The Man From Lagos

by Bayo Fasinro

  Femi was dead serious. He wasn’t asking what she thought—he was telling her what he thought she needed to do. Before Sade could answer or process what he’d just said, he pulled out his mobile and dialed Kwesi.

  “Where are you?” he demanded. “How long before you and Niyi can get to the estate? We are on high alert and I want both of you to go to lima-delta-echo status as soon as you get there, you hear?”

  Sade had never heard Femi talk like that. He didn’t have time to explain anything to her.

  Femi’s fears had been realized after meeting with the IG. They, the council, had somehow killed Baba and now they were coming for his daughter. It was as if they saw what was coming should Sade take over: they imagined her to be as greedy for power as they were. They had no ability to see otherwise. Without doubting their assessment for a moment, each one of them feared being culled and their businesses folded under the Peters’ umbrella. The meeting with Adama confirmed that they had him in their pocket. Why else would he try to accuse Sade of poisoning her father? How did they know it was the poison that killed him? There had been no autopsy, and the police never had custody of his body. He didn’t need to convey this to Sade. She already knew his suspicions and shared them herself, and by her quick reaction—standing up and marching out of the building—confirmed it.

  Femi put his mobile down and looked over at Sade. He expected her to be talking more or suggesting what they would do next. But she just stared ahead as if she was resigned to whatever fate was in store for her. She seemed like she was giving up. What finally came out of her mouth proved otherwise.

  “We have to take them out and fast,” she said.

  “Who?” Femi asked surprised.

  “All the members of the council,” she responded as she finally looked over at Femi. Her face showed more anger than fear. She looked upset and determined.

  Sade said, “I have to get them before they get me. Isn’t that how this works?” Sade started reaching into her bag. “Femi, where is the phone I gave you? I want to make a call right away, please.”

  Femi fished out the phone. He told her to reach down between her seat and the center console for the SIM card.

  God, she thought, Femi was on point today. Who else would have thought of taking out the SIM card before walking into the police building? In case they’d had to hand over phones at the front desk, he was prepared to give them a phone with no SIM card. Sade found it and placed

  it back inside the phone. She dialed a number hoping that she would connect this time. It would be six a.m. in Minnesota. She knew it was early, but she hoped that he would pick up this time. After four rings, Sade heard a voice that she didn’t think she would ever hear again.

  “Hello, who is this?” the voice asked.

  “Idowu, this is your sister Sade. Your sister!” She repeated in case he didn’t hear her the first time. Sade started getting emotional, and by the time she spoke again, she was sobbing.

  “Idowu, I need you to come home now. They are trying to blame me for Baba’s death,” she said into the phone, tears softening the edges of her voice. “You need to come home now.”

  Before she could say any more words, the car suddenly lurched forward as if they were hit by a train from behind. Her phone had dropped to the floor as she reached to brace herself with two hands against the dashboard. Both she and Femi turned to look at what could have hit them.

  In the depths of her mind, Sade knew that they might not make it back to the estate today. They weren’t coming for her at some point… They were already there, right behind them.

  “Please God, let Idowu get here in time,” was the last thing she said.

  Chapter 32

  It’s the Wine List

  There were no direct flights from Minnesota to Singapore. Peters first had to fly to Los Angeles and then catch another flight, which flew for eighteen hours before landing at Changi Airport. He had booked first-class tickets—he couldn’t imagine a trip this long in an economy seat, and he convinced himself he’d suffered enough in the past week.

  He made sure not to have too much to drink on the first leg to Los Angeles. When the plane was wheels-up and heading to Singapore, he ordered a cognac without even looking at the list. The flight attendant smiled and disappeared behind the curtains. He hadn’t brought a book or any other reading material; he wanted to have his mind clear so that he was ready for what he was about to embark on. It was a habit from his Gray days.

  After dinner service, he pulled out the red envelope from Mr. Vue’s envoy. The letter was written in Hmong. If he had read it or was in the presence of Mr. Vue when he was writing it, he would probably have expected Peters to ask him to translate. Somehow, the language he’d learned from Mr. Vue’s son, Koob, surfaced from his exceptional memory at the moment he’d needed it. It wasn’t a long letter. It was a short note inviting him to visit.

  “Mr. Peters, I’m sorry for your loss today. I can’t imagine losing your father and now your wife. My condolences. Please accept this invitation to visit me in Singapore before your trip to Africa. Let me know when you are coming and I will make the necessary arrangements. Here is my number. +65-4242-7896. I look forward to hearing from you soon.—Vue.”

  *

  The pilot’s cross-check announcements woke him up. His mouth tasted thick, like cognac.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking,” came the pilot’s voice. Sarah would have smiled to hear that it was a woman. God, I miss her. He missed her smile and the way she laughed. He missed her needling him for the stupid things he always did that she found funny. He loved to make her laugh—the way her blue eyes would glow and her smile would expose her perfectly white teeth and two dimples.

  A caving-in grief hit him hard, and he had to breathe to keep himself from crying out.

  The servers came by offering a hot towel before breakfast. Peters buried his face in it until the moment passed.

  The plane banked into its final approach. Finally, he was able to raise his eyes and look out the window. The plane was hugging the southern coast and going eastbound. This allowed for a show of the famous marine parade and scenes of the Bedok districts before the plane landed. This bucket of bolts, a Dreamliner carrying 420 souls, was a huge plane, but the pilot landed it so smoothly that Peters was uncertain for a moment whether the wheels were already on the ground. In the back of the aircraft, some people clapped. Peters guessed he would be happy too if he’d been sitting in coach for eighteen hours.

  First-class passengers deplaned through their own set of doors, where the captain and her co-pilot offered their thanks and well-wishes. Peters’ heart hurt again; Sarah might have been bold enough to give the pilot a hug—she was the sort of person who could do it without making it weird.

  If you were declaring anything, you went through the Blue Channel in customs. Peters didn’t have anything to declare, so he followed the Green Channel. A scan of his passport, a review of his cards, and some questions, and then it was his turn at the window.

  “Welcome to Singapore, sir,” said the serious-looking woman behind the glass.

  He had never met a smiley customs agent. Still, he smiled and tried to elicit one in return. He was sad and it would make him feel better to share a warm exchange. She looked him up and down, scanned the passport and all its watermarks, gave him one final look, and then stamped three pages with three different stamps. She handed it back to Peters and told him to have a nice day without a smile.

  Peters was glad he wasn’t staying long in Singapore—only a few days, requiring barely enough clothes to fill a carry-on. He wanted to get to Lagos as soon as possible. He had only agreed to this detour out of respect for Mr. Vue and his friendship with Baba.

  His mood improved as he exited to the main areas of Changi Airport. What a sight it was. The airport’s arrival garden was a sea of lush greenery. There were so many attractions that you could spend hours just admiring and taking in all the things to do and see and never want to
leave. It was sensory overload after so long in the plane.

  A man holding a sign in the arrivals hall caught Peters’ eye. He was holding Peters’ name written in Hmong. It was the only one written in an alphabet other than Roman letters. Peters nodded at him, and he came around the cordoned-off area to meet his passenger.

  “Welcome to Singapore, sir,” he said in perfect English.

  “Thank you.” Peters gave him a puzzled look.

  “Mr. Vue sends his regards,” the man explained. “I’m here to take you to him. The car is outside, if you please.” He motioned for us to head out through the exit doors.

  Cars at Changi Airport were not allowed to park curbside when picking up passengers. But Mr. Vue must have had some pull; two black Range Rovers with blacked-out windows were waiting. Peters was skeptical at first; he’d hedged on calling to provide him with exact flight plans and arrival time, so he’d found out some other way. And the men who’d come to take him to Mr. Vue were military-type men. They all wore black suits with white collarless shirts. Their jackets were tailored to hang lower on one side, which indicated that they were carrying something bigger than a pistol. Most people would be surprised how big of a submachine gun you could carry under a jacket. It was easy to spot, and Peters hesitated—but there were too many of them. Regardless of who their boss was, Peters was sure their orders were to take him by force if he caused a scene at the airport. Resisting was no use, especially as a foreigner. Even Tyson wouldn’t be able to get him out of this. The agency didn’t exist. Tyson Williams didn’t exist. Peters was on his own.

  He handed over his carry-on and entered the first SUV. He used the side mirrors to watch the men in the second car; they scanned the area, and when they got in, the convoy was on its way.

  The cars headed north toward the airport boulevard. Peters took notice of the signs. No one spoke, knowing he would understand everything they said. He’d confirmed as much the moment he showed recognition of his own name written in Hmong, the moment he stepped into the arrivals hall. The cars continued on ECP still going north, then took the exit toward Telok Blangah Road.

  The drive wound through greenery everywhere along clean streets. The only time the cars stopped was to pay the toll. He had been in many countries that collected tolls every day all day, and their roads never looked this good. Singapore must allocate every penny of what it collected at these booths for maintenance.

  Once through the toll gates, they veered left toward the Marina Coastal Expressway. The driver kept glancing at Peters through the rearview mirror. Peters felt the attention without meeting the gaze. He wished the guy would chill out; he wasn’t planning on making any moves inside a moving car. The driver was the last person to take out in a situation like that, since you don’t want to hit another car or crash into the side of a building. Currently, he had one man in the front passenger seat and another to his left.

  There were four men in the second car but Peters wasn’t worried about them. He would first immobilize the man to his left with a strike to the head, knocking him out. There would be a natural reaction by the front passenger to turn in his seat, and that would allow Peters to grab and mortally twist his head. His next move would be to acquire the firearm that his seatmate would most likely be carrying on his right; he’d grabbed his side as he slid in next to Peters, a normal adjustment when wearing a weapon. As for the driver, he would have to continue focusing on driving as Peters held him at gunpoint while he planned his next move. The car behind wouldn’t know anything was amiss in the car in front until it was too late.

  The group must have been getting close to the destination as the car slowed down in a residential area. The seatmate didn’t know Peters had unhooked his seatbelt. It was still across his body and he sat on the buckle.

  Meanwhile, the driver turned left onto Keppel Bay View Road. Peters couldn’t help but notice the structures before him. Five tall, graceful glass edifices bent toward the clouds. The sun glittered and gleamed on their facets. Peters was so in awe of the condo buildings and the surrounding waterfront spaces that he briefly forgot about taking out the men and making a run for it. By the time he came back to his thoughts, it was too late: the driver pulled up to a gate.

  The driver spoke a few words to the guard, who stepped back and motioned to his partner to open the gates. The cars entered onto a long stretch of road that ended at the entrance of parking ramps connected to each building. The driver veered left and drove into the parking

  structure, entering a winding maze that required an eternity before delivering the cars into a pair of dedicated parking spots. The rest of the floor was empty.

  It was time to get out. Peters acted like was struggling with his belt so as not to give away the fact that it hadn’t been buckled. The front passenger got out and motioned him toward the elevator bank.

  Peters glanced at his surroundings and estimated himself to be at least five stories off the ground. Then he stepped into a cavernous elevator, trailed by three guards. The driver pulled a key card out of his breast pocket and activated the car, destination PH. The penthouse.

  Chapter 33

  Watch Your Step

  The elevator opened into a grand foyer. Peters’ new friends took a tactical position behind him and to his left and right. He had no choice but to be the first one out.

  He stepped onto a white marble floor. Directly in front was a small half-wall, a table, and a Ming Dynasty vase. Gold toile wallpaper. A closed door to the right; to the left, a glass-walled open space. Natural light streamed through the windows.

  As he and the guards stood there waiting for some sign, the elevator dinged again. The doors opened, revealing his unaccompanied carry-on. Peters was sure it had been opened and searched.

  The closed door to his right opened. A man, not more than five-four, with a head of thick black hair, stepped out onto the expensive Oriental runner. He stared at Peters for a second and then his stern face changed to a wide smile, showing uneven yellowish teeth.

  “Idowu, my boy!” he shouted with his arms outstretched.

  The guards moved away and one of them punched the elevator button. They all stepped in, and by the time Mr. Vue had crossed the short distance to his guest, they were gone.

  “Mr. Vue,” he said nervously. “You can just call me Peters. Everyone does.”

  He hadn’t seen the man since he was about ten years old. He hadn’t been able to conjure up his face, despite his perfect memory, but now, the recognition was total.

  “Peters,” Mr. Vue said. He seemed to enjoy saying it, with the same excited voice like he was meeting a long-lost friend. He must have been close to Baba. “Peters, did you get my note?” he asked as he gave him a big hug.

  His short stature placed his head just below Peters’ chest, like a kid hugging an adult.

  “Peters, you were supposed to tell me when you were coming,” he continued as he was still holding his guest’s arms with both hands.

  “I’m sorry, time just got away from me,” he lied. “It has been hard since my wife….”

  Peters would have preferred to ask how Mr. Vue knew his itinerary, anyway. He decided against it; he’d find out sooner or later. Mr. Vue finally released his arms and motioned for him to follow. He walked around the half-wall into a long room with couches, chairs, and the longest coffee table Peters had ever seen. A bar sat at the other end of the room, among more couches and chairs. The table in the middle of the room was all lit up. Bottles of Black Label and Red Label whiskey were placed strategically in front of every couch section. Mr. Vue spared no expense entertaining his guests.

  “Peters, what are you drinking?” he asked as he made his way behind the bar.

  Peters took a seat at one of the leather-backed stools. “Cognac?” He knew it was a stupid question, but his mind was still taking in the place and didn’t want to assume. Yet his assumption was way off—Mr. Vue offered him a choice of six types. Peters settled on the Hennessey XO.

  “Good choi
ce, Peters. That is also my favorite brand,” he added.

  Then Mr. Vue’s smile went away and Peters felt the conversation turn in a new direction.

  “I was sorry to hear about your father, and also your wife,” he said with a solemn look.

  He took a sip from his large snifter emblazoned with a gold V. Mr. Vue started talking about the last time he had seen Peters as a child and how that must have been the last time he was the taller one. If it was meant as a joke to lighten the mood, Peters didn’t react.

  He finally came around the bar and Peters followed him to one of the plush couches. They took their positions opposite each other, and Peters was still trying to take in the whole room. He realized that a lot of the items, including the couches, were red. He hadn’t studied the Hmong culture, but the color red must have meant something.

  “So, how long can you stay in Singapore?” he asked.

  He knew, in other words, that Peters had not yet booked a connecting flight to Lagos.

  “Not sure,” he replied. “I have to get to Lagos and sort out my father’s affairs.”

  “You mean find out who killed him?” Mr. Vue said, astutely. Baba was dead, Peters had missed the funeral, and he hadn’t been back since boyhood. There was no denying why he was going back. Whoever killed Baba had sent assassins who’d accidentally taken out Sarah.

  “Yes, I need to talk to some people,” Peters said.

  Mr. Vue laughed. He knew exactly what his guest meant to do. “I would do the same if I were in your shoes. I’m sure you will want to arrive first and then gather as much information as you can.” He raised his glass in a half-toast.

  Peters gave a noncommittal shrug. “All I know is I don’t have anything left or anything to care about back home. I will see where these conversations take me, and who I meet.” He set his glass down and stood up. “Can we talk more later? I don’t know if it’s the drink or I’m still jet lagged from the trip!”