AN HONOURABLE FAKE
Terry Morgan
Copyright © 2017 Terry Morgan
First published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by TJM Books
The right of Terry Morgan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
About the author
Terry Morgan started writing stories and poetry while travelling worldwide with his own exporting company. He writes serious novels, satire and humour. He has worked in over seventy countries and now lives in rural Thailand. Not surprisingly his writing has a strong international flavour. An ‘Honourable Fake’ is his fourth full length novel.
Website: www.tjmbooks.com
Author’s acknowledgements
I try to write fiction that is not far-fetched and could, in reality, happen. Research is important and I try to be as accurate as I can but any mistakes in understanding the roles of various government bodies, especially those involved in defence and security, are mine. It’s a novel, don’t forget.
I’ve also scattered Nigerian slang around in a lot of the dialogue but, like fashion, slang never stays the same for long. Nigerians who read it might scratch their heads at times. If so, I’m sorry, but I hope you’ll get the gist and understand it’s a while since I was in Nigeria.
I’m also grateful to writers of many other e-books I’ve read during the writing of An Honourable Fake, but I’d like to mention two in particular. Tim Watkin’s “The Consciousness of Sheep” was a good read for me. I’d already drawn many of his conclusions about the state of the world economy, the direction of Western society and the unsustainability of the world’s population, but he puts it together very concisely. It’s worth a read. And Teju Cole’s book “Every Day is for the Thief” is such a good illustration of modern Nigeria seen from the eyes of a returnee and resurrected many memories for me.
CHAPTER 1
They thought there'd been a power failure.
A thousand of them, young and old. Excited black faces and a sprinkling of white, all crowded into the south London arena as Nigerian Reverend Samuel Christopher Smith danced, waved and whipped them into joining the Brixton Girls’ Choir singing along to thumping Afro-beat tracks from Fela Kuti's 'The Black President'.
This good, light-hearted, community spirit had reached its climax when the music stopped and the lights went out. In the total darkness, a silence fell.
Perhaps they knew, perhaps they didn't, but this was pure theatre, planned and choreographed to last just ten seconds because, as the lights came on again, there, standing centre stage, bathed in a single spotlight was the man they'd come to see and hear: Pastor Gabriel Joshua - black suit, bow tie, crisp white shirt, short black hair shining with gel.
Backstage, Gabriel had been waiting for this moment - timing it, feeling it, moving with it, tossing the microphone and catching it. At times like that Gabriel became his childhood hero, Mohamed Ali, preparing for battle. With the passion and energy building, he was skipping, punching the air, dancing like a butterfly and ready to sting like a bee with words and catch phrases gifted to him from somewhere as if by magic.
When the single spotlight picked him out, Gabriel was looking up, right hand raised in a fist, the voice loud, clear, baritone with its hint of a Lagos accent. "You have heard it said, a long time ago............"
He waited just a few seconds for the cheering. the female screams and the shouting to die down and then, in a quieter voice, "You have heard it said...... thou shall not kill."
He paused again. "And yet," he said slowly, lowering his head and whispering into the microphone, "What have we just witnessed? In my home country. Schoolchildren. Girls aged six. Innocent young lives, murdered. In cold blood. So, I’m asking why? In who's name? In the name of someone's God? So, whose God? What God approves of such slaughter? What sort of God is that?"
Then, quietly, still whispering into the microphone. "Or....or is this not religion?" Now he was shaking his finger, instilling doubt, looking for something, someone, out there in the darkness. "If this is not religion, what is it? Is this something else? Something to stir a response? To start a reaction? To shock a nation?"
Then in the louder voice: "If there is but one supreme God, one who sees all, reigns supreme, watches over all of us irrespective of who we are or where we come from, would that God approve of the slaughter of poor, innocent children?"
Gabriel, microphone in one hand, placed the other hand to his forehead, closed his eyes and looked up. as if receiving guidance on what next to say. Then he put his forefinger to his lips to hush the audience that was stirring.
"It was just another atrocity," he said quietly pointing his finger. "Only one. It always starts with just one. And we forgive. But then there are two atrocities. And we are patient. And then there are four atrocities and we become angry. And then.......... "
The audience joined in. "Eight atrocities."
Gabriel closed his eyes and raised his hand. "Too many atrocities." He stopped, hushing his audience into silence again.
His voice gradually became louder and stronger. "And the atrocities become bigger atrocities. And then there are abductions. And the atrocities and the abductions move to our villages and become mass atrocities. And the mass atrocities become massacres. And the massacres move to our hospitals and to our schools. Ordinary, innocent people. Poor people, old people, young people, sick people. Surely, surely that is wrong in the name of everyone's God "
He paused, his eyes still closed. "But why?" Softer, quieter now. "Do we understand why? Might this not be religion? Might this be something else?"
His booming voice was now softer but his eyes were open, scanning the faces before him. "Do we understand? Do we fully understand what motivates such evil?"
"No," murmured some in the audience.
"Do our leaders understand? Do they understand the causes, the motivations, the reasons that lead to such atrocities?"
"No."
"So, what do our leaders do?" A pause. Wide eyes, waving and pointing his finger.
"My friends, I'll tell you what they do. They sit and they watch, and they shake their heads, and they denounce and they say 'this must stop'. And then? And then, what do they do?" Another short pause. "That's right. They do nothing. As the divide between rich and poor grows wider, they do nothing because they are the rich. They can afford their protection. They are the elite. So, they continue to sit and to watch and to wring their hands pretending to care while millions of the poor they are supposed to represent struggle and the world runs out of food and water and even the space to live. But we can no longer wait. I say we cannot sit and watch."
Gabriel was walking slowly now, a few steps one way, a few the other, facing the audience. the spotlight still following him.
"And we especially cannot sit and watch in horror as those who do not understand the meaning of peace and tolerance allow others to come to our homes, our villages, our schools and our places of worship to massacre us. Is it any wonder that millions of poor people are on the move? Lost souls but real people. Good people desperate for jobs, for opportunities. Poor people living in hope but moving out, moving on, trying to move up."
Gabriel walked a few more steps, then stopped, eyes open, scanning faces, pointing first at them and then at himself.
"Yeh. See? I'm an African. I'm talking African poverty, African migration, African mass movement across borders, across continents. Millions of poor people looking for a better life. And I'm asking why. Why has it come to this? I'm asking for an explanation. What have we done wrong? What are we doing to put things right? I'm asking for understanding. I'm asking for answers. And........ I'm demanding a solution."
Silently, he moved back to the centre. "You know," he said quietly. "We are taught peace, tolerance, forgiveness and understanding. Yes? But there is a limit to our tolerance, our forgiveness and our understanding. We have already tried tolerance. We have already tried patience. We have already tried forgiving. We have already tried understanding and we have already tried trusting our leaders. But it has failed. So, we are saying now, as one united voice, enough is enough."
Gabriel lowered the microphone and then raised it again, pointing his finger, angry. "Enough is enough," he roared.
This was just the start of a Gabriel performance. He’d been doing this for years now, criss-crossing continents, holding these events in crowded halls in overcrowded towns and cities. It was south London today but next up was Los Angeles.
The Fela Kuti theme was new, the words varied, but the message was always the same. And once he’d got their rapt attention, that’s when Gabriel started to rack things up.
That dark, rainy night, in the crowded, multi coloured, ethnically diverse south London venue, Pastor Gabriel Joshua was the only man standing in a light that shone from above. This was never going to be a religious event for the praising of a God
This was about poverty, the lack of opportunity, the theft of the assets of ordinary people by big business, the pillaging of Africa's natural resources, the lack of education, environmental destruction and the terrorism and conflict that arose from the pressures of overpopulation, ethnic tension and interference in another country's affairs.
For Pastor Gabriel Joshua events like this in a densely-populated part of a big city had evolved into a common theme. It was what was separating him, marking him out, from politicians and religious leaders and academics. Right then self-styled Pastor Gabriel Joshua was aiming for a mass display of collective decision-making based on simple common sense. But the strategy, written clearly in his mind, required him to draw that final picture of impending disaster, to create an ultimate tension that would lead to a commitment to demand action.
For twenty years, Gabriel had been performing like this. The words and music had changed over the years but the message had become clearer over the passage of time.
At the end, he would always fall silent, and walk slowly around the stage deep in thought. That night, in South London, the ending was no different.
"You understand," he said softly, shaking his head. "I don't need to tell you. I don't need to spell it out. It's just plain, common sense. There has to be a limit to our patience. Alone, we are powerless but together we have boundless strength. We have tried being patient, to forgive and to trust and we have even tried to understand the limitations of our leaders. They are only human we say. But that is an excuse. Power to change is there. We see it every day. But it is in the hands of the selfish and our patience has finally expired. With one united voice, what we are saying is enough is enough."
And then Gabriel knelt on the stage, placed his hands together and closed his eyes. Speaking quietly, lips touching the microphone.
"In the name of whatever Great Power there is, please grant us some of that power, that strength and that wisdom to face up to our future, to defend ourselves against the forces of evil and, for the sake of our children, to challenge our leaders to change direction before it is too late."
That night the cheers inside the south London Conference Hall were still dying down to another Fela Kuti recording when, back stage, a mobile phone rang.
Solomon, Gabriel's most loyal friend, adviser and follower since boyhood days in the Makoko slum of Lagos, answered it. He listened, nodded, switched the phone off and went to look for Gabriel.
He found him in a side room, drinking water from a bottle and surrounded by a small group of journalists. By then Gabriel had discarded the black tie and had opened the top button of his white shirt. The flamboyancy, the stage act, was gone. It had become calm one-to-one politics - the rich-poor divide, education, opportunities, jobs, healthcare. Solomon listened for a while from the narrow doorway but then pushed inside and whispered in his ear: "Phone call, Femi."
And Gabriel, seeing the concern on Solomon's face, excused himself and followed him outside.
"There's a warrant for your arrest, Femi," Solomon whispered.
CHAPTER 2
"Mr Mark Dobson."
It was a statement not a question.
"Yes," the man himself replied. He was definitely Mark Dobson, travelling on a British passport, although he'd wondered before leaving London whether a passport in a different name might be safer this time.
The Nigerian Immigration Officer sitting solemnly behind the screen looked at him as if she recognised him. Sod's law. Dobson certainly recognised her. It was the same one who'd dealt with him a month ago - the same beige uniform and beret, the same badge and the same ill-fitting spectacles. The only additions were the blue latex gloves and matching face mask as if she thought Dobson might be bringing Ebola or Yellow Fever into the country.
His passport was opened and the pages flipped through until the last Nigerian stamp appeared.
"Mr Mark Dobson, you come again." It was the same voice as well.
"Yes." Dobson raked a hand through his unruly mop of short, sandy hair. Explaining why he'd returned so soon would only cause a delay.
"Business again?"
"Yes."
And saying he'd abandoned his last visit because he'd been assaulted and robbed by a taxi driver within minutes of his arrival would have delayed things even further.
"What business?"
"I'm a business consultant."
"Mmm......but what do you do?"
Dobson almost smiled. It was such a good question. "I advise businesses." He replied vaguely. He could have elaborated by saying he specialised in commercial fraud, corruption and associated demeanours like money laundering, but offering the short version was always best at points of entry into a country, especially one where such demeanours were commonplace.
Black eyes beneath thick black eyebrows peered over the spectacles. "Nigerian businesses need your advice, Mr Dobson?"
Dobson nodded and smiled in case it was a Nigerian Immigration officer's idea of a sarcastic joke. Perhaps also it was because he wasn't wearing a proper businessman's suit and tie but a pair of creased grey chinos and a black Polo shirt like someone starting their holiday - not that many people took vacations in Lagos.
"What is the name of the company you are advising, Mr Dobson?" the husky voice with the Lagos accent continued.
He'd hoped he wouldn't be asked this. "A company called Solomon Trading."
There was a shrug suggesting she'd never heard of Solomon Trading and an ink stamp like all others was selected from a small pile, his passport was stamped with a flourish, a signature added and his passport held aloft but out of reaching distance. Was there one last issue?
"So.......Mr Dobson. You like Nigeria?"
"Love it," Dobson smiled. "I can hardly wait to find a taxi and be on my way."
"Have a nice stay."
And so, Dobson took his passport and walked off with his laptop bag slung across his shoulder to retrieve his new black case on wheels, a replacement that contained a change of underwear, a crumpled suit to enhance his status if the need arose, a few shirts that mostly matched his grey chinos and a shaving kit. If this bag was stolen, then they'd be sorely disappointed with the contents.
But he wasn't robbed this time. He made it, unscathed, in the back seat of a Toyota driven by a middle-aged Nigerian from Enugu who called himself Edwin and who talked all the way. "Airport Hotel, Ikeja sah? Why not better hotel? Smart man like you deserve five stah, up-makkit. Where you come from, sah?"
"London."
"Arsenal, sah." Edwin said triumphantly, showing his enthusiasm for English football but pronouncing Arsenal like arsehole.
Dobson, slumped in the back seat and listened but found himself holding tightly onto his laptop just in case Edwin turned out to be another, albeit older, con merchant with a nice way with words.
For someone who spent half his time travelling Dobson was not unused to African airports. His mistake last time had been to trust an ordinary looking youth with a pleasant smile and wearing a bright blue Chelsea FC tee shirt. He remembered it all to well.
"Where to, sah?..... Ikeja sah?........Good price sah......I carry case sah."
That's how it had started and Dobson, far too relaxed for his own good, had followed the blue Chelsea tee shirt and his own case through the teeming crowds, friends and families of travellers, past all shades of shyster looking for quick ways to fleece the tired and culture-shocked and out into the chaos, the smell and the sticky, humid air of early evening Lagos. He'd been led towards an ageing Peugeot. that may once have been a uniform yellow but now offered glimpses of many shades of yellow and orange mottled with red rust and mud. It was ideally suited for abductions and robbery and Dobson should have known better.
The journey had begun with an unusual detour around some ramshackle back streets of Ikeja and Dobson, wedged into the sagging and painful springs of the back seat, had seen his hope that this might be just a clever short cut fade when the car ground to a halt in the rubble strewn remains of an old, roofless building. A second wreck of a car then appeared and from it sprang two more youths wielding long sticks. Shouts, waving of the sticks and a lot of pushing and pulling had followed but, overpowered by numbers, Dobson had yielded and his case and belongings were tipped and sorted amongst a pile of smashed concrete and corrugated roofing. It had been admiringly efficient - short, sharp and over and done with in less than three minutes.
But it had been an odd sort of assault and robbery in that Dobson had been handed back his passport and wallet - short perhaps of five hundred dollars or so in cash. They had taken his laptop, but that was empty of anything confidential because everything of any use was, as always, on a memory stick stuffed into the elastic waist band of Dobson's boxer shorts. Mark Dobson, international private investigator of commercial fraud and corruption was slightly battered and bruised but his client's data was still intact.
And it was what the smiling wearer of the Chelsea FC tee shirt had called out as he drove off that Dobson still remembered. Amidst the cloud of choking blue smoke as the Peugeot rattled away, he heard: "Sorry, Mr Dobson, sah."
Mr Dobson? Yes, that was easy to read from his passport. But 'sorry'?
This wasn't the hallmark of a career robber. Chelsea tee shirt had showed a decent side that could only have come from upbringing. Someone, somewhere, Dobson had concluded, was warning him off, trying to stop him doing his job, encouraging him to go back home and never return. And there was only one possible reason for that. Someone somewhere had a problem of sorts with Dobson's clients, Pastor Gabriel Joshua, his partner Solomon and their jointly owned company, Solomon Trading.
"Can you pick me up in the morning?" Mark Dobson asked Edwin from Enugu when they arrived at the Airport Hotel and Dobson was settling the fare.
"Where to, sah?"
"Back to the airport."
"Yessah."
"Early," said Dobson. "Five o'clock."
"Yessah."
CHAPTER 3
As Mark Dobson checked in at the low-end Airport Hotel in Lagos, Pastor Gabriel Joshua and Solomon were staying in the higher-end luxury of the California State Governor's mansion on Benedict Canyon Drive in Beverley Hills. "Free, gratis," Governor Frank Jameson had told them. "It'll save you some dollars. Enjoy."
Gabriel was relaxing with coffee. He'd already enjoyed the freshly squeezed orange juice and warm croissants served by a Filipino maid who, he'd discovered, came with the rest of the package of benefits.
While Dobson slept in a room smelling of stale sweat above a badly soiled carpet and cooled insufficiently by a reluctant AC unit, Gabriel lounged comfortably in a pure white bathrobe.
This short interlude of luxury was, though, unusual. No, it was extremely rare. It was, in fact, almost unheard of. One- and two-star hotels and motels were far more typical overnight stays because Solomon organised all travel arrangements. Solomon also took care of expenses and Solomon’s job description, if he had one, would have said that economising and saving money was his top priority. Once in a blue moon, though, luxury came free and even Solomon agreed there was no harm in making the most of it.
So, having just sprayed himself with the Dior for Men aftershave he'd found in the bathroom, Gabriel had one bare foot resting on the soft fabric of the Governor's sofa, the other on the thick Chinese carpet. An hour earlier he’d even been the beneficiary of some energetic sex with Florence - another unexpected part of the free deal - and a few minutes of entertainment watching Florence stroll around the bedroom naked. A dark skinned and buxom girl from Alabama, Florence had then stood on the balcony in full view of anyone with a decent pair of binoculars. Gabriel hadn't enquired where she fitted into the Governor's daily life.
Gabriel stroked his freshly shaved face and nodded to himself. The previous night's rousing event at the Beverly Hilton to a crowd of mostly black devotees seemed to have reaped a very reasonable profit even after their airfares and other expenses. As he wiped croissant crumbs from around his moustache the door opened and Solomon appeared. Solomon was already dressed for the day in a dark suit and white shirt. No tie yet, but then Solomon was also relaxing a little.
"Our host, the Bishop, Femi." Solomon handed him a mobile phone.
Gabriel put it to his ear as Solomon sat and listened, long, slim legs crossed, in an arm chair. "Good morning, sir. So how much did we take?"
There was a short pause as State Governor Frank Jameson, the man Solomon called the Bishop, passed the information.
"Nine hundred and eighty-six thousand dollars after expenses is, sir, the sign of a speaker with a reputation. I performed particularly well last night, yes? The Fela Kuti music went down especially well I thought."
He stood up, the remaining crumbs of croissant tumbling to the carpet and, in bare feet, walked past Solomon towards the sliding French windows and the dazzling blue reflection off the swimming pool. Reaching into a side pocket he pulled out the pair of Ray Bans he had discovered there, put them on and turned his head with a grin for Solomon to admire.
"Yes sir. Today we fly to Washington and then back to London. Our followers like the message we bring direct from our Lord, don't you think?" He said it with a smile because the message hadn’t really come from anyone but himself and the Governor knew that.
He sauntered out onto the sunlit terrace where Florence lay on a sun lounger in partial shade. She was lying on her back in a small, white bikini with her own glass of freshly squeezed orange juice standing on a small glass-topped table. Gabriel had no idea if Florence was her real name but it suited her. As he walked towards her, still listening to the Governor, she took off her sunglasses, beckoned him with her little finger and pushed her entire hand into the fold of Gabriel's bathrobe pulling him roughly towards her.
"Hey, not so rough, Flo......no not you, sir...... but, listen, you're still new to my shows if you'll excuse me for saying so Governor and I reckon you Americans still got a lot to learn about the modern preaching business and the way they link to the troubles of the world."
Solomon came out onto the patio to listen. The Governor spoke again and Gabriel nodded.
"Sure. But you know what I mean. In religious terms, I preach prosperity gospel. Prosperity gospel flavoured with a call to action. Why? Because the times they are a'changing, I’ve said it before but you and your friends up there need to catch up, understand it and get your thinking and forward planning straight. Think strategy, think opportunity, think different, think more like businessmen, OK?"
He paused briefly, giving the Governor a few seconds to talk but also to reflect on his own manner of speech to certain people.
Gabriel didn't actually like the way he was speaking right now. It was unnatural but it was deliberate. It was like acting. Preaching was an act as well. He would often change his tone, his accent, his style, to reflect who he was speaking to and why. Right now, he was talking to a high flying, rich, American politician who he knew would not bother listening to soft words, sensitive phrases and politeness. This man wanted to be impressed. It was a time for rough talk some American slang and a tone that suggested impatience, over confidence and brashness. Delivered like that, this man would be far more likely to buy into it. Preaching about prosperity gospel was, after all, pure salesmanship.
"The preaching business has changed since the Lord Jesus walked amongst us," Gabriel went on. "He may not be happy with what some of the customers of his competitor Mohamed get up to, but I don't blame Mohamed for that. It's his preachers and the millions of disaffe