An African Affair (23 page)

As they were talking, Mike Vale rushed in. “Sorry I’m late,” he mumbled. “What’ve you got?”

Lindsay gave him a hard look, but said nothing. She turned back to Henry.

“I wonder how many soldiers are loyal to the government,” she said. “Is it still possible this rebellion will be put down? Is there any news on what happened to Olumide?”

“We don’t have anything official,” said Henry, nervously. Quick to pick up the scent of blood, all the reporters closed in.

“But you do know something,” said Mike Vale. “Don’t you?”

“Come on, Henry, just blurt it out,” said Ed Courvet.

“Don’t worry if you’re wrong,” Lindsay said. “No one will attribute it to you.”

“Nor to anyone from the High Commission,” Henry insisted.

“Right. Just a Western diplomat.”

“No. Not even a Western diplomat.”

“Okay,” said Mike Vale. “How about ‘a local observer’?”

“I suppose that will do,” he said.

“So,” said Richard McManus impatiently. “What have you observed?”

“Okay,” said Henry, looking down and lowering his voice. “I heard that Olumide is dead. I heard his body is lying in a ditch on the Ikoyi Road.”

They were out the door before he raised his eyes.

On their way to their cars, Mike turned to Lindsay. “What the hell happened to you? You look terrible.”

“Don’t worry about me.” She turned to the other reporters. “If this information is true, Olumide was probably on his way to Dodan Barracks when he was attacked.”

“The area around military headquarters will be blocked by now,” Ed said. “Let’s go in one car and take the Ikoyi Road, heading toward his home.”

They all piled into Ed’s car. The streets became more active as they neared Olumide’s house. Crowds were forming and skittish police officers were holding them back, demanding papers and bribes at makeshift roadblocks. As they got closer, the police became more aggressive. At the last roadblock two officers approached. Their AK-47s were slung loosely over their shoulders and swung as they moved. One walked to the driver’s side of their car, while the other moved to the passenger side. The first indicated that he wanted the window rolled down. Ed swiftly complied.

“Papers,” the officer demanded.

He was staring at Ed’s gold wristwatch. Lindsay noticed and quietly removed her own watch and slipped it into her pocket. Ed handed over his press credentials and passport. The passport was stuffed so full of bills that it couldn’t close, but the officer continued to stare at Ed’s watch. “Give him the watch,” Lindsay whispered. Ed unbuckled it and handed it over. The officer slipped it into his pocket and deftly removed the bills from the passport. He returned all the papers without looking at them, nodded at his colleague, and motioned the car forward. Ed drove slowly. A few hundred feet from the roadblock, the flashing lights of police cars and ambulances told them they were getting close.

The reporters found the wrecked car about three miles from Olumide’s house. They got out of their car and walked as close as they were permitted. As they approached, they could see the bullet holes. One of the doors was open. Blood was splattered on the dashboard and the upholstery. Olumide’s body was missing, but his driver and one of his bodyguards lay dead in the front seat. A few feet farther on, they saw the remains of the car carrying the rest of his security team, its charred metal hulk still smoldering.

They dashed back to their car. On her way back to Reuters, Lindsay switched on the radio. At first all she heard was the same repetitive military music, but after a few minutes Colonel Murtalla’s voice addressed the nation.

“The revolution is triumphant,” he announced. “The oppressive and corrupt former president has been executed by the people’s army. We pledge to carry out free elections as soon as order is restored.”

There was nothing for Lindsay to do now but file.

It was midnight and Lindsay, finally, was in bed. She was severely shaken, but she knew that despite everything, she couldn’t leave Lagos yet. Even when the borders reopened, the new government wouldn’t issue any journalist a visa for a long time. The paper wouldn’t be able to replace her and the story was growing in importance every day.

She worried about James and wondered when he would return. He hadn’t called, and she always felt uneasy and insecure when he wasn’t in touch. She had tried his cell phone, but the calls went straight to message. That could mean no service was available, or he turned it off, or it needed to be charged. It left her frustrated, and she finally dialed his apartment in the Victoria Hotel.

She listened to the repetitive ring and finally hung up. Where was he? She frowned and tried shifting to a more comfortable position, but she couldn’t doze off and trudged into the bathroom for her sleeping pills. There was something about James—a kind of distance even when he was closest to her—that kept her on edge. She returned to bed and struggled to find a comfortable position, turning onto her back and then her side before the fog thickened, her mind let go, and she finally drifted into a drug-induced sleep.

She was awakened the next morning by the phone. She grabbed it eagerly, hoping it was James, but instead she heard Vickie’s voice, too strong and energetic for such an early call, saying she urgently needed to see her.

“Sure,” Lindsay said, masking her disappointment. “Come over in half an hour.”

Lindsay needed to talk too. She had kept her first kidnapping a secret for too long and it had contributed to the distance between her and Maureen before she died. She was determined to talk her recent trauma through. Maybe that would help put it to rest. By the time Vickie arrived exactly half an hour later, Lindsay was dressed, coffee was brewing, and toast was ready.

She placed a cup in front of Vickie and, as calmly as she could, brought her up to date on everything. When she finished detailing the second kidnapping, Vickie enveloped her in a protective hug.

Embarrassed, Lindsay tried to squirm away, saying, “The point is, I’m not sure I can do this anymore.”

“I know how you feel. You’re scared and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. But listen, Olumide is gone. His thugs are gone. The new government might not be any better but they have nothing against you.”

“Not yet,” Lindsay said.

“And you have to stay here, right?” Vickie asked. “At least until your paper can replace you. And you still want to help find Maureen’s murderer.” Vickie didn’t wait for an answer. “So you are going to have to keep going, like the pro I know you are.”

Lindsay took a deep breath. She was starting to feel better.

“You sound like my editor.”

“I wish I could give you a few days to adjust to all this, but I have something else we need to discuss.”

“Fine,” Lindsay answered. “But I have to tell you something first. I’m worried about James.”

Vickie took a sip of her coffee and said, “What are you worried about?”

“He’s somewhere in the north, and he hasn’t called or contacted me,” Lindsay said. “I thought maybe the embassy has a representative there who could check up on him. You know, make sure he’s all right.”

“Well, you know how bad the phones are,” Vickie said lightly. “Where in the north is he?”

“He was starting out in Kano,” Lindsay answered. “I would have thought he’d have tried to contact me to see if I was all right after the coup. He has a cell phone and he manages to get reception some of the time, but I haven’t been able to reach him.”

“No one is getting any cell service because the circuits are overloaded. He knows you’re all right. He knows how strong you are. He saw you after Maureen died, remember?”

“Well, I haven’t been feeling so strong lately,” she murmured.

Vickie’s voice became businesslike. “I know. But I have some information that may lead us closer to the people who set off the bomb.”

This got Lindsay’s attention. “Okay. Shoot.”

“As I told you, we are pretty sure the operation was carried out by Solutions, Incorporated. We think they were also responsible for the Agapo hit. If they followed their usual protocol, it was carried out by one of their senior operatives, most likely a foreigner—they don’t trust the locals. He may have already left town, but we have reason to think that didn’t happen.”

“What do you have? And why do you assume it’s a man?”

“They don’t use women. This is strictly a macho operation. And if the operative is still here, we have to find him. We think his job isn’t finished.”

“You’re talking in riddles. What job?”

“I’m not authorized to tell you more, Lindsay. We talked about trusting each other. Now it’s your turn.”

Lindsay nodded. After a pause, she said, almost to herself: “There’s someone I’d like to check out.”

“Who?”

“I’m not ready to give you his name yet. I may be way off base. But if I turn up anything, I’ll definitely fill you in.”

“Lindsay, if you happen to be right, then you shouldn’t investigate it alone. These people are extremely dangerous.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t do anything foolish.”

Vickie grabbed a piece of toast and took a bite as she walked out the door. As soon as her car pulled away, Lindsay climbed into the Peugeot and drove to Mike Vale’s house.

Mike was drinking his coffee when she arrived. She knocked and then pushed the door open.

“Don’t you lock up?” she asked, as he ushered her into his kitchen.

“Usually not. I think most robberies of expats are inside jobs and I have a very good relationship with my steward. I pay him well and don’t ask him to do too much work. He’s off today—went to visit his village—otherwise I’d offer you some breakfast. Please, sit down.”

“Look, Mike,” she began, taking a seat at the table, “I know we’ve been at each other recently and I don’t see any point in it. Covering this story has become more difficult. We each have our own sources. Maybe we would do better to combine them?”

Mike looked at her quizzically. “Where have I heard that before?”

“I know. It’s exactly what you suggested and I turned you down. But I’ve changed my mind. Now, do you want to make me grovel, or do you still want a partner?”

He grinned. “I want a partner. Where should we begin?”

“I was thinking we might start with Lagos Hospital.”

“Why?”

“I have a source there who told me that their drugs are being stolen and sent to the north. They buy and pay for morphine, paregoric, antibiotics, and then get only a fraction of their order.”

“I’d heard that too, which is why I was at the hospital with Billy Anikulo. I had gone straight to the government spokesman to ask what the government was doing about it. It surprised me, but they decided to give me access to the health minister himself.”

“It’s amazing he spoke to you.”

“Yeah. But they wanted to put their spin on it. It was a policy decision. He claimed the drug shortage was about too little foreign aid. He was making a bid for more.”

“Right. I guess he hadn’t put enough away in Switzerland yet.”

“The thing is, Lindsay, Olumide didn’t instigate the theft. He didn’t crack down on it—his people were probably paid off—but he didn’t order it. Now those same northerners who must have arranged these thefts are running the show. Writing about it could be very dangerous.”

“I know that. We’d have to agree not to file until we’re out of here.”

“Even asking too many questions could be risky.”

“Do you want to try?”

Mike paused. “I guess so,” he said without enthusiasm.

“Maybe we could start with the health minister,” Lindsay said. “Now that he’s out of power he might be willing to talk.”

“I doubt it. He’s probably running scared. The new government had Olumide killed. I don’t think they’re going to be too cozy with his ministers, and Billy Anikulo had a high profile.”

“Maybe he’ll want to ingratiate himself by showing that he helped the northern hospitals even when he was part of the Yoruba government. Maybe you can go back to the hospital and see if anyone else there will confirm that the medicine disappeared. While you do that, I will check my sources at The Next Step.”

“I’ve got a few things to do here first,” Mike said. “I should be ready to go in about two hours.” They agreed they’d meet again at his place at nine the next morning.

Back home, Lindsay went straight upstairs and opened her safe. She removed the statue she had found in the shed and put it in her bag, accidentally knocking down one of the antique ibejis James had given her. It was beautiful and evocative and she looked at it again before carefully returning it to its place. Passing the phone, she called James again, but there was still no answer.

Martin was ironing her T-shirts and underwear—a practice she no longer questioned. Clothing was hung outside to dry, exposing it to the tumbu fly, which often laid its eggs on the cloth. If not killed by the heat of the iron, the tiny insect burrowed into people’s skin where it would mature and form a lump like a cyst. Martin had told her that the insect could be killed by covering it with Vaseline so that it couldn’t breathe—it would then poke its head out and could be removed with a pair of tweezers—a prospect she’d just as soon avoid.

“I can get you something, madam?”

“No, thank you.” She sat at the kitchen table. “I’m just resting for a bit.”

She took the statue out of her bag and examined it. It was made of wood and carefully detailed. Its carved crown was rimmed with a deep indigo stain. It was well done, Lindsay thought.

The phone rang, startling her. She picked it up in the living room and was relieved to hear James’s voice on the other end.

“James, I’m so glad. I’ve been worried.”

“I couldn’t get a line. I’m sorry. How are you?”

“I’m fine. It’s been a hell of a story.”