He insisted on taking her bag as he ushered her through the pandemonium of taxi drivers and waiting relatives to a parked sedan. "Only this?" he said, referring to her sole carry-on.
Tinted windows, cobalt blue. A uniformed driver. A flutter of fear, pushed down, denied a foothold.
Chief Ogun Oduduwa of the Obasanjo opened the sedan's back passenger door for her.
"You seem awfully young for a chief," she said.
"A hereditary title. My grandfather and such. Please. Get in.
We are parked illegally."
She stepped through the open door, into the sedan. The heat followed her in.
"I'm afraid the a/c is out," he said.
As she struggled with the seatbelt, Chief Ogun Oduduwa of the Obasanjo settled in beside her, her carry-on bag atop his lap.
He had seen Miss Scarlet being whisked away by airport security earlier, had hung back and waited, ready to bolt had she reappeared flanked by officers. But no, she was alone. It had been a simple demand for
dash,
he imagined. Officers appeased and a woman set free.
She clicked the belt into place, straightened her skirt. Smiled at him.
"So," she said. "We meet."
"You have the money?" It wasn't a question, not the way he said it.
CHAPTER 95
A cold snap, followed by wet snow piling up across the city, and now this: chinook winds moving in, melting everything, turning snowbanks to slush and revealing, like a tablecloth trick, a pair of bodies below the Bridgeland overpass.
Sergeant Matthew Brisebois trudged up the riverbank, through the slush and snow. Above him, on graceful arcs of cement, a procession of brake lights curved across the river, blinking red as they made their way over the bridge and into the city.
Another false call. No vehicle had been involved. There were no traffic fatalities for him to investigate—only bodies, and as such, the scene was beyond his realm of responsibility. He didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed, or whether to feel anything at all.
Under the overpass, patrol cars had blocked traffic in both directions, their lights washing back and forth.
"Drinking, from the looks of it," he said to the officer in charge.
"Found an empty bottle of Jack Daniel's. And Baby Duck. Must've fallen asleep."
They had died propping each other up. Would have been a cozy scene, except for the dying part.
Some by fire, some by ice.
Where had he learned that? In choir, as a boy? In a song? He was tired. And try as he might to focus on the banter and jibes of the other officers, his attention kept drifting over their shoulders, up to the city skyline and a pair of apartment buildings on a crest of hill beyond.
The Curtis file was closed. So why did his gaze keep drifting upward? As he drove home along Memorial Drive, he leaned forward, neck craned, looking up at the corner apartment. The lights were out. The following morning, the lights were still out, and would be the next night as well.
Where do you suppose she went?
CHAPTER 96
"You have the money, yes?"
Horizontal vertigo. If such a thing were possible, that was what she was suffering from. The airport off-ramp had poured them onto a cloverleaf and from there onto an eight-lane expressway, with the sedan veering across lanes to turn sharply onto another curl of asphalt, as she slid first against the door and then against Chief Ogun. The hotel was indeed beside the airport; she could see it from here. But there was a maze of elevated asphalt to manoeuvre through first.
"Do you have the money?"
"No, but I can get it," she said. "It will be waiting for me at the hotel."
Until they get their money, I'm the safest woman in Lagos.
Chief Ogun smiled when he heard this. "Good, good." The smile became a grin, gap-toothed and wide. "And which hotel would that be, Miss Scarlet?"
"The Sheraton."
From the travel guide in her carry-on: "The Airport Sheraton in Lagos, Nigeria, is one of the most modern and secure facilities in West Africa. Its safety and amenities are well known, and the hotel remains the preferred choice of embassy staff, UN administrators, and visiting dignitaries. (See index for a full list of Western accommodations near the airport.)"
"Ah yes," said Chief Ogun. "The Sheraton, a fine establishment. I know the concierge."
She smiled. That would be worth noting if it was where she was actually staying, she thought. He didn't really think she was going to complete this transaction at her own hotel?
"We will be there in a quick jiffy," he said. "It isn't far."
And from curve to vertiginous curve, they came at last to the gates of the Sheraton itself. Armed guards. The flags of nations.
Manicured lawns and a three-tiered fountain, spilling water like a wedding cake.
As the sedan rolled to a stop—at the far edge of the parking lot, she noticed, away from any doormen or cameras—Chief Ogun turned to her. "Here we are."
Beyond the Sheraton, on the other side of the overpass, she could see the Airport Ambassador, the hotels like mirror images of each other.
A 747 was coming in, sunlight on white wings. She could feel the vibrations even from here.
Chief Ogun nodded toward the entrance of the hotel.
"I don't know the name of the person I'm going to meet,"
Laura explained. "I have to present myself, with my passport, to the front desk. The front desk will then page the person in question's room and the money will be brought down. I have to collect it in person, for security reasons. Silly, I know. But the international bankers I work for—the ones financing this—have become very concerned."
"Concerned?"
"About recent kidnappings."
"In Lagos?" he said, acting surprised.
"Yes. So, for my own safety, and theirs, we have had to keep everything anonymous." The lies she'd rehearsed were spilling out now, so smooth, so clean, they surprised even her. It wasn't enough to tell a lie, she realized. You had to believe it as well.
"Very wise. One can't be too careful," said Chief Ogun. "So, please pick up the money and then we will hurry down to the Central Bank.
I will make you a millionaire by sundown!" The lies he'd rehearsed spilled out, so smooth, so clean. This was the first time he'd met one of his
mugu
face to face and he felt almost elated. It's not enough to tell a lie, he reminded himself. One has to believe in it as well.
"They're not going to let me bring the money out. You'll have to come in."
"But madam, I am not a guest at this hotel. They will treat me with suspicion. There are armed security guards throughout.
Please, madam, you fetch the money. I will wait in the car."
"How do I know I can trust you?" she asked.
"Here, my business card." He fished one out of his wallet.
"Anybody could print one of those."
"Madam! Please. I am an upstanding citizen, an educated man.
Look—" He dug out a snapshot of himself in university robes, arm slung around a woman in her middle years, a woman with the same broad smile.
"Your mother?" Laura asked.
"Yes," he said, tucking the photograph back into his wallet.
"Now, please. Go fetch the money before the banks close."
He waited, but she didn't move.
"Can I see that photograph again?"
"Madam, please. We are parked improperly. Hotel security will soon rouse us."
"I need to see that photograph again."
He sighed. "Fine."
Laura examined the photograph carefully. "Your mother," she said, "is very beautiful. You have the same smile, the same gap in your teeth."
Chief Ogun laughed, embarrassed. "An unfortunate inheritance, I'm afraid."
"Well, I think it's very attractive."
"Madam, please—"
"Do you see this cleft, here, in my chin? It's faint, but do you see it? My father had the same cleft in his chin. I got it from him.
That was my inheritance. Can you see it?"
Chief Ogun laughed warmly. "Oh yes, I see it. Very good."
Oyibos
were so odd. "Now madam, at the risk of being rude, I must emphasize again the urgent nature of our..."
It was as though she were outside a window watching events unfold within. She didn't know whether it was jet lag or the after-effects of her inoculations or the sleeping pills she'd taken en route, or the fact that she was far from everything familiar to her, but as she looked at this young man, this
thief,
she couldn't feel anything resembling fear. Only a certain detached... anger? Somewhere inside her, a voice was whispering:
Let the Heavens fall.
"Your father," she asked Chief Ogun. "Is he still alive?"
"Yes, still alive. Both my parents. I am blessed."
"You
are
blessed." And then: "I will need to meet them."
"Pardon?"
"Your parents," she said. "I will need to meet them."
"The bank—"
No. Not at a bank. Not in a hotel lobby. Here was something better. Much better. "The banks can wait," she said. "I need to see your parents."
"Why?"
"The men who are fronting this endeavour will need assurances from me that you are indeed a legitimate investor. That you're not some sort of swindler."
"Miss Scarlet, I assure you—"
"They were going to drag you into one of the rooms, force you to take a polygraph test—a lie detector. And if you failed, well..."
She lowered her voice. "Bam."
"Bam?"
She nodded. "These are dangerous people we're dealing with."
She could see the agitation in his eyes.
"Miss Scarlet, I cannot submit myself to such indignities, I am chief of the Obasanjo and I—"
"Listen, I'm on your side. I told them. I said, ‘This is ridiculous.' But they insisted. So I asked, ‘What if I were to vouch for Mr.
Ogun personally?' And they agreed."
"Thank you, madam. That is most kind."
"Which is why I need to meet your parents. That way, I can report back that you're an honourable son of good stock. As soon as we do that, the investors will release the money."
Chief Ogun chewed his lip for a moment, then retrieved a cellphone from the voluminous billows of his robe, speed-dialled a number. No answer. He leaned forward, shouted something at the driver in Yoruba, and the driver passed his own cellphone back.
Again, nothing.
"If you prefer to take a polygraph..." Laura said.
"A moment. Please."
She half-expected his lip to start bleeding, such was the worrisome nature of his gnawing. Then: "Fine, madam. You may meet them, but only for a moment. Nothing more. I am adamant on that."
"A moment is all I need. A quick handshake, that's all. After that, the money is yours."
"Ours," he corrected.
"Of course," she said, playing along. "We're in this in the all together."
The driver put the sedan back into drive, pulled out of the parking lot, pointed them to Lagos Island. Laura had stepped off the balcony, would find out now whether she would float or fall.
CHAPTER 97
The sedan's a/c wasn't broken. It was turned off, the better to addle the
oyibo.
Whites couldn't handle the heat, everyone knew that; they got flustered by it, distracted.
But now it was Chief Ogun Oduduwa of the Obasanjo who was getting flustered. As the driver eased them out of the Sheraton parking lot, he made one last attempt at changing the course of events, at controlling the narrative.
"Miss, it is twenty kilometres or more to Lagos Island," he said.
"It will take us an hour, maybe more if we get caught in a go-slow.
And even then we shall have to get to my parents' home at the far end of the island, out in Ikoyi. Why not simply
tell
your financiers you have met my mother and father? Vouchsafe my honesty."
She smiled. "By lying? I'm afraid I can't. They might hook
me
up to a polygraph test or inject me with a truth serum. I told you, these are dangerous men. I will meet your parents, shake their hands, and then we can turn right around and go back to the hotel."
"But Miss, by the time we get back, the Central Bank will be closed and—"
"If I meet your parents, if I look them in the eye, I will know whether I can trust you. If we do that, you can pick up the money tonight. We can meet again tomorrow morning, at the bank, to complete the deal."
Well, that certainly pleased him! "As you wish, madam. But only a quick handshake, nothing more."
"Nothing more."
They were sucked into traffic like a log down river rapids, the din and the odours hitting simultaneously: a fog of exhaust, the taste of diesel. Backfiring motors, broken mufflers, and the constant cry of car horns.
The lanes painted on the road seemed mere suggestions, rough guidelines rather than rules. A bus muscled past with passengers hanging on. "Movable morgues," said Chief Ogun. "It's what we call them."
A battered minivan forced its way in. Butter-yellow taxis fought back. Dented and dinged, they carried the scars of past battles.
Three-wheeled Chinese
tuk-tuks
jockeyed for position alongside SUVs and Mercedes-Benzes. It wasn't traffic, it was an ongoing melee.
Laura held the seat in front of her, had to remind herself to breathe.
Cement buildings crowded in on either side, row upon row, cluttered with lean-tos out front. Boulevards lined with wilting palm trees. Humid and dusty at the same time.
