The Man From Lagos

by Bayo Fasinro

  “Of course. Let me show you to your room,” Mr. Vue said as he motioned toward the hallway by the elevators.

  Down one of the long penthouse hallways, Mr. Vue opened a pair of wooden doors and stepped back. He gave Peters a long look as if trying to see Baba in him. He extended his hand. Patted it with the free hand and said goodnight. He turned and walked away, leaving Peters standing there. As he shut a door behind him in another part of the complex, Peters heard a click of the deadbolt lock. He knew who his guest was, and he wasn’t taking any chances.

  Peters was sure there were all kinds of cameras hidden all over the house. Probably even in the guest rooms.

  Time to rest, as he had suggested. Peters shut the bedroom door behind himself and locked it. He wanted as much lead time as possible in case someone tried to come through. He knew Mr. Vue as a memory from childhood, but didn’t know the man or anything about him. Both guest and host would both sleep better tonight with locked doors between them.

  Chapter 34

  Briefing

  Peters woke in a bed whose headboard was the size of a wall. He lay there, counting about twenty embedded decorative mirrors, absently realizing that he felt rested for the first time in a week. He set his feet on the bamboo floor. His body felt good.

  The clock, to his surprise, read nine a.m.

  Beyond the doors elsewhere in the penthouse, Mr. Vue’s voice reached him. Perhaps the clatter of a teacup somewhere. I wonder how early he gets up each day, Peters thought. If I lived in a penthouse like this, I wouldn’t sleep in either—I would just walk around in my robe and smoke cigars and drink cognac all day.

  Sarah would have had none of it. She would never have wanted to live in a space like this. She would have said it was too much, too expensive, too ostentatious for comfort.

  He dressed quickly and found his way to a gleaming-white kitchen.

  “Good morning, Peters!”

  As he rounded the corner wall, Peters spied a long dining table. Mr. Vue was seated before a breakfast feast: different types of fruit juices, a large coffee pot, many jams, an array of fruit, and pastries and choices Peters didn’t recognize.

  He took a seat next to Mr. Vue.

  “Please eat,” his host said.

  He didn’t have to ask twice. Peters was starving. Scrambled eggs, toast, water… He eyed the orange marmalade. He could feel Mr. Vue staring at him. Peters worried he was doing something wrong, but just kept preparing his plate, and when it was full, finally looked over at his host. Mr. Vue had this big grin on his face.

  “Peters,” he said. “Your father ate the same thing you are eating every day he was here. No matter what I made us for breakfast, he always chose the same thing.”

  Mr. Vue said, “Scrambled eggs, toast with marmalade, and water. I never made pork, as he was a devout Muslim, you know. I didn’t want to offend him by having it in the house much less on the table.”

  Like father, like son, Peters thought, feeling a release in his chest that he recognized belatedly as comfort. He might just learn more about his father, spending time here. But he also loved bacon and wished that such a crispy, salty treat had been an option.

  “So, how are you going to handle this situation when you get home?” Mr. Vue said to start the conversation. He seemed very interested.

  “I’m not sure yet,” Peters replied. “I need to talk to my sister and find out about the situation there first.”

  Also, Baba’s business partners and business interests, who he moved with, who he knew, whether he owed money to anyone… Sade would have to fill him in. But at least Peters had the luxury of time with nothing he cared about waiting for him back home.

  “Peters, let me tell you what I know,” Mr. Vue offered.

  At first, Peters doubted Mr. Vue could tell him much that would help him in his quest to track down killers. But for the next four hours, Mr. Vue went through everything he knew—not only about Baba, but also about the council that he belonged to. They were close associates in an underground trade. They had known each other’s businesses almost as well as they knew their own. Peters found out about the first time they met, and Baba’s gracious compromise that led to their blooming friendship. He learned about each member of the council and what their vulnerabilities were. Peters also learned about the time Mr. Vue first saw Baba worried about something. There was a shipment of his that Baba’s step-son or half-son had lost in transit. The shipment contained engine prototypes that needed to pass through Africa on their way to Singapore. Mr. Vue recounted how he had insured it with Baba and the payout was significant if he had to collect. Sure enough, the delivery was taken in transit, in a very sophisticated heist. To this day both he and Baba never knew how the thieves knew the route, time, day, and particulars of the intricate plan. Someone must have talked, they’d concluded. Baba had promised to investigate and punish those responsible.

  “I suggest that you leave Mama Kojo for last,” Mr. Vue concluded. “Your focus should be on Lanre. He is the one you want to find and question. He could be the key to finding out what happened to your father.”

  “That building of hers is fortified, and even her nightclub is heavily guarded. Now, do you like duck? We should discuss lunch.”

  Crisply, he shifted from one passionate topic to another: this duck that he had prepared a couple of days before his guest’s arrival. He took it out of the massive refrigerator himself, and entertaining his guest, steamed it and cut it up, laying the pieces artfully on a platter. He brought out some locally grown vegetables to go with the meal, but Peters was more interested in the main course. It was like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  To help wash down the meal, Mr. Vue opened up a bottle of Ace of Spades champagne. They ate without much talking. It was the best duck Peters had ever tasted. Mr. Vue was a very good cook. He would have assumed that a man so wealthy would have staff all around him at his beck and call, but it was just the two of them. Peters suspected he might have planned it that way. The comfort of wealth hadn’t spoiled Mr. Vue. He still liked to do the simple things himself. He’d probably been cooking his own meals since he was young. Peters’s respect grew even more for this man that he hadn’t seen in years. He’d be a good ally to have around.

  At last, Mr. Vue laid out in clear terms what he would do if it were him going on this mission. He wouldn’t do it himself, of course, but with his staff of trusted security personnel.

  “I have no such team,” Peters reminded him. “This is a one-man show.”

  Mr. Vue shrugged. “The principles are the same. Don’t kill them one by one,” he suggested. “Take them all together if you can. Find out what they know, and then terminate them. That is what I would seek to do.”

  Peters tested what he was being told, and he found himself wondering why Mr. Vue would conclude that they were the ones responsible for Baba’s death. What more did he know that he wasn’t saying? He had shared a lot of useful information—the type of intel that Peters would have gathered before a mission with a team, every last detail of the mark. Daily routines, the who, what, where, and how of their lives down to the day and minute. Leave nothing to chance. Contingency plans for contingency plans. In all the years Peters was with the agency, the Gray Project never failed on a mission.

  *

  Peters booked his flight to Lagos when he woke the next day. His sister had called him in a frantic mood. It was a brief conversation and the line cut before he could get more details. The only thing he could make out was that she was in trouble and he needed to come home.

  He didn’t want to let Mr. Vue know right away.

  “What time is your flight today?” Mr. Vue asked, taking Peters by surprise.

  Peters grinned. Nothing got past this man. He either had a network of spies everywhere, or he was just wise enough to guess that his guest wouldn’t be lingering in Singapore after what he’d just shared yesterday.

  “I leave in three hours, sir. I want to thank you for having me in your home. I also want to
thank you for the information about the council,” Peters added. “You’ve increased the odds of my surviving this trip.”

  The information he had provided was on par with anything an intelligence agency might gather: their businesses, their families, everything about their lives. But what came next out of Mr. Vue’s mouth shocked Peters to his core.

  “You know, Peters,” he started, “your father talked about you all the time. He always wondered how you turned out. I had asked him why he never made contact with you.”

  “That’s a fair question. I’ve wondered it myself.”

  Mr. Vue nodded. “Your father told me that your mother was kidnapped and held for ransom.”

  Peters absorbed this, much as he’d take the recoil of a rifle in his body. He knew, without ever thinking about it too deeply or for too long, that there had to be more to the story of why his mother had left his father and never wanted them to speak of him again. Now he knew. Mr. Vue continued.

  “Your father paid a large ransom to get her back. And when he did, that was when she decided to leave him and attempt to take the kids. It ended up being just yourself whom she took. She meant it when she said that she was done with that life.”

  Mr. Vue also shared how Baba would always refer to his three wives; he never left his first wife out. Even though she and his eldest son might have forgotten about him, Baba had never forgot about them.

  Peters struggled for words. His mother had always said Baba didn’t care about them and that Peters should forget everything about Lagos. Now, he knew the true reason. Did Sade? He resolved to ask her when he saw her—as soon as tomorrow.

  They got up from lunch and Peters helped him clear the table. “Join me in the kitchen,” Mr. Vue said. He carried a glass of water with him, which Peters thought was odd. They still had some champagne left.

  He led Peters into what looked like a trading floor with large TVs on the wall. There was a desk with two large ultra-wide LED monitors. It looked like the nerve center for all his various businesses. The large monitors on the wall confirmed Peters’ suspicion about eyes everywhere. Even the parking structure and the elevators were tracked. No one or anything was getting past him. When Peters turned around, still ogling the room like a kid at the toy store, Mr. Vue was already behind his desk holding what looked like a business card.

  “Peters, here, take this,” he said as he pushed it toward his guest. “If you ever need anything when you get there, use this.”

  It had the same shape as a normal business card, but it wasn’t just any card. It was blank. He turned it over and the back was blank, too. Puzzled, Peters looked up at a smiling Mr. Vue.

  “That card will help you get anything you need.” Mr. Vue produced another card from his pocket. This one was gray. He dipped his finger into the glass of water and placed a couple of drops on the card. After a few seconds, what looked like numbers appeared on it.

  “Just call the number on your card if you ever get into trouble or you need groceries,” he said with a grin. “Don’t worry if it gets wet and the number shows. No one will know what to do with it, anyway.”

  Peters understood. “I am grateful for this.” He put the card in his pocket and shook Mr. Vue’s hand, but Mr. Vue came around the table and embraced him. He looked up at Peters and smiled.

  “I hope you find what you are looking for at home. Remember, use that card if you get stuck. Now come, Peters, let’s get you to the airport.”

  By the time Peters had grabbed his carry-on from the bedroom, Mr. Vue’s friends in black were waiting for him by the elevator. Mr. Vue was already there waiting, too.

  “They will make sure you get to your gate in time, Peters. I’m happy you came. It was very good to see you,” he said. “You look so much like your father. I mourned him when I heard of his passing—I slaughtered the best goat I could find in his honor, and I donated the meat to a local Muslim school not too far from here. It brings my heart joy to know that you are here looking after his memory, too.”

  “He was fortunate to have a friend like you,” Peters said.

  And with that last word, the men bid each other goodbye.

  Chapter 35

  Lagos Heat

  The flight from Singapore to Lagos took fourteen hours. Peters called Sade’s phone when he landed, but there was no answer. He didn’t think much of it; he’d gotten a new phone and local SIM card at the airport, so she wouldn’t recognize the number. He’d have to find some other way to make contact.

  Touching down at the Muritala Mohammed International Airport was an experience. The first thing that hits you is the heat. It wasn’t just any type of heat; it was African heat. Peters’s body knew it in the way he’d remembered Mr. Vue’s face: once it was there, he felt some echo of home. The heat took him back to a time when he was riding his chopper bike around the cul-de-sac in the summer. The bike was a gift for his fifth birthday. He remembered waking up to the sound of his mother whispering in his ear, Wake up, Idowu. Today’s your birthday.

  The night before, the maid had had to drag him upstairs to bed. He’d cried and cried that he wanted to stay up all night so he wouldn’t miss his birthday. But it arrived, whether he was awake or asleep. And indeed, his father had picked up the bike from the department store the day before and hid it behind the house—and when Peters woke, he gave his mom a big hug and ran downstairs to see the bike waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. It was the best present he’d ever received, and it was all his. But because he wasn’t allowed to ride it until after breakfast, he ate in record time and spent the rest of the day riding.

  Lagos was one of Africa’s most populous cities, and growing faster than most other cities in the world. Estimates put its population at around twenty million souls. Peters grew up hearing that if you could make it in Lagos, you could make it anywhere in the world.

  As he approached the customs area, he felt already overwhelmed by the whole experience. It was a beautiful sight to see: he was surrounded by Africans everywhere he looked. Black people, my people, he thought as he made it to the counter. Lagos had a visa-on-arrival process, so he knew he wouldn’t have any issues getting through customs. The lady behind the counter took his passport and disembarkment card, and she asked the usual few, stupid questions. Peters knew not to take offense or act rudely; that would complicate things for him and he might be dragged off into some anteroom for additional questioning. She stamped his passport with his newly acquired visa.

  “Welcome to Lagos, Mr. Peters,” she said, and gave him the smile he had been waiting for since Singapore.

  He made his way past the luggage carousel and past the usual military and police presence. He felt eyes on him but just wanted to blend in, get through the doors, and get outside where he had more room to operate if needed. He was supposed to look out for a silver Honda that the car-for-hire company was sending.

  A car honked to his right—among a chorus of other short honks from other cars for hire, but it happened to be one he was waiting for. He got in with his carry-on since the driver didn’t offer to put it in the boot, and they pulled out even before he had his seatbelt on. He gave the driver the address, and he gave him a look of disappointment: all the way to Surulere in the height of traffic.

  The driver veered left toward the Apapa/Oshodi Expressway, and as he continued to put distance between the car and the airport, Peters kept taking in the sights and sounds of a place he hadn’t been since he was a child. None of these roads were familiar. It was like visiting a new city and learning all about it through the backseat window. He finally relaxed when he saw the Lagos-Abeokuta Expressway sign. Traffic wasn’t too bad, but whenever the car slowed down to less than three miles per hour, young street vendors approached the car selling everything from DVDs to water sachets to book sets.

  Peters appreciated that a person could do much of their shopping from these street vendors. This would not be allowed in the States for sure. Someone would have called 911. But that was the beauty of what
made different countries run: what works in one may not in another. Everyone has to eat, and they find a way.

  Peters also noticed a lot of gas tankers on the road on Funsho Williams Avenue. He asked the driver about the AK Gas and Oil name he kept noticing on the sides of the tankers, curious what the driver would say.

  “Ah, Oga,” he started. He hadn’t said a word since the airport, but the question touched a nerve. “That is AK Gas and Oil Industries. The man who owns am na big man O’. Alhaji Kumari,” he added.

  Thank you for confirming what I already knew from my briefing with Mr. Vue, Peters thought.

  “The man no be small pepper O’,” he added. “The man owns oilfields everywhere. Some people dey say he get fields in Dubai.”

  Peters wondered if that last part was true. Unless he was part of an Emirati royal family, no one—much less an African man or company—would own anything in Dubai. Peters let that last comment go and just continued to watch his new world go by.

  Soon enough, the driver made the final turn into the cul-de-sac toward Baba’s estate: a pair of large black gates were all that he could see from the street.

  The driver drove straight up to the gate. He turned and stated the fare. Peters had been able to change some dollars to naira before he left Singapore—he didn’t want to call attention to himself by paying for service in American money. Peters gave the man a very good tip because he had confirmed a name on his list.

  Peters got out and walked up to the gate. He felt surprised and a little uneasy that no one had noticed the car and come out to at least ask his business. He turned and saw the driver already reversing and leaving with speed. When it disappeared around the bend of the cul-de-sac, Peters banged on the gate and waited.

  “Yes, what do you want?” a man’s voice shouted.

  “I’m here to see Sade Peters,” Peters responded.