow. But my ear hear you swagger to Mercedes too much Maz. Result of swagger was Mercedes get up and fly to Egypt and??."

  Dobson decided he'd heard enough. "I'm back," he said, stepping into the room.

  In another part of the same hospital in a private room, Gabriel lay with his head shrouded in white bandage. Tubes led to drips and wires led to a machine that bleeped. Solomon had barely moved from his bedside. Michael Fayinka had just been and then left, deeply upset. Occasionally Gabriel's eyes flickered and the fingers or his hand and left leg twitched. His mouth, too, had opened and shut but, until now, he'd not spoken.

  After Michael had left, Solomon had wandered to the window as a nurse attended to something. He heard her go outside but continued to stare, unseeing, towards Aso Rock and the Presidential palace. The President had been one of the first to be told. "Tell him my prayers are for his speedy recovery," he'd told Martin Abisola.

  Abisola had not told him how serious he thought the head injury was but in twelve hours the news had spread across Nigeria and abroad.

  "Assassination?" read a local paper. "Nigeria's Martin Luther King shot!" said the New York Times. "Pastor Gabriel Joshua shot by unknown gunman in Nigeria,' reported the London Daily Telegraph.

  From behind him, Solomon heard a faint voice. "Sol? Sol?"

  He walked over, pulled the white sheet away from Gabriel's hand. His eyes were still shut. "Femi? Can you hear me?"

  "Fffff," mumbled the faint voice," Wha?.?"

  "Lie still Femi."

  Gabriel murmured something else that was undecipherable, then his eyes flickered behind the lids. "Sol?"

  "Yeh. I'm here."

  "You fixed the Birmingham event?"

  "Plenty of time, Femi."

  "Any emails today?"

  "Not looked yet."

  "I saw Bakare last night, Sol. He was at the Holiday Inn."

  Solomon looked at him, He still had his eyes closed but, behind the lids, they moved, backwards and forwards. "We both met him, Femi. It was at the Sheraton."

  "I think he's still fucking us about, Sol. You agree?"

  "Hard to tell, Femi. Different culture. He's not African any more. He's been away too long."

  "That's it, Sol. Good analysis?just like Mark. Where's Mark? You'd make a good partnership. Solomon and Dobson Limited?.Where's Halima, Sol?"

  "You want to see her?"

  "I promised her, Sol. What the fuck are you doing? Organise it."

  Solomon walked to the window and called Bill Larsen.

  "Bill?.......He's talking and wants to see Halima??.Sure, you can??Can you bring her here?"

  Mark Dobson had now arrived and, again, he stopped outside, looked in and then went to lean on the wall. There was something about hospitals that stopped him behaving normally. He seemed to lose his directness and purpose. It was as if he'd wandered into a situation without a proper plan of action or objective. He didn't normally mind watching things, observing them, checking them out. That was, after all, his job. But looking at a sick patient, especially a friend, in a hospital bed left him feeling useless and powerless.

  While he stood there, he called Craig Donovan.

  "Yeh
, I heard, Mark. It's tragic but we all warned him, didn't we? The news has spread. David Fernandez phoned me from Stuttgart - genuinely upset to hear. And it reminded me of what he told me about the COK when we met in Washington. There were complicated security issues at stake, he said, issues such as how best to destroy a group like the COK by means other than militarily. Looks like you've proved it and then done their job for them, Mark."

  Right then, Solomon came out into the corridor and beckoned Dobson to come inside. Dobson closed down his phone and went inside where Solomon was leaning over Gabriel, talking to him.

  "Bill will bring Halima here, Femi. And Mark's arrived."

  Dobson approached the bed and looked down at Gabriel lying there, helpless, eyes closed, covered to his neck in a white sheet, stark against his dark brown head, tubes hanging everywhere. The man should be standing up, walking around, talking, moving his arms around, lecturing.

  As he stared down, an eye opened.

  "Mark?"

  "How're you doing, Gabriel?"

  "You just flew from London?"

  "Cairo, Gabriel. I followed Ayo to see where he went, who he met."

  "Ayo," he muttered. "He still wearing a hat?"

  "Yes," Dobson replied. "No taste at all." He decided not to say that Ayo had had a heart attack. "But we found the COK HQ, Gabriel. Big success. Well worth going. Colin's dealing with it now. We should see some action."

  "Bastards."

  Dobson watched. Gabriel's eye had already closed. There was a smudge of fresh blood on the bandage wrapped around his head. The machines bleeped, the drip bag dripped and he looked at Solomon. "What can I do, Sol?" Dobson asked.

  Solomon took a deep breath and shrugged, so they sat, one on either side of the bed and looked at Gabriel and then each other until Solomon said. "Not much we can do right now, Mark. The doctor and nurse will be here again soon. You want to tell me what you've been up to?"

  "Outside," Dobson said. "I don't feel comfortable right here. And he might start asking questions or giving me a lecture."

  They moved to some chairs in the corridor and Dobson delivered his update - a sort of brief client's report with conclusions and a recommendation that further action be left to the agencies. It was much too formal but Solomon nodded and said nothing.

  Bill Larsen then arrived, walking along the corridor, a girl in army fatigues and boots following right behind. She then stopped as Larsen continued walking.

  It was the first time that Dobson and Larsen had met so they shook hands, exchanged a few apologies about not meeting in Kano and looked towards the room where Gabriel lay. "How is he?"

  "Talking, but not as much as usual," Solomon said and tried to smile. "Where's Halima?"

  "Back there, waiting to know if she can see him."

  "Sure, she can see him. Bring her over."

  Halima was shorter than Dobson had imagined. She was very dark, almost black skinned, her short curly hair tied back with some sort of band. Her eyes were wide and bright, her lips pink around a serious mouth that looked ready to say something. She was dressed exactly like Larsen in a black tee shirt and desert camouflage trousers rolled up at bare ankles. She wore oversized desert boots that squeaked like Larsen's on the shiny corridor floor and she walked beside him, looking up at him as if she was his daughter, Larsen with a hand across her shoulders.

  "Come," Solomon said as Halima now looked towards the door.

  Dobson watched from the corridor.

  "Femi? Halima's here with Bill."

  The eyes moved behind the lids and then both of them opened.

  Halima held back but Bill Larsen went forward and touched Gabriel's hand. "Gabriel. For fuck's sake man. This is no way to greet your military commander. A bit late as well if I'm honest. Where the fuck have you been, Vicar? I was ready to give up."

  Perhaps Gabriel tried to smile up at him. "You speak to Mark, Bill?"

  "We only just met."

  "The COK are finished, Bill."

  Larsen looked at Solomon. "Good news then, Vicar. I'll need to sign on the dole. Join the long ranks of unemployed ex-servicemen."

  "Where's Halima?"

  Solomon beckoned her forward and she stood looking down at Gabriel. His eyes were still open and this time they focussed.

  "I'm pleased to meet you, sah." Halima said bending a little closer towards him.

  "Did you hear me, Halima? Did you hear me speak?"

  "Yes sah."

  "Did you hear what I said about Mohamed Ali?"

  "Yes, sah."

  "You want to know another of his quotes?"

  "Yes sah."

  "He who is not courageous enough to take risks will accomplish nothing. You believe that Halima."

  "It is very true, sah."

  Gabriel shut his eyes. "I feel tired, Halima," he said behind the closed lids. "But we've got so much to do." There was a long pause. "You want to help me?"

  "Yes sah."

  Gabriel's eyes opened once more. "Too many young Africans want to be the next Bill Gates," he said quietly. "You want that?"

  "I'm not sure sah."

  "Do you know that eighty percent of the food consumed in the developing world is produced by small farmers?"

  "No sah."

  "Are you a farmer, Halima?"

  "In my heart, sah."

  "Small farmers feed the world, Halima, so tell me why are they the ones who suffer hunger and poverty?"

  "Yes sah."

  "You know what to do, Halima? Go out into the world, Halima. Float like a beautiful butterfly and sting like the biggest and fanciest bee you ever saw."

  Halima looked at Solomon.

  "It means he wants you to help with the Project, Halima."

  "But, I am just a poor girl, sah."

  "Was Gabriel not a poor boy once?"

  Mark Dobson, still standing by the doorway, finally found the courage from somewhere to join Halima, Solomon and Bill Larsen around the bed.

  "I hear you Sol," Gabriel said weakly. "Now listen to me?? Marry Carla for God's sake. And you, Mark?"

  "I'm here," Mark Dobson said quietly.

  "You did well, Mark. You got good tricks. Like a magician."

  "Thanks," said Dobson. "The only bad news is your account with Asher & Asher is no longer in credit."

  "That's a shame."

  "But the good news is we've agreed to write it off as useful experience."

  "OK. Go tell Sol. Sol runs everything. I'm only the fucking salesman"

  Gabriel's eyes then closed and he took a deep breath. "But not a bad performance for a fake Preacher, was it?"

  THE END

  Other Books by Terry Morgan

  An Old Spy Story