"Concentrate on this meeting, Femi. One thing at a time. I thought we'd agreed to drop everything and go for Plan B. This is Plan B. In an hour, we're meeting top, top men. It's taken six months to organise. This could be a bigger and more important meeting than all the meetings in the last six years."
"You're right, Sol. I'm focussed. But I'll phone Mark anyway to check if he's OK for Lagos."
And so, he phoned Dobson.
They were heading to the Chinese Embassy right now, he told him. No problems. Blossoms hadn't been set alight in the night and Osman Olande hadn't been seen. Starbucks on Baker Street was an OK meeting place for later and, yes, he still wanted someone to go to Nigeria to sort a problem. What were Dobson's thoughts?
They were pulling up outside the Chinese Embassy when Gabriel's phone rang again. Solomon got out, paid the taxi driver and waited as Gabriel answered the phone. Solomon, increasingly frustrated, looked at his watch. They had ten minutes before the meeting and, before that, security to go through.
At last Gabriel finished. "That was Taj Harding," he said, but Solomon was already at the main entrance. "He's talking to the press today to explain why he's resigned. But it'll go nowhere. Let him carry on. He said there were some Americans caught up in the fighting in Mali last night. The US President's been told."
"We've got five minutes, Femi."
"Of course, he didn't know how many Africans were killed."
"So why ask?" Solomon stopped, pointing his finger at Gabriel. "For fucks sake forget it, Femi. Turn the phone off or I'll throw the fucking thing away."
Osman Olande's list of Nigerians who owned or managed cheap rate hotels or bed and breakfast joints around London was longer than he thought. He'd found a seat in Hyde Park, struck off half of them and looked at what was left. It was then that he recalled something the late Kenneth Eju had said just before he'd shot him in the corner of the old Essex warehouse.
As Eju screamed for his life with the gun pressed against his forehead, Olande had looked into his terrified eyes over the short barrel of the gun. "Your last chance, you fat little basstad. Where the fuck is he?"
Eju, red eyes crossed as he watched the tip of the gun just an inch away waiting for the explosion that would blow his head apart, had groaned, "I don't know." But as Olande pressed harder he'd closed his eyes and said, "Maybe in Cromwell Road - Sammy's."
His groan became a scream when Olande smiled and finally pulled the trigger. He smiled again at the memory and checked his list again.
That narrowed it considerably. He walked to Hyde Park Corner Tube Station and took a short, two-stop ride to Gloucester Road. Then, with his black leather jacket buttoned to the neck because it was cold and spitting with rain, he started walking.
Starbucks on Baker Street wasn't far from Mark Dobson's flat so he and Craig Donovan walked. It was raining and as they walked, they talked, shared an umbrella and continued where they'd left off the night before.
"It’s just what Sol said, Craig. It’s about power. There are too many vested interests in corruption continuing. If some see Gabriel as an electable President then, however unlikely that might be, there are those who'll want to make damn sure it never happens."
They'd expected to be early but when they arrived at Starbucks Gabriel and Solomon were already there, in a corner, smartly dressed, laptop closed on the table. The tension was obvious.
"Why so early?" Dobson asked as they sat down.
"We had an hour. Sol's presentation was good." Gabriel glanced at Sol but Sol looked away. "They thanked us. We left."
Then there was silence.
"That it?" Mark Dobson asked. "Forgive me, but I thought Plan B was the fallback solution having exhausted all others."
"We should have dropped Plan A and Plan B months, perhaps years, ago." Solomon said. "We should have done things ourselves. But....." he tailed off.
"So why?"
"Why?" There was a deep, impatient sigh from Solomon "You want the long explanation or the short one? Look at Nigeria and Niger - different countries, different problems. Take uranium for instance. Uranium in Niger is like oil in Nigeria but it generates only five percent of Niger's budget. Five percent - understand that? It's wrong but France would have to put French power prices up if they paid a decent price. It's the same with every other African raw material from oil to cocoa and coffee. Africans get a bad deal; corruption makes it worse and the West doesn't care. They talk about fucking trade deals. But fair-trade deals for Africans?”
Solomon mad a sound like spitting. Then he continued:
"So, places like Niger look for other partners to replace the French. How easy is that do you think? The Chinese, flush with cash, are the only option. And they already own around 40% of one mine. For the Chinese, it's big politics, buying influence and far more important than us asking for help with small scale solar energy." He stopped looked at Gabriel and then back at Mark Dobson. "They were just being polite, Mark."
So, it was all very predictable, Dobson thought as the four of them sat in silence once again. Solomon Trading, the small sardine surrounded by sharks. Sometimes, reality takes too long time to sink in.
It was Craig Donovan who broke the silence. "So where to now?"
"We go alone," said Solomon. "We'll re launch Solomon Trading, perhaps in Niamey, Accra or Freetown. Maybe even London. We'll re-assess things, focus on the project, meet with Benjamin, keep Bill's operation small scale, manageable. There's no harm in continuing to find private funding - so long as we carry out proper due diligence."
"Like I fucked up with the Kaplans," Gabriel said.
"Yeh. Salesmen can be very gullible," replied Solomon.
Next on Osman Olande's shortened list was a place called Blossoms but, as he arrived outside his phone rang. It was a call he'd been expecting for two days.
"It's the Cumberland Hotel," the Nigerian voice said.
"You double-checked everything with the boss?" Olande asked.
"Festus say go ahead. I watch dem. One have crazy hat. One wear shades."
Olande smiled. He decided he'd visit Blossoms later because this was pay day. He walked back onto Cromwell Road, flagged a taxi and within minutes was standing on the crowded pavement between Marble Arch Underground Station and the entrance to the Cumberland Hotel.
They moved to a pub a few yards further down Baker Street, a bar that Sherlock Holmes was said to have frequented for deep reflections with Doctor Watson but their own reflections went nowhere.
The only clarification was the job that needed to be done in Lagos: There were two containers containing military field kitchens soon to arrive at Apapa port. They’d been donated by the owner of the American manufacturer and were for Bill Larsen but needed to be cleared through customs, one moved to northern Nigeria for Larsen, the other stored for the future.
"Vigo could do it" Mark Dobson suggested. "It's his speciality. But I'm not sure where he is."
The pub was not crowded but busy for all that - tourists mostly, Sherlock Holmes addicts, mixing facts with fiction, chatting noisily about prints on the wall. Japanese, Americans, Aussies, leaning over them with phones and taking selfies. Dobson hated the place and wanted out.
"Gabriel, Sol," he said. "I admire you both. You never cease to amaze me. But listen. Frankly speaking, you need to think of yourselves for a minute. Nothing will happen if one or both of you gets gunned down this afternoon by a Nigerian secret service agent or a hit man like Olande. You understand me? Everything you've done will fall apart......"
Gabriel held his hand up. Dobson was being ordered to stop right there.
"Listen Mark." He spoke in a voice that caused two Aussies to stop taking photos and listen. "Sol and I are poor soldiers risen from the Lagos slums. If we die trying to protect our land and improving the lives of others, then so be it. Meanwhile, while we live, we will continue to teach others that life is a battle for survival. We are not afraid to die. We aim to leave just a small impression on people's minds that determination wins. If they learn some new ideas for resolving problems and if they realise that some willingly make sacrifices for others, then there is hope. Believe me, good will eventually overcome evil. Yes, there is danger out there. We are not unaware. Meanwhile, we carry on."
The Aussies may have thought about applauding. Instead, they looked at one another and moved away. Dobson sniffed, duly admonished but Gabriel began again. "The military field kitchens. Can you do anything?"
And so, Dobson caved in. "I'll try to track down Vigo."
Then they all stood up and shook hands - two black men, two white - and for some unknown reason they laughed. Then they pushed their way to the door, out on to Baker Street and began walking south towards Oxford Street. The rain had stopped but the sky was grey and the pavement and road still wet.
"Check out of Blossoms," Dobson told Gabriel as they walked.
"I'll phone you." Gabriel replied as if it wasn't urgent.
"So, what do I do?" Donovan asked as if feeling discarded. But then he made his own decision. "I know, I'll take a train down to Kingston and share a few beers with an old army colleague. Mitch will like that. Zoe won't mind. I'll stick around a few days in case anything crops up."
Looking back Mark Dobson was glad he did.
"We'll walk to Marble Arch and take the Tube to Blossoms," Sol said.
Dobson's flat in Queensway was off Bayswater Road and, thinking Donovan and he could call in on Colin Asher they all headed down Baker Street, around Portman Square, into Seymour Street and on to Edgware Road.
They were standing waiting for the red light at the crossing by the Cumberland Hotel entrance when Solomon saw him - a big black man in black jeans and a black leather jacket rounding the corner towards the hotel from the Oxford Street side. He grabbed Dobson's arm. "Olande," he said.
The plan had been for Dobson and Craig Donovan to cross the road, leaving Gabriel and Solomon to continue on to Marble Arch. Instead, Dobson pushed Gabriel and Solomon forward so they all crossed together on the green light. On the other side, amongst a crowd of pedestrians, they looked back.
Olande had stopped outside the Cumberland hotel entrance. He stood feeling for something inside his jacket. Then he made his way into the side entrance of the hotel where taxis made pick-ups and drop-downs. A black hotel porter in a uniform nodded at him and he disappeared inside.
"Are we sure that's Olande?" Dobson asked Solomon.
"Very sure."
"Wait here, on this side, Stay out of sight. Don't cross the road."
As the light changed to green again Dobson joined the crowd and walked across.
The Cumberland Hotel has been there, on the corner, for many years. It was close enough to both Colin Asher's office and Dobson's flat to have become known to both of them. From the outside, it had not changed but the management had tried all sorts of ideas to modernise the interior even trying strange sculptures that Colin Asher once claimed had spoiled his lunch.
As Olande disappeared into the dark interior, Dobson followed.
If Olande had asked Dobson for directions he could have helped but, instead, he spoke to a bellboy who pointed to the place where they served buffet breakfasts, a big space lined with chairs and tables like a school canteen.
Olande then took out a phone and put it to his ear. His mouth moved and in the distance Mark Dobson saw someone else, a white man with fair hair, phone to his ear, raise an arm and wave it. Olande wended his way between tables towards him as Dobson found an empty table to sit and watch behind a large menu card.
Olande took a seat opposite the fair-haired one but seconds later stood, stuffed something into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and took what looked like a large, folded bag from the other man. Then he walked away with the bag under his arm. Dobson replaced the menu and followed him to the side door where, once again, Olande took out his phone.
Playing with phones was, in Dobson's opinion, a bad modern habit, a sign of nerves or a lack of confidence, of having a spare hand with nothing to do, for avoiding eye contact or showing how busy and important you were. But Olande fell into none of those categories. Olande was using it not to be noticed, to blend in. He was waiting, playing for time.
Dobson moved closer and recognised the bag as one of Selfridges oversized ones, the sort used for bulky purchases.
Five minutes passed before Dobson spotted two other smartly dressed black men enter from the other, Oxford Street entrance.
There was no need to guess who they were. It was the neatly pressed suits, the trilby perched on the head of one and the dark glasses of the shorter, fatter one. The rings on both Ayo's and Lazarus's fingers glinted in the artificial light from thirty metres away.
They went to the cafe, Ayo leading the way to the far table where the white man was still sitting. He stood up and they all shook hands. Lazarus took off his dark glasses as if he needed a better look at the man. But none of them sat down. Instead the white one pushed a large black, carry-on airline bag that had been hidden on the floor at his feet towards them with his foot. It looked heavy.
The two fake pastors nodded nervously, Ayo said something, perhaps thank you, and pointed to the bag for Lazarus to pick up. Lazarus wobbled as if it was far heavier than he'd expected. Then they left, Lazarus transferring the bag from his right hand to his left as they headed back to the Oxford Street exit. They walked so close to Dobson that he caught a strong whiff of aftershave, but he was, by then, phoning Solomon to watch the other, Edgware Road exit and keep an eye on Olande.
Ayo and Lazarus exited, turned left passed the entrance to Marble Arch underground station and mingled with the usual dense crowds of Oxford Street shoppers. Dobson followed.
But then suddenly, from nowhere, and in a split second, there was a scuffle amongst the crowd and Dobson saw the black case snatched from Lazarus. Lazarus fell in a clumsy heap. His dark glasses skidded between people’s feet across the wet pavement as a young black man in jeans and a hooded anorak ran past, scattering walkers and carrying the black case. He then disappeared around the corner into Edgware Road.
Dobson was still on the phone to Solomon. "Young black guy running your way. With a black bag."
"I see him," answered Solomon. "Nigerian bag snatch."
"Couldn't have done it better ourselves, Sol." Dobson heard Gabriel say. "It needs to change hands immediately."
And it did.
"There, Femi. Olande's taken it.”
And the black case just disappeared, deep inside the Selfridges bag.
"Efficient, Sol. Like a genuine Lagos agbero."
"Enough," Dobson said into the phone. "Don't for Christ's sake follow him or get seen. Stay where you are. I'm going back inside."
He returned to the cafe where the white guy with the fair hair was paying his bill to a waitress. A credit card was returned from a hand-held, a receipt was given and he got up, patted the pocket of his jacket where he'd put his wallet and came towards Dobson. The man was young, blonde hair, sun-tanned, blue jeans, brown shoes, tee shirt beneath the navy-blue jacket and he took a lift, pressing the third-floor button. Dobson took the next lift, third floor, and saw the door of room 318 closing. Then he took the lift back down to reception.
"Can I leave a message for Mr Osborne. Room 318," he said.
"Of course, sir.......... Ah. Sorry sir, but that's not Mr Osborne's room."
"Sorry, he told me 318. Maybe he's in the meeting in 318?"
"You want me to check, sir?"
"Thanks so much."
"Your name, sir?"
"Smith, Simon Smith."
She did something on the computer, then picked the phone. "There's a Mr Smith here with a message for Mr Osborne, Mr Kaplan."
"Sorry," Dobson interrupted. "I meant 418 not 318." Then he left, hurriedly.
Back on Edgware Road, Solomon described what they'd just seen: Olande taking the black case, stuffing it inside the Selfridges bag and then ambling off towards Park Lane. "It looked heavy," said Sol.
Craig Donovan was still shaking his head in amazement. "I managed to video parts of it," he said. "I think I got a good shot of Olande."
That was good news. It was something that was to come in very useful later on, but Dobson said nothing for the moment. Instead, they walked together past Marble Arch into Hyde Park, found a bench seat and sat down.
Then Dobson explained what he'd just witnessed. That he'd seen David Kaplan. That it was Kaplan who had handed Ayo and Lazarus the case. That the case was heavy enough to have been stuffed with cash. Cash for what? For help, for influence? For the FAA contract or some other service? It was impossible to say.
Gabriel sat holding his head in his hands. Solomon nodded. Donovan shook his head.
"So, there we have it," Dobson said. "Osman Olande has, in the twinkling of an eye, stolen a case probably containing a lot of cash that had just been given to Ayo and Lazarus. They lost it almost as soon as they'd been given it."
This was no ordinary bag snatch. The speed, the planning and execution had been perfect “That was a set up," Dobson said. "A set up that directly involved David Kaplan."
He let it sink in for a moment. "But I've known it before," he went on. "Appear to honour an agreement then use a trick to win it all back in seconds. No-one will ever know. This time two fake pastors are the losers. Serve them right, I suppose, but others must have known what was going on."
But who? Someone on Colin's spreadsheet? Someone like Festus Fulani? But how to prove any of it?
"What you're involved in is a web of criminality, corruption and double dealing so complicated it would be almost impossible to unravel," Dobson told them. "Not only that but you are the ones accused of corruption and criminality. How does that make you feel?"
It was Gabriel who at last said the word that Dobson had been tempted to use for the last few weeks. "Naive," he said.
Solomon nodded. "This ain't our world, Femi. I told you before."
"Yeh, but look what we've already done, Sol. We can't stop now."
And then the rain started again. Heavily.
"So, what now?" Dobson asked as they hurried back onto Edgware Road.
"I need to think," said Gabriel.
"We both need to think," said Solomon. "You want my fucking opinion or not?"
"You know what I mean, Sol."
"Just don't go back to Blossoms," Dobson said. "Go and think somewhere else."
It was agreed. Craig would stick around the UK for a few weeks because Zoe had said she'd come over from Washington.
If Dobson could track down Vigo or Mazda he'd get them to sort out the containers sitting at Apapa docks.
Gabriel would lie low for a bit, maybe in the Hammersmith house. If he got bored, which was likely, he'd head to Nairobi to sort out some overdue matters.
Solomon would head for Accra, Ghana for a few days, then to Abuja to see Michael Fayinka and Bill Larsen.
"Why Ghana?" Dobson asked him.
"I need to see Carla,” was all Solomon said
It was three days after the bag snatch in Oxford Street.
Colin Asher had tried to persuade Dobson to forget Gabriel for a while and go to Seoul in South Korea and they'd spent time together discussing a new client, a Korean guy with a London partner. Dobson was in his flat devising some sort of strategy before heading to Korea when Gabriel rang.
"Where are you?" Dobson asked.
"Nairobi. And Sol's in Accra, Carla's mammy's just died."
Another death, and old father time reminding Dobson, if not Gabriel, that our allocation of time on earth was his decision, not ours.
Dobson could have reflected for a bit longer but Gabriel's reflections on life and death were shorter than his. Perhaps Gabriel just didn't like dwelling on death at all for he completely changed the subject.
"Do you see why Boko Haram became the COK?" he asked as if it was relevant to the moment. "And do you see how the COK may soon become something else with a new name and ideas just as ill thought out and unfair as the system they seek to replace?"
It was a bad, echoing call and Dobson looked out of the window to distract himself. He didn't do Skype or video calls, believing they were a visual distraction. Gabriel had tried Skype on him once but after Dobson told him the picture did nothing for his looks. he'd used voice calls ever since. So, Gabriel couldn't see Dobson also shaking his head in frustration.
Far away in Nairobi though Gabriel was, Dobson knew he had something to ask, probably a favour, but was going about it in a roundabout way starting with a history of Islamic terrorism in Africa. It was a Gabriel speech, by echoing phone, but delivered as if Gabriel was lecturing a group of university students.
"It goes back years," he was saying. "Back to the days of Mohammed Yusuf's hard-line Islamist sect in Maiduguri. You see, Islamic fundamentalism and terrorism is like a weed, a weed that still grows even if you cut off its leaves. To destroy it you need to destroy its roots. But even then, you may be too late because weeds also scatter seeds far and wide.
"Mohammed Yusuf scattered seeds long before he was killed. The seeds were Abubakar Shekau and his team. They got angry. They wanted revenge, revenge against the state, revenge against a system they saw as more and more westernised and morally and economically corrupt. In a way, they were right but mostly they were bored fanatics, murderers looking for excuses to kill. But all they've ever done is replicate the old faults and damage society further. It shows how little anyone ever learns."
Dobson heard Gabriel sigh. Was he finished yet?
"The COK needs to be tamed, softened, humanised but I do not see how anyone can do that. And all the time, the population grows, the numbers of poor people increase and worthwhile jobs disappear."
He took another deep breath and fell silent like a man who'd just lost his lecture notes. Dobson decided to help him out.
"But groups like the COK never seem short of money, Gabriel. Who's funding them?".
"Who funded ISIS, Al Qaida?"
"Criminality," Dobson said. "But I asked you who's funding the COK?"
Gabriel didn't know the answer, but it was a question that had been bothering Mark Dobson. It kept coming back to him, lurking there like a missing link that might explain everything to do with Gabriel's problems. Instead he asked: "Why have you phoned, Gabriel?"
"Sol often says you should join us, Mark. He says you've become indispensable. You should become a director of Solomon International. Run the UK operation."
"I'm honoured," Dobson said. "But what the bloody hell do I do that's so indispensable?"
"Ask the right questions."
"Anything else?"
"Advise, sort problems, act like a friend and like a genuine private investigator. You got useful stuff at your fingertips. You take the pressure off, like by getting mugged instead of me. You generally fuck around making yourself useful."
Strangely, Dobson still felt honoured.
"You want to know something vital?" Gabriel asked.
"I can hardly wait."
"You remember telling me about Vigo and Mazda and the Pink Lips Club?"
"My clients always get full explanations."
"It's why I think you're honest and genuine, Mark. It's why I think you got magic tricks up your sleeve. Why you're good at taking the pressure off. Why I think all the fucking about you do works. It's like it triggers fresh ideas."
"It's years of practice, Gabriel."
"So, my fresh idea was that Michael talked to your friend Vigo."
"Did he?"
"Yep. And Vigo talked to others."
"Like who?"
"Like Benji, Casper and Danny at the Pink Lips Club."
"They free now?"
"Seems so."
"And?"
"They got themselves a close-knit."
"A what?"
"A gang. Vigo, Mazda, Civic, Benji, Casper, Danny and your young friend Chelsea. They got themselves a close-knit."
Dobson, previously slumped by the window, sat up. Alarm bells were ringing. "With precisely what purpose in mind?"
"To fuck Festus and his friends, to clear the ground for a purge."
Dobson now stood up. This all sounded very Nigerian.
"What do you think?" Gabriel asked.
"Well," he said, "Numbers of feet on the ground sometimes make a difference."
"That's it, Mark. An army of foot soldiers. Like Bill says."