"You think companies who lost their entire assets in Libya, Iraq and Syria and elsewhere were happy with that? You blew some of them sky high with your own fucking bombs for God's sake. Why should the US government object then if these companies decide to contribute to something whose sole objective is defence against further destruction or pillaging of their assets?"
Bakare listened but then decided to say something he knew would disturb Gabriel.
"Is that why people like Aron Kaplan are sniffing around asking questions about US foreign policy in Africa? About defending his African investments?"
Gabriel shot a glance at Solomon then said, "So is the fact that the Kaplans are Russian clouding the issue?"
"It doesn't help," replied Bakare.
"Ah well," Gabriel said after a short pause and with a forced look of resignation. "If the issue is that cloudy then we'd better move to Plan B. Are we ready to go, Sol?"
Solomon checked his watch. "Could be out in ten minutes, Femi."
CHAPTER 11
"Thirsty work, Mercedes."
Vigo, Mazda and Chelsea had just finished moving the Solomon Trading stock from the truck to Vigo's warehouse when Mark Dobson arrived next morning. They moved to the office, cracked open four cans from the fridge and sat down. Vigo had thrown his cowboy hat onto the top of the fridge and was swinging in his chair. Mazda sat on the other chair and Chelsea on the pallet. Dobson stood.
The discussion was Gabriel and Solomon.
"That Pastor Gabriel's a genius," Mazda said. “You hear him talk, Vigo? He should be President. He something truly big. He got genuine style. You know he plays Fela music at sermons?"
Mazda was on a roll. Adulation was the theme and they all listened until Dobson decided he’d heard enough and related some more - the arrest warrant, the murder of Kenneth Eju, the FAA contract. Then he dropped in some names.
"Waaah," said Chelsea.
"Jesus," said Mazda.
"Fuck," said Vigo pulling on the solitary ring hanging off his left ear.
Dobson let them scratch, chat, swear and shake heads for a while, allowing matters to sink in and emotions to bubble. Meantime he looked around Vigo's office.
Vigo was not poor. Dobson had been with him when he'd worn smart suits, colourful silk shirts and studs in his ears that reflected rainbows far brighter than Gabriel's. There was even a new BMW hiding somewhere that he'd once used to carry off a bunch of giggling girls after dropping Dobson at his hotel. Quality surroundings was something many Nigerians like Vigo ignored. If they could make a million Naira a day sitting like this then why go to the expense of a high-rise office suite overlooking the Bay? It had a certain logic.
Vigo was blowing blue smoke towards the thick mat of dirty cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. "That fucking guy Festus Fulani looks the man."
"Why?" Dobson asked, flapping at the smoke.
"Let me tell you sumptin' big and vital, Mercedes." Vigo shut his eyes. "It's like one of them fairy tales," he said. "Like Cinderella and the seven pigmies that begins with once upon a time." A short but dramatic pause followed.
"Once upon a time the Ministry of Aviation wanted to sell three Ministry cars. One was a big black BMW the Minister used on official business. Festus negotiated the deal with my man, Civic, in Abuja. We got to buy them all at a low, low price on one condition: that we gave the BMW to Festus. But he wanted to disguise the car so the Minister didn't recognise his own car, so we repainted it dark green. He also wanted help to move some dollars so we also organised that."
"How?" Dobson asked.
"Festus gave us three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash to buy and ship furniture from UK. Festus told us we had to open letters of credit but use his UK supplier, his forwarding agent and his bank. We'd get ten percent once the deal was complete. But one mistake and our arses would be beaten with sticks and we would never run a business again - he'd personally see to it."
Vigo blew more smoke, flicked ash onto the black, oily floor. "Small change for a guy like Festus. His supplier got the funds from our letter of credit but there was no furniture in the containers. The containers were delivered to somewhere in Essex. After that......".
Dobson had heard similar stories before. "Don't tell me," he said. "It was stolen cars inside. Festus got his dollars laundered and made another three hundred and fifty selling the cars."
Vigo nodded. "Toyotas, stolen to order. Just like the time you discovered those Mercedes, Mercedes. But I don't touch imported stolen cars, only Nigerian stolen ones - you know that."
Dobson nodded. "I know you're an honest man, Vigo."
Mazda's shoulders shook with quiet mirth and Chelsea joined in with a look that suggested he didn't know why.
But Vigo then shook his head. "I hate fucking Festus."
"Anything specific?"
"We didn't get our ten percent."
"But Festus got his cars because he's a basstad," added Mazda.
Dobson perched on the edge of Vigo's desk. "So, you still want your ten percent and Solomon Trading want to know what happened to their FAA contract. Right?”
Vigo lit another cigarette, blew more smoke. The ring didn't appear but he still made it look cool. Mazda strolled the office. Chelsea stayed sitting on the pallet looking thoughtful. "How much time does Festus spend in Abuja?" Dobson asked.
"He travels."
That was true. Dobson visualised Colin's spreadsheet. Festus Fulani 'floated' and used different names. Festus, like others on the list, somehow made money, lots of it, and kept it out of reach by investing in properties worth millions of pounds.
"Waaah." Chelsea undid a crick in his neck. Perhaps a bone had resettled.
"You think he's behind Pastor Gabriel's problems?" Vigo asked
"Yes. Amongst others. Solomon's discussions with the FAA went on for years - politics, budgets, disagreements, you know the scene. Festus Fulani chaired meetings and was just one of several who expected big bribes."
"That's Nigeria," said Vigo.
'Scantex Technologie were expecting to be awarded the contract with Solomon Trading as their agents. Tests, trials, technical details, servicing arrangements and prices were all complete but Solomon refused to give bribes saying it was not the way Solomon Trading or Scantex did business. Now we have the arrest warrant for Gabriel. I'd like to know if the contract is cancelled or gone to someone else. Any chance, Vigo?"
"I'll ask Civic to check."
Dobson's phone then buzzed with a timely coincidence.
"I just spoke to Wolfgang Muller, the international sales manager of Scantex Technologie," Colin Asher said. "He led negotiations for the FAA contract for four years and knows Solomon and Michael Fayinka. I asked if he knew there was an arrest warrant out in connection with the deal. He didn't. He panicked until I told him it was for Gabriel. To cut a long story short, he remembers several Nigerians involved. I mentioned a few names. He picked out Festus Fulani and two more on our list. Does that add to our equation?"
"Enough," Dobson replied. "We've just been discussing him. What did Muller say about bribes and commissions and so on."
"That it was Solomon Trading policy not to pay bribes to government officials."
"So where was the profit for Solomon Trading?"
"Scantex quoted a full contract price to Solomon Trading. Everything included - supply, installation, service. Solomon added a margin for the work they'd do and submitted it. That was the way the FAA officially wanted it. They probably knew that to ask a German multinational to quote direct and hold back bribes and kickbacks was not going to work but hoped some other incentive would come out of Solomon's profit. It wasn't. That's what upset them."
It was exactly how Dobson had seen it and confirmed by Gabriel and Solomon.
"Where's Mr F at present?"
"Perhaps I can flush him out. The murder case on Kenneth Eju is still open. I'll drop Festus Fulani's name into someone's ear."
Craig Donovan made two decisions.
He'd watched Republican Senator James McAllister on a late-night TV news programme. McAllister was another man he'd known at one time - a right winger, an ardent supporter of Israel and a strong advocate of cutting corners if things were going nowhere. For all his arrogance, Donovan liked him so he phoned McAllister's office.
An hour later they called him back. "Senator McAllister will meet you at seven at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel."
Then Donovan phoned the US Africa Command (AFRICOM) HQ in Stuttgart, Germany.
Ignoring his retired status, he pulled rank and asked to speak to Commander David Fernandez. Fernandez, he was told, was away. "Any idea where or when he'll be back?”. Donovan asked. The reply was vague. "Sorry, sir, he's in the US at present. I cannot divulge detail."
"I understand. In that case, any chance I could speak to my old buddy from Kuwait days, Steven Benyon?"
Donovan knew that Benyon was now AFRICOM's Command Sergeant Major under Commander David Fernandez. If the Commander himself wasn't around, the Command Sergeant would be good enough. "Can I say what it's about, sir?"
"West Africa, Nigeria, the COK."
"Hold the line, sir. I'll see if he's available."
"Hey, is that you, Craig?" The Alabama accent was unmistakable.
"How're you doing, Steve?"
"Just great. I thought you retired."
"Yeh, kind of. I'm running an intelligence gathering operation."
"You don't say? Still keeping your hand in then Craig."
Craig let the conversation run a while. Then: "I understand David Fernandez is in Washington right now."
"Sure. A summons from the Secretary for Defence. Even if I knew what it was about I'm not at liberty to.......you know how it is, Craig."
"Sure. Can you get a message to him?"
"It depends how important."
"I've got a fix on a COK camp - the one used to abduct some girls recently."
"Christ. How the hell? A good fix?"
"It's good enough. Any chance you could check if Fernandez would see me? I'm in Washington right now. I could probably track him down but a few words from you.........you understand?"
Donovan left it like that and went for a coffee in the same Starbucks he'd met with Gabriel. He'd just taken his first bite of a muffin when his phone rang. "I have Commander David Fernandez - AFRICOM, sir. Can you take the call?"
"Sure." Donovan stood up, an unbreakable habit when speaking to superiors. “Good afternoon, sir."
"Major Donovan. I don't think we've met. I had a message to call you. It sounded interesting. What's your background, Major?"
He knew Fernandez would have already checked. Nevertheless, he gave a quick resume, ending with: "Africa, sir. It bothers me. After retiring I joined an investigation company. Some interesting facts have come my way."
"You ended your career at the US Embassy in Abuja, right?"
"Yes sir."
"You mentioned something about the COK to CSM Steven Benyon."
"Yes, sir."
"How strong is your evidence?"
"It comes from one of the abducted girls, sir."
There was a pause as Fernandez digested this. "How? She that good?"
"I believe so, sir. She escaped. A very bright girl and the only survivor."
"You've spoken to her?"
"Not me, sir - an associate."
"You're in Washington right now?"
"Yes sir."
"You'll be familiar with the Pentagon, of course. Meet me at eleven thirty. I'll organise some clearance."
Craig Donovan returned to his blueberry muffin.
CHAPTER 12
Perhaps it was nerves or perhaps his tight-fitting black suit, blue silk shirt and wide tie but, despite the air-conditioning, Bishop William of the Disciples of Jesus School of Ibadan was perspiring heavily, his broad forehead shiny with beads of sweat.
"He is a dangerous man, sir. We have heard, first hand, the things he says. To our faces, he has accused us."
At the Presidential villa at Aso Rock in Abuja, newly elected Nigerian President, Hamed Massoud Azazi sat with his hands together in the folds of a grey, wide-sleeved babariga decorated with intricate gold thread.
Azazi was a tall, gaunt and serious man. Elected on the usual promises of dealing with corruption, poverty, education, healthcare and the constant threat of Islamic terrorism, Azazi held an enormous weight of responsibility on his ageing shoulders. But he listened, patiently, looking at and thinking about each of the four Pastors arranged in a line of gilt-edged arm chairs before him.
There was Bishop William in his suit and Pastors Lazarus and Ayo and Father Adebola, the Director of the Church of Our Lord of Mercy and Forgiveness. Unlike William the other three had chosen smart, national dress for their audience rather than their usual Armani suits and ties.
Father Adebola took over. "One minute he is in Lagos, sir. The next he is in South Africa or Europe or America. His private opinions should remain private, sir. But he repeats them wherever he goes. At a time like this we cannot have such a man claiming to speak for all Nigerians. The man will stop at nothing to destroy the state's security and the Church."
"Or the mosques," added Pastor Ayo knowing that Azazi himself was Moslem.
But Azazi was no fool even though he knew the meeting had been arranged for the Pastors by his own brother Zainab Azazi.
And brother Zainab had, in turn, had his arm twisted by a State Governor, known for his enthusiasm for being the bringer of any sort of news related to state security. Delivering bad news to a President was a sign you were his friend and forever on the look-out for risks that might endanger his position and power.
That the State Governor had found a good seat on the Board of the State Security Organisation under the previous President was proof that this creeping strategy worked. What he or brother Zainab didn't know was that the existence of the entire Board was one that President Azazi wanted to do away with completely once he'd found a way.
The President had remained silent throughout, allowing each of them to speak one at a time. But he'd now heard enough and raised his hand.
"I thank you for bringing this to my attention," he said slowly, checking his fingernails and stroking the greying stubble on his chin. "I have two questions."
He paused again, removed his spectacles and directed his intense brown eyes at each of the Pastors in turn. "This man,” he said slowly. “Pastor Gabriel Joshua. He is known to me. We have met. I found him to be - what shall I say? - well meaning, enthusiastic, a good talker. Are you saying his enthusiasm is getting the better of him?"
"Oh yes, sir," chimed the squat figure of Pastor Lazarus, red eyes glistening, cheeks blown with distaste. "The man is a fake, sir. Give the devil an inch and he'll be your ruler."
There was a flicker of Presidential amusement at this well-worn joke. "And would you say he has influence over the people he meets during his travels?"
The Pastors looked at one another, unsure who should answer. It was Ayo, but Ayo had forgotten the President's question.
"And there is the arrest warrant, sir."
"Ah yes. I have heard," the President said wearily.
Ayo, encouraged, went on: "And, sir, you should watch his videos. He brings shame on us all. He talks of poverty and corruption. He blames politicians - like you, sir. In fact, sir, I.......I think he may be trying to unseat you - from outside."
President Azazi sat forward, stifling another smile that was trying to break through the leathery texture of his seventy-year old face. "Hmm. Is this not some sort of - what shall I say - professional jealousy? A Pastor with an international following making big dollars? More dollars than you, perhaps?"
"No, no sir,” Ayo continued. “He has many square kilometres of land in the north, sir."
"It is not illegal to own land."
"But he also has a private army," Bishop William chipped in.
The President raised an eyebrow but remained relaxed. It was as if he already knew, but none of the visiting Pastors saw this.
"Yes, sir," said Bishop William. "He meets the UK and US governments and talks to many others."
The President decided he'd heard enough. "Thank you, gentlemen. The meeting is over. Thank you for coming. I note your information. We will deal with it accordingly."
One by one the Pastors filed out with nods, bows and curtsies, but a few minutes later when the door had closed and he was alone the President took a mobile phone from his pocket, rang a number, waited and then spoke just five words.
"Martin. We need to talk."
CHAPTER 13
"Who do we talk to if we're looking for someone to rob a good, honest Englishman or kill a God-fearing Christian?" Dobson had asked Chelsea earlier.
"Benji at Pink Lips sah. Maybe Casper, sah."
"Do peace loving, innocent white men go to the Pink Lips Club?"
"Yes, sah. Especially if they want nice black lady."
"What time does Pink Lips open?"
"All day and all night, sah. Especially at night."
"Right, let's go. But I'm no longer Mark Dobson. I'm now Simon Smith. Got it? Security reasons you understand. Meanwhile phone Benji on your nice new Samsung and fix an appointment."
Yessah."
"Do it now, Chelsea. Not next week."
"Yessah."
Dobson listened in.
"Yeh, mon. How de body? It's Zak mon. Zak. You 'member? You wanna chill at Pink Lips? Like now. Why? Cus' I got a fresh job. Akata. His label? Mr Smith. He like needs jobs done. Big dash. Yeh, he rich fella."
"So?" Dobson asked at the end.
"Two o'clock but any time. He says deposit to listen, cash in advance, balance to follow."
At two o'clock a thunderstorm was at its peak. Water was washing around Mark Dobson's feet as Chelsea stopped the leaking yellow Peugeot in a side street. Alongside them was a six-foot high wall of steel decorated with a row of intricately forged rusty spikes across the top. The fence may once have sported a powder blue coat of paint but it was now faded and splashed with red mud from puddles that lined the road.
"Pink Lips," Chelsea announced. "Disco downstairs, casino upstairs, bar ground floor."
Dobson was in no mood for either dancing, gambling or drinking. What he wanted was a fresh look at a meeting place famous for dubious deals, exchanging stolen goods and other, mostly nocturnal, activities. If it looked good, he might order a job to be done.
They waded in. It wasn't quite how Dobson remembered from a few years ago, but it had been night time and combined with a power failure. He could now see that, given an electrical supply, it would have advertised its presence by pink neon lights in the shape of pouting lips, dancing legs and high-heeled shoes. It had once been a large and expensive countryside villa before being overtaken by the mess of urban growth but big money was clearly being made somehow for two new Mercedes cars and three Toyota mini buses were parked at the side and a group of men in open necked shirts stood beneath an awning as water cascaded in front of them.
One of them stood out - a big man in a damp looking suit and a bright pink shirt. His eyes blinked rapidly and his nose twitched as if he'd just surfaced from a short underwater swim. A gaggle of girls in high heels, short, tight skirts and complicated hair styles stood beside him holding onto one another and giggling. Pink, Dobson noticed, was the dominant colour - pink shoes, pink ribbons and big pink lips. Cigarette smoke wafted upwards.
Chelsea did introductions. "Hey, Benji, This akata with the job? Him rich, rich, Benji. Got big sense."
The girls stopped giggling but didn't stop holding onto each other.
"Need full pocket at Pink Lips," Benji said with what Dobson assumed was a sense of humour. The other men joined in the humour, the girls giggled again and a brave one piped up with, "Woss your label, honey?", which was so funny that they giggled some more and rolled big black eyes in Dobson's direction.
Dobson had no problem ignoring this but held out his hand towards the one he assumed was Benji. "Simon Smith," he said. The other men came closer, checking him out - big suits, colourful shirts.
"Yeh, sure. I heard about Mr Smith," Benji said. "I met some others. Big family. You got any other pseudonyms man?"
"Can you make do with Simon Smith?"
"Sure, sure. Enta, come on in. We tock. Simple Simon met a pie-man. You heard that song?"
"Yes," Dobson confirmed. "When I was in nursery."
The other suits stayed by the door - four men, four different sizes, four shirt colours, the biggest one in florescent pink who still blinked. But it was only one eye, winking not blinking. Dobson glanced back thankful to see he was winking at everyone, an affliction of some sort, but disturbing nevertheless.
The music got louder when Benji opened the front door and beckoned them inside. "Enta, enta."
Florescent pink shirt winked again and stepped forward as if he would be joining in. But then he withdrew as if he’d smelled something not to his taste.
"Nice music," Dobson lied, hoping he sounded convincing.
"Soul train on steroids," laughed Benji, "You wanna come Sattaday night. Like blazing fiya. More bubble as well." It sounded like a sales pitch.
"This your place?" was Dobson's next piece of small talk.
"Me and another rich fella."
"Like the one outside?"
"Pink Panta?" Benji said. "Nah. Pink he organizes da ladies. I can call him. You wanna flex your stick?"
"Not right now," Dobson said.
The place smelled of beer, cigarette smoke and sweat. There was a stage where two girls in black underwear and pink belts were dancing with no-one watching. Perhaps they were practicing. Tables were set around and, in one corner, was a bar surrounded by coloured lights. But the place was empty and the barman was reading a newspaper.
"Seedan," Benji pointed to a vacant table. "You want sumtin' fizzy?"
Dobson would have been fine with a glass of water but: "I'll have whatever you and Zak drink," he said. Benji beckoned the barman and ordered three Star Lites.
"They have food also, Mr Dob........Mr Smith. Tasty fish and fries."
"So, what kind of business, Mr, uh, Smith?" Benji loosened his collar, smoothed his unevenly shaved, flabby cheeks, sniffed and wiped his nose between finger and thumb. Perhaps it was rainwater.
Benji was older and fatter than Dobson had imagined. He sported a touch of grey in his hair, but the part that fitted his imagination was the gold cross on a chain around his neck. It dangled outside the open top buttons of a red striped shirt. Rainwater had darkened the shoulders of his ill-fitting suit jacket.
"Information business," Dobson shouted over the music. "When we get information, we act."
"If I see blood, mean plenty ego, man. You pay Naira or dollah?"
"Naira to start but let's see how we get on."
"One hundred thousand for open ear, OK?"
Dobson deliberately raised an eyebrow though he'd already ring-fenced Solomon's upfront payment for occasions like this and money from the warehouse stock would help. Just yet, money didn't matter too much. He sat forward, felt in his back pocket, pulled out a bundle of notes, counted a few and put them on the table. "Seventy. If I like answers I find more."
Benji picked it up and counted it, slowly, eyeing Dobson as if the notes might be forged. Dobson sat back, waited and reflected on what he was about to do. The reflection was longer than expected because Benji miscounted the notes and started again, licking his fingers for better grip. Finally, he looked up. "OK, my ear open. Smoke?"
"No, thanks."
"Marry J?"
Dobson declined the marijuana. His eyes were already smarting. Instead, he leaned across the table. Chelsea copied and their heads almost collided.
"An English friend of mine was abducted and robbed at the airport here a few weeks ago," he shouted into Benji's face. The wide, faintly pink eyes stared back at him from six inches away. "The guy was on his way to do business with a company called Solomon Trading - you heard of them? But he never got there. He went back home because he was too fucking nervous to come again. I've taken over."
Benji sat back, blew smoke from the corner of his mouth. "Too