Cross Country (14 page)

I
T WAS HARD to fathom or predict, but my situation in Lagos actually got worse over the next hour or so. The front-desk people at the Superior insisted that I had "checked out" and that no rooms were available, something I knew to be untrue.

I tried Ian Flaherty several times and left a voice mail twice, but I didn't hear back from the CIA man.

So I did the next thing I could think of. I got a driver and asked him to take me to Oshodi Market. If I couldn't get hold of Flaherty, I'd go back to his valued informant. I was quickly running out of options.

I knew I was in the middle of something bad — but what was it? Why did everybody seem to want me out of the country? What did it have to do with the murder of Ellie Cox?

It took over an hour to get to the market and another fifty minutes of wandering and asking around to find the rug stall I was looking for.

A middle-aged man with one dead eye, not Tokunbo, was working today. His English was poor. He nodded at Tokunbo's name — I was in the right place — but then shooed me off for a customer.

I couldn't afford to just hang around hoping for a miracle, so I cut my losses and found my way back to the car. The only Plan C I could think of was to go to the US consulate.

But then, crawling through more traffic on the way to Victoria Island, I thought of something else. Plan D.

"Can you pull over, please?"

The driver stopped on the shoulder behind a burned-out old Ford Ranger. I asked him to pop the trunk, then went around and got my duffel.

I dug inside, looking for the pants I'd worn on that first day. I'd already trashed the shirt, but I was pretty sure—

Yes, here were the trousers, smelly and bloodstained from my time in jail.

I looked in the front pockets, but both were empty.

When I checked the back, I found what I was looking for, the one thing they'd missed when they took just about everything else at Kirikiri: Father Bombata's card.

I turned to the driver, who was waiting impatiently for me, half in, half out of the car.

"How much to use your cell phone?" I asked.

T
WO HOURS LATER, I was dining in style with Father Bombata in his office at the Redeemed Church of Christ, a sprawling complex right in the heart of Lagos.

We were sharing a meal of kudu, squash, salad, and a South African Zinfandel over the expansive desk in his office. The priest's tiny body was all the more dwarfed by a high-backed chair and the floor-to-ceiling windows looming behind him. Heavy red drapes kept out all but two slits of fading evening light.

"What happened to your face?" he asked me and actually seemed concerned. "Or should I ask, 'What happened to the other man?' "

I'd almost forgotten how I looked. The nose had stopped hurting somewhere around Ghana.

"Shaving accident," I told him and forced a crooked smile.

I didn't want to give one more person a reason to think I should go home on the next available plane. What I needed were allies, not more advice.

"Father, I've gotten some disturbing information about a killer called the Tiger. Do you think it's possible that there is more than one Tiger? Maybe operating in different locations? Like here and in the US?"

"All things are possible, of course," he said with a kind smile. "But that is not your real question, is it? Still, I suppose I would have to say yes, it is possible, especially if the government is involved. Or big business. There are a number of employers of killers for hire. It is a common practice."

"Why the government? Or a corporation?"

The priest rolled his eyes, but then he gave me a straight answer.

"They have the means for controlling information that others might not. And for controlling misinformation as well."

"Any idea why they would want to do that? Be involved, I mean."

He stood to pour me some more wine. "I can imagine any number of reasons. But it would be irresponsible of me to suggest that I actually think it's happening. Because, truthfully, I have no idea. The name is symbolism — the Tiger. You realize that there aren't any tigers in Africa. Maybe in a zoo someplace."

"I know that. In any case, I'm chasing at least one real man here," I said. "I need to find out where he's gone. He killed my friend and her family. Other families were murdered too."

"If l may?" He looked at a mahogany clock facing him on the desk. "From what you've told me, your more immediate need is for somewhere to sleep."

"I wasn't going to ask."

"You don't have to, Detective Cross. I can't offer you anything here. It's a risk I would take for myself but not for my congregation. However, I can take you to our men's shelter. There's a five-night maximum, and it's no hotel—"

"I'll take it. Thank you," I told the priest.

"As for your mysterious Tiger, I'm in less of a position to help."

"I understand." I was sorely disappointed but tried not to show it.

Father Bombata held up a hand. "You think quickly, don't you? Maybe sometimes your mind works too fast. What I was going to say was that I can't help you there. But I do know someone who might."

"My cousin, actually. She's the most beautiful woman in Nigeria. But of course I'm biased. You be your own judge."

H
ER NAME WAS Adanne Tansi, and, as promised by the priest, she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen in person. She was also a reporter with the
Guardian
, Lagos's biggest newspaper.

Over the next hour, Adanne told me that she had been covering the original Tiger and his gang for two years, but he was still something of a shadow figure.

"I am not certain there is more than one Tiger. But I have heard the rumor too. This could be gangster myth. Who knows, maybe he spreads it himself. Anyway, who can tell what a man like that could do to the newspaper if he wanted to."

"Or to a reporter?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Some things are worth more than a life. You're here, aren't you? You're taking chances with your life?"

I smiled. "I guess I am."

I found that I couldn't take my eyes away from Adanne Tansi, though I tried not to be rude. She was stunning in the manner of some actresses, and it was impossible not to notice her high cheekbones and her dark doelike eyes but also the way she carried herself. She seemed unafraid, and I wondered why that was so. She had much to lose but carried it lightly.

She picked up a pen. It had escaped me that she had a pad at hand among the mess of other papers at her work area.

"No notes," I said. "This isn't an interview. I'm just a tourist here. That's been made very clear to me."

Adanne immediately put the pen down, smiling as though she had had to at least give it a try.

I went on. "Do you have any sense of where the Tiger is now? Or any idea how I could find out?"

"No to the first," she said. "And I believe so to the second."

I
WAITED BUT she left it at that. After a few seconds, I realized that in Lagos even a newspaper office was a marketplace.

Adanne smiled again. She was very coy — and clever. "A good story about an American detective looking for a criminal and murderer like the Tiger — that would be hard not to print."

I put my hands on the arms of my chair, ready to go.

"No."

Suddenly her eyes were locked onto mine. "Detective Cross, do you realize how much good could come from a story like this? This human monster is responsible for hundreds of deaths, maybe more."

"I know," I said, working hard to keep my voice in check. "One of them was a friend of mine."

"And one was my brother," said Adanne. "So you can see why I want to write this story."

Her words resonated in the small room. She wasn't angry, just measured, and, within that, passionate.

"Ms Tansi—"

"Please call me Adanne. Everyone does."

"Adanne. You obviously care a great deal about this, but I don't know you. I wish I could trust you,but I can't."

Her stare told me I hadn't lost her yet. "But I hope you'll help me anyway. I'm Alex, by the way. Everyone calls me that."

She thought about what I had said, and I could see she was conflicted. It was unusual to see this in a journalist, at least the ones I knew back in Washington — this kind of transparency.

Finally she stood. "All right," she said. "I'll see what I can do for you. I'm in." She picked up her pen again, a silver-topped onyx roller, the kind people give as gifts. "Where can I reach you? Alex?"

At the Redeemed Church of Christ men's shelter — that's where I live now.

I don't know if she noticed my pause. Whether or not it was wise, I found that I wanted to impress Adanne Tansi.

"I'll call you," I said. "First thing tomorrow. I promise."

She nodded, and then she smiled. "I believe you, Detective Cross. So far, anyway. Don't disappoint me, please."

How could I even think of it, Adanne?

A
BUSINESSMAN WITH rumored connections named Mohammed Shol stood like an expensively framed portrait of himself in the open double doors of his enormous home. The main building was twenty thousand square feet, and the guesthouse was another eight thousand. He was among South Darfur's wealthiest men and never missed an opportunity to show it off.

Not that the Tiger minded dealing with devils; he did it all the time. This was his business, and if he had carried a card, a black devil might have been the logo.

Shol smiled broadly as he shook hands to elbows with the large and quite handsome fixer and murderer. "Welcome, my friend! Your team will wait out here, of course."

"Of course."

"They will be fed."

"They are always hungry."

The Tiger left Rocket in charge of the others and knew he would maintain discipline. The boys waited by the front gate, across the yard from Shol's two plainclothes guards, who watched the younger ones with unconcealed amusement. The guards at the estate had come up from the streets themselves.

Let them be cocky and sure of themselves, the Tiger thought as he eyed the older watchdogs. Underestimation had always worked in his favor.

He followed Mohammed Shol through the estimable front hallway and across an interior courtyard. Cooking smells, cardamom and beef, came from one side of the house. Boys' voices came from the other — reciting in Arabic, which further defined Shol's politics.

They came to a glass door at the far end of the courtyard.

An enclosed grove of exotic fruit trees showed on the other side. Shol stopped.

"We'll meet in here. Can I offer you tea? Or perhaps grapefruit juice?" The latter was a boast, since such juice was a delicacy here.

"Nothing," the Tiger said. "Only what I came for. Then I will be gone."

Shol dismissed his houseboy with a quick flick of the wrist, then used a key from his jallabiya pocket to let them inside.

It was pleasant in the greenhouse, temperature controlled with a waft of humidity lacing the air. The tiled floor was shaded under a low canopy of green. Above was the geometric pattern of a glass-and-steel ceiling.

Shol gestured for the Tiger to enter a small dining area in the back.

Four rattan chairs surrounded a luminescent bai wood table. Shol moved aside a potted sapling. Then he ran the combination on a floor safe hidden behind the tree.

Inside the safe was a paper envelope, stuffed thick. Shol took it out and placed it on the table between them.

"I think you'll find it's all there."

Once the Tiger had checked the contents, he set the package on the floor and sat back. Shol smiled.

"You've done much here," the Tiger said, gesturing around the room. "It's impressive."

Shol smiled, puffed up by the compliment. "I've been blessed many times."

"Not just blessed. You've been busy. You are clever, I can tell."

"It's true. Between the legislature and my businesses, there's little time for other things."

"Travel," the Tiger said. "Meetings day and night? And your family, of course."

Shol nodded, clearly enjoying that the subject was him, "Yes, yes. On most days."

"Saying things you shouldn't. Putting your loved ones at risk."

The nodding stopped. Shol seemed to forget that he was afraid of looking the Tiger in the eye, and did it now. "No," he said. "Truly. I've not talked about my business dealings with you, or anyone else."

"Yes," said the Tiger, without moving. "Truly. You have. You know a reporter — a woman? Adanne Tansi?" He reached with one finger and tipped open his collar an inch. He spoke into a microphone.

"Rock da house! Now, Rocket. Spare no one. Make an example of them."