An Honourable Fake by Terry Morgan - HTML preview

"Follow the Mondeo."

"The 06 registered one?"

"That's the one."

The Mondeo took the M4 motorway and headed west. It was now dark, heavy M4 commuter traffic almost at a standstill but the Mondeo was only a few cars ahead. "Just keep following it."

"How far he's going, mate?"

"I've no idea."

"Christ, mate, we could end up in bloody Wales."

"It's OK, I speak Welsh."

"Yeh, right, mate. Pull the other one. Americans can't even speak English proper."

But the Mondeo turned off at the Slough central turn, headed for the town centre and then into a maze of roads in a low-cost housing estate. "You still want me to follow him?"

"Sure. Keep on his tail."

"You fucking CIA or something, mate? Now he's stopping and getting out. See?"

"OK. Drive past, stop and wait for me."

Donovan walked back to the Mondeo, checked the registration number and the house number and returned to the taxi. Half an hour later he was back at the Radisson. Then, hoping Colin Asher was now free of the Korean client, he phoned in.

Mark Dobson had chosen a freshly laundered blue shirt and red tie to wear with his suit for dinner with the Deputy High Commissioner, his wife Jane and Taj Harding.

It was his first proper meal for days. The chicken wasn't bad, he decided, the apple tart average and the squirt of whipped cream like any other.

Over coffee, Harding began a discussion about Halima. "The camp is not suitable for a sixteen-year old girl," he said. "But she's very bright and talks well. If we got her down here, we could probably find her a school place. She could make a huge difference to PR and funding."

Dobson listened and by eleven o'clock when a Commission car was summoned to return them to the Sheraton, Mark Dobson had roughly caught up with their plans. Two of the main characters who had so frustrated Gabriel for years were, it seemed, now running the show.

By midnight, Dobson discovered that whilst he'd been eating roast chicken, the Asher & Asher secure site had been busy. Colin Asher had also spoken to Martin Abisola.

"The Mondeo is registered to a Nigerian called Blessing Akami of 67 Thompson Road, Slough," Colin Asher's message read. "He runs a corner shop and a night taxi service. No prison record but here's a photo."

"Most likely theory is Ayo will use Blessing to take money from Lazarus's bank and deposit it at the Islamic Bank on Edgware Road.

"Proposed action is this: Craig will watch the Indian Bank in Southall. If we get movement there, Craig will follow. Meanwhile, I'll take a walk down Edgware Road and sip tea at Zabiollah's opposite the Islamic bank in case Craig loses them or they go somewhere else. The only problem is how much mint tea I can drink in one morning."

"And any news of Gabriel?" Dobson asked in his reply message.

"None."

 

At eight next morning, Ayo hammered on the door of Lazarus's room. From inside came a moaning sound accompanied by the shuffling of feet and a chain being drawn. The door opened an inch and a red eye appeared.

"I am leaving for my bank Lazarus."

In response, the red eye blinked.

"As you were careless and lost your passport and bank cards, I now have to take full responsibility for resolving our financial problems. Do you understand?"

The red eye moved up and then down.

"Do you want to debate serious financial matters through the crack of a door, Lazarus?"

The red eye moved from side to side.

Ayo sighed. "I will withdraw half of what we owe. Then I will go to the bank of our friend. Do you understand, Lazarus?"

There was a wet sniffing sound as if Lazarus's nose lay flat against the other side of the door. "Something happened, Ayo," he sniffed. "Someone stole everything."

"Nonsense. It is your stupidity, your carelessness."

"I am fastidious in my ways, Ayo. My father always said a clear conscience makes a soft pillow. Something happened. Someone stole it, Ayo. Someone close to me. Someone who I thought was my friend."

"Do you have any friends, Lazarus?"

"A rich man without compassion is a poor man with money, Ayo," Lazarus whispered. Then the door closed and the bolt was slid back.

Ayo spoke to the closed door. "Another fine saying, Lazarus, but do you know the real meaning of the cross?” He paused. "The cross is God's way of turning a minus into a plus." Then he laughed and wandered away down the corridor.

 

Southall, just a few miles from Heathrow, has a historic reputation for being the largest Asian community in the UK. Nigerians are not uncommon but are far outnumbered by Indians. Craig Donovan had asked Colin Asher why a Nigerian like Lazarus might have an account at the Bank of Baroda.

"It might be linked to jewellery or gold deposits." Asher said. "Lazarus's father owned a jewellery shop."

It was a clear, sunny morning when Donovan arrived in Southall Broadway. He was early and hoped to find a decent coffee shop but made do with a can of iced coffee from an Indian mini supermarket. Being on a dual carriageway, it was also a poor place for a stakeout so Donovan waited outside the supermarket.

He was on his third can when he saw the Nigerian, almost hidden inside a black, hooded anorak. He was carrying a brown envelope and, as he stopped to look up at the Bank of Baroda sign, Donovan moved. The bank had just opened but an orderly line of customers was already waiting inside - long beards, brightly coloured saris and white turbans dominated.

"Can I help, sir?" An Indian girl in red uniform asked Donovan.

"I'd like some information on mortgages for a friend," Donovan said. "Do you have a leaflet or something."

"Just one moment sir." and she pulled a leaflet from a bundle on a table. "If you need more help, sir, please ask."

"Thank you. I'll read it here if you don't mind."

"Of course, sir. Please take a seat." And she went straight to the next customer who had come through the door, the Nigerian. Donovan was the only white person in the bank. He rang Colin Asher, said "He's arrived" and switched off.

Blessing Akami of 67 Thompson Road, Slough stood for a moment and then joined the queue. He pulled his hood back a fraction, scratched his face and the girl in red saw the uncertainty. “Yes sir?"

"I forgot," Donovan heard him say. "I have an appointment. He is Mr Joshi."

"Ah yes, sir. Your name sir?"

"My name? He is, uh........." Blessing fumbled in the envelope, pulled out the passport, opened it, went to the name page and the envelope fell on the floor. He retrieved it, then read, far too slowly: "He is Lazarus Bola Iyabo. I want to see Mr, ah, Mr Joshi."

The girl looked at him perhaps suspiciously. To all intents and purposes Blessing Akami possessed all the classic looks of an opportunist bank robber. "Please wait a moment, sir." She went to the counter said a few words to another girl and pointed towards Blessing.

And Blessing came to sit beside Donovan, his unnecessary anorak rustling as he rested one trainer-clad foot on his opposite knee, almost rubbing its street dirt onto Donovan's clean and pressed trousers.

Donovan, watching him stuff the passport back in the envelope, said: "Good Morning," and continued reading his mortgages leaflet.

Blessing nodded and waited perhaps five minutes until the girl in red came over and spoke to him "Mr Joshi will see you now. Counter five."

Donovan watched the transaction - quiet, muttered words, a dark green passport handed over, a letter from the bank on headed paper, a plastic card and a signature that Blessing struggled with. Another piece of paper that Mr Joshi struggled to read. Then another signature and a wait as Joshi typed things into a computer and stared at the screen. The electronic transfer that would empty and then close the account? Then another wait. Blessing looking around. Donovan looking away. Then two envelopes were passed over, thick white ones held together with wide rubber bands and Blessing with no sign of a thank you walked out of the bank with the envelopes inside his anorak.

Donovan followed him west along the Broadway, turning right, then right again. At a corner, Blessing walked into Habib's Tyres and Exhausts Centre and there was the Ford Mondeo. As Blessing drove away, Donovan phoned Colin Asher.

"Right, I'm on the case," Asher said. "Mr Joshi, did you say? OK leave it with me. Get down to Edgware Road. I'll be in Zabiollah's."

Colin Asher then phoned a friend, the Director of Organised Crime at the UK National Crime Agency. Within an hour two men from the NCA had called at the Bank of Baroda, flashed a card and asked to see the manager.

By then Craig Donovan had arrived at Zabiolla's Iranian tea, coffee and pastries shop in Edgware Road. He found Colin Asher sitting in the window drinking mint tea and watching the bank opposite.

"Anything yet?" Donovan asked settling onto the stool next to him.

"Nothing. Listen I need to get back. The transaction at the Baroda bank is already being looked into. If things happen as expected, we'll then deal with the bank opposite."

"You can do all that Colin?"

"Not me personally but someone from the National Crime Agency. We feed in evidence, add it to what Martin Abisola has supplied, throw in evidence of other misdemeanours and watch events. Try the kataifi - it's very good."

Donovan ordered tea, took out his John Le Carre, opened it at the curled-up corner and was taking his first bite of the kataifi when he saw the heavy overcoat and trilby of Pastor Ayo.

He was standing in a shop doorway next to the bank, one hand grasping the handle of a bag on wheels at his feet. Seconds later, the hooded anorak of Blessing rounded the corner and the two white envelopes were handed over. Ayo flipped the rubber band off one of them, withdrew a bundle and, hidden between his own overcoat and Blessing's anorak, passed it over. Blessing nodded and scurried away. Ayo bent to his case, stuffed both envelopes inside, glanced around and waved down a passing black cab. It had all taken less than a minute.

Donovan dropped a twenty-pound note by his mint tea, ran outside and hailed another passing cab. Ayo's taxi was already stuck in traffic further up Edgware Road

"Where to sir?"

"Follow that cab. Just don't lose him. OK?"

"Got it. You American, sir?"

"How did you guess?"

The driver grinned through the partition. "Don't tell me. FBI."

"National Crime Agency," Donovan said and immediately liked the sound of it.

"Bloody hell."

Ayo's taxi turned into Sussex Gardens, then onto Bayswater Road, then travelled west through Holland Park and, within twenty minutes, they were on the A4, Hammersmith Flyover and heading towards the M4 motorway.

Donovan phoned Asher with another update, adding that he assumed Ayo was returning to the Radisson. He was wrong. Ayo's taxi turned off and headed for the Heathrow airport tunnel. Ten minutes later Ayo checked in at the Air France counter and headed straight to Departures. Donovan phoned Asher again.

"Christ. OK. Stand by, Craig. I'll see if I can find out where he's heading."

Twenty minutes later Asher phoned back. "Sorry Craig. We've lost him. My suspicion is he's used a different passport to check in but I can't get anyone in security to respond. But where the fuck is Lazarus?"

"Last time I saw him he was at the Radisson. What can I do now?"

"Stick around while I do some more checks. Go and read your book."

"I can't. I left it at Zabiollah's."

"Buy another. But an interesting morning's work, Craig. Ayo has emptied Lazarus's bank account, taken a huge amount of cash for himself and moved the balance to the Islamic bank. We're now checking how much was moved."

 

Craig Donovan bought a newspaper and sat down to wait, but after an hour and nothing fresh from Asher he phoned to say he was returning to the Radisson. For some reason, he felt worried about Lazarus.

He asked at reception. "No sir," he was told. "Neither of the two Nigerian gentlemen has checked out yet."

Deciding it was not his business to tell them he'd just watched one of them take a flight out, probably back to Nigeria, he took a walk along the corridor outside their rooms. A 'Do Not Disturb' notice hung on one door so he returned to reception. "Would you mind checking if there is anyone in Room 218."

"Of course, one minute, sir.........Sorry sir, there is no response."

"I'm worried about the occupant," Donovan said.

"That is the Nigerian gentleman who lost his passport, sir?"

"That's the one."

"Is there cause for concern, sir? He seemed very upset yesterday."

"His partner has already flown back to Nigeria - alone," said Donovan.

"Mmm...... without checking out it seems. I'll get someone to check."

Donovan was there when the Portuguese maid knocked on the door of 218 with its 'Do Not Disturb' notice. She called but got no response so opened it with her universal key. Donovan followed her inside and was right behind her when she pushed open the bathroom door and screamed. She turned, collided with Donovan and rushed out, her hand over her mouth.

Lazarus's naked body was lying face down in a pool of blood that had spread across the tiled floor to the door.

The Radisson called the police.

Craig Donovan called Colin Asher. Asher phoned a contact in the police and, at last, Heathrow security did something. The London police called the French police, but no-one called Ayoola Eniate was on the passenger list of any Air France connecting flights even to Abuja. They were now checking CCTV. Colin Asher then phoned Martin Abisola. Abisola spoke to his man in London and then phoned Mark Dobson at the Sheraton.

"No-one resembling Ayo boarded the Abuja flight or any other flight this afternoon," Abisola said. "I think he's gone to ground in Paris or taken a train somewhere. And Lazarus was alive after Ayo left because the maid saw him."

Mark Dobson logged onto the Asher & Asher site to find another long list of updates.

"Blessing Akami's been arrested over the bank fraud but we know where he's been all day so he's not a suspect in Lazarus's killing."

The next message said: The ICC Commercial Crime Services (CCS) is now acting on something we've given them that they've been following for years. CIA, FBI, Interpol involved."

Then: "FraudNet, the global network of law firms that specialise in tackling business crime is back on a string of cases just through one single piece of evidence we gave them."

And then there was the less formal message: "It's pack of cards time, Mark. I never thought I'd live to see things happen so quickly. Police arrested a guy called Alhaji Ahmed and a woman, Nabila Alhassan who were on the same flight in as Ayo and Lazarus. Since then, one name led to another. They're going down like flies."

 

As Mark Dobson lay on his bed at the Sheraton waiting for more updates there was a light knock on his door. He logged off, shoved the laptop into its case and squinted through the security hole in the door. Looking back at him was the distorted image of Taj Harding.

"Mark? You there?"

Dobson slid the bolt. "What's up?"

"You heard from Gabriel?"

"No. Come in. Make yourself at home."

"He's in Washington. I just spoke to Daniel in Jo'burg. Gabriel flew to Washington straight from Nairobi."

"What's he up to?"

"He's being led around by Senator James McAllister. You know him?"

"Gabriel's mentioned him." Dobson said.

"McAlister's had him on TV, interviews with the press, a long interview with The African magazine, off the cuff remarks to anyone who listens about the COK, corruption, African politics, education, health, the economy. He's also got wind of the Halima story. 'Heroic Nigerian girl outwits COK' says one headline. They're buzzing for details. Halima and Bill Larsen are arriving Friday so I've booked Ballroom 2 for a press conference."

"The ballroom? Jesus."

Dobson was flabbergasted. How many people were they expecting for God's sake? This was not his scene at all. He just didn't do press gatherings, promotional events and public demonstrations directed at entertaining the masses at peak viewing times. Neither did Colin Asher who would be scared witless if he knew he was on the periphery of these sorts of shenanigans. Asher & Asher operated behind the scenes, deliberately keeping their heads down and for damned good reasons. Look what had happened to him when someone heard he was visiting Lagos for a client they didn't approve of.

"I hope ballroom two will be big enough," Harding said.

"Bloody hell."

And Dobson's mind reverted to Gabriel in Washington. And Solomon. Did Solomon know what Gabriel was doing? Did Bill Larsen know? Did Martin Abisola know?

"So, what've you been up to today, Mark?" Harding asked as if it nothing was likely to have been as important as his and Bakare's achievements.

"Looking into ways the COK benefits from money laundering, organising a watch on someone's UK bank account being emptied, the transfer of that money to an account run by the COK, theft of some of that money in cash by someone who then disappeared back to Nigeria and the death of the guy whose account was emptied. Watching the Nigerian criminal fraternity's banking arrangements break down. All in a day's work."

"I see. So, nothing to do with Gabriel today."

Mark Dobson hadn't yet sat down but if he'd been sitting, he'd have stood up now. He looked at Taj Harding, tried hard not to shake his head in disbelief and tried even harder not to punch the guy. Instead:

"Fuck me, Taj. Everything's to do with Gabriel. One bloody thing leads to another bloody thing. We've just got Gabriel released from detention in Nairobi based on a forged arrest warrant. Why? Because people are either trying to take advantage of him or destroy him.

"If you're running a press conference you might like a session on why and how the COK runs its campaign of atrocities like the abduction of schoolgirls, like the beheading of Benjamin, the shooting of Kennet Eju and this afternoon the killing of another Nigerian pastor. You and Bakare might like to know what the fuck really is going on here. How long's your bloody press conference scheduled to last?"

Dobson was getting so worked up with Harding that he was pleased when the room phone rang. He turned to look at it. He really didn't like hotel room phones these days. They struck a strange fear in him, but he picked it up.

"Mark. Dickson's outside. Five minutes. Bring your toothbrush."

He replaced the phone and looked at Taj Harding. "I have to go out," he said. "A meeting with the Secret Service."

Harding looked at his watch. "I see. But it's almost midnight."

"Good and evil work side by side, Taj. Twenty-four seven."

He saw Harding to the door, reluctantly wished him good night, stuck his toothbrush inside the laptop bag and went downstairs.

 

Martin Abisola was sat with his feet on the table, phone clamped to his ear when Dickson ushered Dobson into the room. He beckoned Dobson to sit but continued his conversation.

"You're in charge, Musa. You decide but don't expect more resources." He looked over at Dobson. "It's what the English call running a tight ship......that's it..... efficiency. Call me when you've made the arrests."

He switched off, dropped the phone into the top pocket of his ruby red shirt and put his hands behind his head. "Guns, semi-automatics, found at the back of a shop belonging to the brother of a State Governor. They were easy to find but why are they there. That is the question."

Dobson shrugged. How would he know?

"Great operation by Colin Asher today, Mark. A pity Pastor Ayo disappeared but we're on the case. An even greater pity about Lazarus. He was never suited to this business. He should have stuck with his church."

"So, what happened at the Islamic Bank?" Dobson asked.

"It's why you're here," Abisola said taking his feet off the table. "Colin Asher phoned me. He's seriously concerned for your safety."

"I'm touched."

"That single transaction at the Bank of Baroda triggered a whole chain of events. Several arrests were made during the day for money laundering linked to criminal activity. Alhaji Ahmed and the woman Nabila Alhassa were among those detained.”

"Might there be an unwanted chain reaction from elsewhere?"

"Not if we move fast enough. The UK police are raiding properties across London and Essex in the next few hours. One raid will be on a house in Essex used by Osman Olande and owned by Festus Fulani."

"So, what can I do? Why am I here? I'm starting to feel left out."

"OK. Listen. Colin Asher is still, fortunately, a mystery to people like Osman Olande, Festus Fulani and Zainab Azazi. They do not understand who he is, what he is or where he is, though I understand Olande once phoned him on Kenneth Eju's old phone to try to trace him. On the other hand, you, Mr Hicks, Mark, are not such a mystery. I think you are as much of a target as Gabriel would be if he suddenly turned up here. That's why you're sitting here now."

"I'm doubly touched."

"But first," Abisola stood up. "Can you tell me where Gabriel is?"

"He's in Washington," Dobson said, "I learned that forty minutes ago."

"Washington!"

"He's doing press interviews and appearing on TV."

"Is he spreading good news or bad news?"

"One man's good news is another man's bad news, but Gabriel prides himself on not telling lies. He says he only offers opinions though he'll admit they're strong ones."

"My opinion is if he comes back here, we'll see an attempt on his life."

"But Gabriel ignores the opinions of others."

"I've noticed. And where's Solomon?"

"Probably still in Accra."

Abisola took a short stroll around the table. "Staying at the Sheraton is not good for you, Mark. You need to get out more."

"It was you told me to stay there."

"I thought you'd ignore me."

"I would normally but I've been busy directing matters remotely and I'm as much in awe of the Nigerian SSS as you are with Asher & Asher."

Martin Abisola gave a lop-sided smile.

"Staying at the Sheraton has other advantages," Dobson added. "I hear things. For instance, I hear a big media event is being organised starring Halima. Bill Larsen's bringing her to Abuja. She's being billed as a bright young heroine and a reason why terrorism never wins. The Sheraton's ballroom has been booked." He let that sink in for a moment.

"How long have you known this?"

Dobson checked his watch. "Forty-two minutes."

"Whose idea is that?"

"Primarily Bakare's with the US Embassy. Americans like that sort of thing, especially black Americans. Right now, though, Bakare's in Johannesburg."

"Why don't we know? The President should be told. And what about security? Who's invited? Do they think this is just some friendly get together with the world's press?"

"I think they intend to use Halima to focus on Gabriel's Project - for funding. I can see the attraction. The problem is they don't understand the security risk. Talking to Taj Harding I don't they understand anything at all."

The knot on Abisola's tie had slipped so far down that he pulled it off, screwed it up and dropped it on the table. Dobson continued. "Do you know about the US decision for a military surveillance operation out of Agadez?"

"This morning. A note via Steve Barnett. The President then spoke to Hama Dosso. It's welcomed."

"Do you know that Gabriel probably influenced that decision? That he lobbied for funds for surveillance drones for his Project?"

"No. But why doesn't that surprise me?"

"If you want my cynical opinion on why they made the decision I'd say it was because a couple of Americans died in Burkina Faso."

"Of course - Banfola "

"So, there you have it, Martin. America must defend its own and America must also show it's the reason for all good news stories."

 

Right then the phone that had been lying next to Abisola's crumpled tie vibrated and turned a full circle. He picked it up. "Yes, he's here. It's Colin Asher."

"Have you finished in Nigeria yet?"

"