An African Affair (14 page)

It was getting late, after two o’clock in the morning. J.R. had drifted off to visit other tables. Lindsay had drunk too many beers and was beginning to feel the Afro beat like a hammer in the back of her head. She wanted to go home, but there was no sign of the show’s coming to an end. She looked over at Maureen, who had been furiously taking notes but now signaled that she was ready to go. Lindsay leaned over so James could hear her above the music.

“Shall we go?”

They were sitting up front. To leave meant getting up and pushing through the crowd.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea just yet,” James said. “Can you wait a bit?”

“I guess. But my head is killing me.”

“Try to hang on a little longer,” James said.

Maureen asked Lindsay what was happening.

“Nothing,” Lindsay said. “I think it’s time to go, but we’re a little worried about walking out in the middle of the show. This crowd might not take it well.”

Maureen looked around at the adulating audience.

“Maybe J.R. can help,” she said.

Lindsay scanned the room and saw J.R. talking to some people a few tables away. She made her way over to him, whispered in his ear and then returned to the table.

“J.R. is going to try to arrange something,” she said to James. Then, to Maureen, “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay. Whatever happens, it will beat trying to use the bathroom in this place.”

Ten minutes later, as Bayo finished one song and started talking to the audience, J.R. came over and said “Let’s go.” Bayo noticed them from the stage as they stood. J.R. made a sign and suddenly it seemed as if every eye in the place was on them. They nervously moved in the direction of the door. “Excuse me,” Lindsay said as they wriggled past the tightly crammed tables. There was an irritated murmur, and hard stares. Then Bayo said: “Hey, man, we got some friends for here, some REPORTERS. Dey come all de way from New York City for see us. Dey goin’ spread de word, man . . . dey goin’ spread de word.” He started applauding from the stage. There was a pause and then everyone joined him, banging the table and grinning as Lindsay, James, and Maureen made it to the door.

“Whoa,” Lindsay said when they were outside. “That was truly incredible. Thanks for coming with me. Really. It was a great night.”

“And a great story?” asked James.

“Absolutely. More than one, I think.”

“Anytime you want a job as an art smuggler, let me know. You’ve got nerves of steel. Both of you.”

“Don’t believe it—they feel like rubber, just now,” Maureen said. “And I could really use a bathroom.”

They stopped at Bayo’s place. The door was open, so they went in, found the bathroom, which was surprisingly middle class, containing a toilet with a seat, a wash basin, and soap in a small dish. Maureen hurried in first.

“When are you going to write your piece?” James asked Lindsay.

“Pretty soon. I want to get it out of the way before the group interview with Fakai. But I need to get more information. I’m going to ask J.R. for a real interview with Bayo, this time away from the Juju House.”

“Good luck,” James said skeptically.

He spotted J.R., who had just entered the house.

“I’m going to thank him,” James said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

When he returned, Maureen and Lindsay were ready to go. Maureen looked tired. She told them she needed to get home and go to bed. Lindsay noticed that the grinding music, the rawness of the sexuality had affected James. He put his arm around her and pulled her close as they walked to the car. She felt so much electricity between them that when James suggested he come in for another drink, Lindsay assumed that his self-imposed abstention was probably over. She was relieved when Maureen quickly excused herself and went upstairs to bed.

But James had something else on his mind.

“J.R. told me something I think you should know,” he said. “Please sit down.”

She went over to the sofa.

“He said he saw a guy he recognized at the Juju House, someone high up in the security service who reports directly to Olumide.”

Lindsay shrugged. “So?”

“His point was that the guy only shows up when Olumide sends him. He was probably there because of you.”

“That’s paranoid. How would he know I was going? We decided at the last minute.”

James looked impatient. He stood up and sat next to her on the couch.

“Lindsay, we were there for hours. Someone could have seen you and notified them. Or more likely, we were followed.”

Lindsay took James’s hand. “James, I’ve been followed almost everywhere I go, including when I met you at the motorboat club. So what? I’m not doing anything illegal. I can’t stop them from keeping tabs on me.”

“If Olumide is telling his top guy to watch you, then something more serious is happening. I think you should keep a low profile for a while. And if I were you, I’d hold off on Bayo as a political story for now.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll think about it.”

He smiled at her and squeezed her hand.

“That sounds smart. Look, I just care about you, that’s all. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

She felt a rush of gratitude.

“James,” she confided. “After the party, I tried to investigate that body that washed up at the high commissioner’s house. I spoke to a steward who gave me some information. When I went to see that person again, his wife said he was in the hospital. I’m afraid Olumide’s men got to him. The wife won’t let him talk to me now and I don’t blame her. I have to protect my sources, but I can’t stop talking to people. If I do that, then why am I here?”

“You might want to ask yourself what good you are doing if you do write about the protests. It will just force the government to crack down. In this case, they could close the Juju House.”

Her head was spinning. All those drinks, she thought. “Let’s not talk about it now,” she said, pulling him toward her and kissing him on the lips. He responded, pressing his hand into her lower back and pulling her closer. Then he gripped her hair, tilting her face upward to meet his eyes, and smiled regretfully.

“I’ve got to leave,” he said. “I take off for Ibadan very early tomorrow. I’ll be back in a few days.”

And he was gone.

Before going upstairs, Lindsay noticed the light blinking on her answering machine and pressed the button to hear her message. It was Joe Rainey in New York. “Hey kid, just wanted to let you know there’s been some fallout from your story about that murdered kid. The Nigerian ambassador made a formal complaint. We’re supporting you. But watch your back.”

After Joe Rainey’s warning, Lindsay was on the alert for trouble as John drove her to lunch with Vickie at the Chinese restaurant on Ikoyi Island. She was actually relieved she would be with an American diplomat. She left early and was the first to arrive. John dropped her off in front and showed her where he would meet her when she was ready to leave.

It was unusual for Lindsay to wait for someone else and, after fifteen minutes, she saw how irritating it was. She looked around the nearly empty restaurant, at its gray Formica tables and soiled white walls. Finally, Vickie came charging in, a heavy bag slung over her shoulder, looking sweaty and frazzled.

“I’m so sorry,” Vickie said, in a voice everyone could hear. “I expected traffic but nothing like this. It took an hour to get here from the embassy. I finally got out and ran.”

“It’s fine, really, Vickie. I know how you feel. Relax. I’ll order you a drink.”

Lindsay beckoned the waiter and ordered a gin and tonic for Vickie and a Diet Coke with lemon for herself.

“How did you know I drink gin and tonic?” Vickie asked.

“I didn’t. Lucky guess on a hot day. But that’s supposed to be my line. You’re the political officer so you’re the one with contacts in the CIA. You’re supposed to know what I drink.”

“Diet Coke with lemon.”

The women laughed and relaxed a little. The waiter brought the drinks—both without ice—and Vickie raised her glass for a toast:

“Cheers,” she said. “To new solutions and new friendships.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“I’m very glad you called,” Vickie said. “I was about to call you but you beat me to it.”

Each woman had her agenda and each felt that she had to play softball for a few minutes before embarking upon it, so the first twenty minutes were spent commiserating about the petty irritations of life in Lagos. Finally, Lindsay asked if there was any new information about the Agapo murder.

“Nothing hard. I’ll tell you, off the record, that is one of the reasons I’m here—to investigate those murders.”

“Would you call them murders or assassinations?” Lindsay asked.

Vickie looked up quickly. She seemed to be weighing what to say.

“I’d call them, very much off the record, assassinations.”

“Some local thug hired to do the dirty work for a higher-up we both know?”

“That I can’t say. But I’m not sure it was a local thug. I’d say the evidence points away from that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it might well have been an SI operation.”

Lindsay looked blank. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what that is.”

“Solutions, Incorporated. They’re a private mercenary group that is hired to do everyone’s dirty work because their operatives are hard to trace.”

“I’ve heard rumors about something like that, but never from anyone I could trust.”

“You can trust me.”

“But why are you leaking this?”

“Because I want you to use it, obviously—but not for attribution. This group has operated in the shadows for too long. It’s time to shine a little light on their actions. See if they react.”

“Yeah. If we’re really lucky they’ll react by eliminating the source of the light. Should I be worried?”

“No. Not unless Olumide takes a contract out on you.”

“How likely is that?”

“I wish I knew.”

“I heard there were complaints about my piece on Babatunde Oladayo.”

“Yeah. I’d go slow for a while. You might hold off on this Agapo story until you’re out of the country.”

“It seems like someone is telling me to hold almost every story I get. I’ll have to think about it. In the meantime, I can’t leave because I’m waiting to learn what Olumide plans to do next. I’ve heard he wants to arrest Fakai, provoke riots, and then call off the elections.”

Vickie smiled. “Where did you hear that?”

“Oh, I have sources . . .”

“And I hear you also have sources in The Next Step. What do they say?”

Lindsay stiffened. Ah, she thought, the other shoe drops. “If they say anything worth knowing, you can be sure I’ll include it in my articles.”

Vickie beckoned the waiter to order another round of drinks. After a brief, uncomfortable silence, she changed the topic completely. Two drinks later—by now Lindsay had switched to gin and tonic too—they were talking like old friends.

“So, Lindsay,” Vickie said, “what do you do when you aren’t talking to sources and writing stories? Is there someone back home you’re involved with?”

Lindsay smiled and took a sip of her drink.

“Not at home. Here, believe it or not.”

“That’s lucky. Who?”

“This guy I met at the ambassador’s party, actually. He’s an art dealer—name of James Duncan. He lives in London, but he’s an American, and I’ve been seeing a lot of him. What about you?”

“I’ve been pretty seriously involved with a guy—Hal Bodkin,” Vickie enunciated his name with care—“but I’m not sure where it’s going. He didn’t want me to take this assignment, but he didn’t make me a better offer either.”

“I know how that is,” Lindsay said. “James is right here, but he never talks about what might happen when one of us leaves.”

“Well, maybe you should just tell him how you feel.”

“It sounds like I could say the same to you.” Though she warmed to Vickie, Lindsay still didn’t completely trust her. But it felt good to confide, however carefully, in someone with a fresh point of view.

“I don’t know if I did the right thing coming here,” Vickie said. “This posting could last a year. I hoped it would force him into making a commitment, but what if he just finds someone else?”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Lindsay answered. “I don’t even know what I think about these things anymore, since James. Before I met him I would have said that you have to live your life independently and if he’s right for you he will understand.”

“Well, what would you do if James was ready to leave right now, tomorrow, and you had to stay to follow this story?”

“I don’t know. If he asked me, I might go with him. You know,” she continued slowly, “I wanted to be a journalist since I was in high school and being a foreign correspondent was my dream. And I’ve done it. But lately I’ve been feeling that whatever it was that sustained me no longer does.”

“Do you ever feel you want to be part of the solution instead of just observing and recording the problem?”

“Sometimes. James saw my doubts even before I did. He helped me recognize them.”

“So, if he asked you, would you leave your job?”

Lindsay laughed. “Somehow, I don’t think I’m going to have that problem.”

“But if you did?”

“Maybe. Maybe I’d leave the job if it meant we’d stay together. I could get another assignment. I guess I could even get another job, if it came to that. I don’t see how I could risk letting him go.”

It was the first time Lindsay had articulated that thought, even to herself.

Vickie nodded her head thoughtfully. “You’ve got it bad.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

The food arrived and they both served themselves in silence. Then Vickie looked up.

“How much longer do you think James will stay?” Vickie asked, finishing a spring roll.