Cross Country (19 page)

F
LAHERTY ANGRILY FLICKED his lit butt out the window and wiped the sweat off his face. "Do you even know why you're not dead yet? It's because everyone thinks you're CIA, and we let them think it. We've been babysitting you. I've been babysitting you. Don't bother to thank me."

I looked over at Flaherty. "What is it you do, exactly — for the agency?"

"I service the copiers at the embassy," he said, deadpan.

Then he lit another cigarette and blew out smoke. "Actually, I'm on record here as CIA. Okay by you?"

"Fair enough. How about this, then? Why aren't you on the Tiger's case yourself? Why pass me information instead of running with it? Abidemi Sowande is a murderer. You know that."

Something about the debate, just getting it out in the open, I guess, was diffusing the tension in the car. Plus, I was on a roll.

"For that matter, why in God's name am I wearing this stupid tie?"

For the first time, Flaherty smiled.

"Ah," he said. "That's one I can answer."

A
N HOUR LATER, I was in the waiting room at an executive suite on the thirtieth floor of Unilight International's administrative offices in Ikeja. I knew that Unilight was one of the most successful packaged goods company in the world, but that was about it.

"Dr. Cross?" A receptionist called over to where I was sitting. "The director will see you now."

I was shown down a hallway to a double door, which she opened for me, into a huge corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows.

Stranger and stranger. What did a successful multinational corporation have to do with a murder case?

A massive desk sat at an angle to the door with two comfortable chairs opposite it. A pair of tufted leather couches took up another corner, where two men in dark suits, white shirts, and clubby ties were just standing up.

"Dr. Cross," the taller of them said. A white man with close-cropped blond hair and heavy-framed rectangular glasses came over and shook my hand.

"I'm Willem de Bues." His accent was Dutch — I think. He motioned to the other man. "This is Thomas Lassiter, an attorney with our legal department."

"Nice to meet you," I said, not quite sure yet if that was true or not. How could I know? I half expected to be beaten up and to have my nose broken next.

"It's our understanding you've been following a local man known as the Tiger," de Bues said, throwing me for a loop. What could this businessman possibly have to do with a killer for hire?

"That's right," I said. "I came here from Washington, where he had committed a couple of savage murders. Savage by our standards anyway."

"Then, we might have something to talk about. Sit down," Mr. de Bues said. It was clear he was used to giving orders.

"Your reputation as a policeman precedes you, of course. Your record for solving difficult cases."

"How about you tell me what this is about first? And why your attorney is here."

De Bues's demeanor didn't crack. In fact, he smiled.

"We'd like to help you find the Tiger. And, given that this is a rather… irregular situation, I want to make certain that I don't say, or offer, anything illegal in this meeting. Is that honest enough for you? Please, sit down, Detective. Sit."

"W
HY WOULD YOU want to help a murder investigation?" I asked. I was genuinely curious.

"In the Delta?" I asked.

"Port Harcourt, yes. And, of course, Lagos. Whatever relationship we now have with local factions seems to be irrelevant to some of the Islamic extremist organizations that are now moving into the region."

"Are you saying the Tiger is Islamic? Because that's news to me."

"No, I have no idea about that. I doubt that he's a religious man. But it's no secret he deals in goods that bankroll these groups — conflict diamonds, lifted crude, that sort of thing. Essentially, he creates inroads for them and makes life more difficult for all foreign corporations. And, as I'm sure you know, Tiger is the local term for 'killer for hire'."

"And you want somebody to help you get the killer, or killers, out of your way?"

De Bues looked over at his lawyer, who nodded, and then answered. "We want to help with your criminal investigation, that's all. We're the good guys here, Dr.,Cross. Just like you. This is not a 'conspiracy,' like in one of the Bourne movies."

"Why not go through the local authorities?"

He smiled again, that nonsmile of his. "You condescend to me, Dr. Cross. The political situation, as we both know, is complex here. It is fair to say that civil war is almost inevitable for Nigeria, but war is like fire, yes? Even as it burns something away, it leaves fertile ground."

It seemed like every day in Africa, I was falling a little farther through the looking glass. This conversation was turning out to be no exception. The CIA had directed me to a multinational corporation — or maybe a clique of them — for help in a brutal murder case?

I stood up. "Thank you for the offer, Mr. de Bues. I need to think about it."

De Bues followed me to the door. "Please, Dr. Cross." He held out a business card. "At least take my number. We do want to help you."

"Thanks," I said and left it at that.

De Bues shook his head as I walked to his door. "You don't understand, do you? This part of the world is about to explode. And if it does, Africa could go the way of the Middle East. That is the key to your murder case, sir."

F
RUSTRATED AND CONFUSED more than ever, I took a car service to Adanne's office. Then we drove to her parents' house, brainstorming about the case, Unilight's involvement, and the Tiger's whereabouts.

Adanne had good suggestions for getting access to state-level information. She wasn't surprised that the multinationals were frightened and looking for help anywhere they could find it.

"Maybe your murder investigation is heating up," she said. "It feels like it to me."

"Yes, to me too."

Adanne took my hand and that was a distraction I needed.

"If you're good," she said, "I might even sleep with you again tonight."

I leaned in and kissed her cheek and wondered how much longer I could be good around Adanne.

"Remember Alex, I know what you're thinking. I'm probably thinking the same thing."

It wasn't until we came around the corner onto her parents' street that we realized something was wrong.

"Oh, no" she groaned. "Oh, no, oh, no."

Adanne stopped her car at the top of the block. At least half a dozen police and fire units were parked at urgent angles to one another in front of her parents' home. Hose lines snaked from the street through the open gate, and black smoke billowed up from behind the wall.

Adanne clawed at the seat-belt release until the strap flew away. "My God, my God! Oh, my God!"

"Adanne, wait a minute," I said and tried to grab and hold her back.

But she was already out of the car and running toward her parents' house. She was screaming in a full voice.

And then I was running too.

I
CAUGHT UP to Adanne just shy of the gate to the house. I grabbed her and picked her up. Her legs kicked off the ground and she struggled against me, reaching toward the gate even as I pulled her away from it.

The house was still burning but it was mostly a ghastly, black skeleton of itself. From where we were, Adanne and I could see straight through to the back of the property. The roof was already completely gone.

The driveway and lawn were littered with smoking black debris. Clearly, there had been an explosion. It looked as though it might have been a firebombing.

When I saw two small lumps under sheets on the lawn, I grabbed Adanne tighter and pressed her head into my chest. The bodies had to be the twins, poor little James and Calvin. Adanne knew this too, and she was crying softly in my arms.

A police officer ran by and I caught his attention. "How many were inside?"

He looked me over before answering any questions. "Are you family? Who are you? Why do you want to know?"

"This is her parents' house. I'm a friend. She's Adanne Tansi."

"Three adults, two children," he said. He looked at Adanne, then back at me, and shook his head no. No survivors.

A deep shudder went through Adanne and then she began to sob. She was saying something; maybe it was a prayer. I couldn't make out the words or even the language she was speaking.

"I need to talk to your commander," I said to the patrolman standing with us.

"About what?"

"CIA," was what I said next.

The policeman opened his mouth again, but I cut him off. "Just get your commander. Get him over here right now."

As he walked away, I spoke softly against Adanne's forehead. "I'm here. You're not alone." She continued to sob in my arms, shivering like she was freezing cold in the ninety-degree heat.

I watched the commander approach, a tall, broad-backed man in a dark suit. I couldn't hear anything over the fire crew and the hiss of water jets, but I didn't need to.

I knew his face — the flat nose, those round cheeks, that idiotic Mike Tyson squint of his. The last time I'd seen it, he had been dangling me out a hotel window.

"A
DANNE, LISTEN TO me!" I was already pushing her back toward the car. "It's not safe for us here. We have to go right now. That man, the policeman, he almost killed me at my hotel."

When I reached the driver's side, I could see the police commander through the windshield. He'd picked his way through the knot of emergency vehicles in front of the house. Then he broke into a run, heading straight for us. Two other men came running with him. I thought that I recognized one of them as the other man who'd come into my hotel room and tried to scare me out of the country.

"Adanne, fasten your seat belt! We have to get out of here. Right now.'"

I put the car in reverse and checked over my shoulder. The intersection behind me was too busy; I couldn't wait for the traffic to clear, though.

So I changed my mind.

I shifted into drive and drove right at the approaching cops. I began to blare the horn, hitting the wheel again and again.

Adanne's car was only a little Ford Escort, but I caught the cops off guard. I floored it and stayed the course directly at the men. The "commander" didn't budge from his path.

At the last second, I braked hard, but I still struck him. His eyes looked huge with fear — probably the same way mine did when I was hanging out that hotel window.

Now I threw the small car sharply in reverse. He took one of the windshield wipers with him as he flew off and rolled into the street.

I backed all the way up to the corner and spun the wheel hard to face the other direction. A horn blared as an Audi wagon clipped the car, nearly shearing off the rear bumper.

I picked a direction arbitrarily and punched those four cylinders for all they were worth.

"Where are we going?" Adanne sat up a little straighter, almost like she was coming out of a trance.

"Into the city," I told her.

If there was one thing Lagos might be good for, it was crowds we could get lost in.

"A
DANNE?" I REACHED over and held on to her shoulder. "We have to get away from here. The policeman back there — when I was staying in Lagos — he nearly killed me. I'm sure it's the same man. It's all connected somehow, it has to be."

"Turn here for the Mainland Bridge. It's the best way, Alex. We'll go through Benin."

"Hold on tight, brace yourself!"

"It's too late for that, way too late."

I took the turn — without slowing down. We came out onto a wide boulevard lined with low-slung stucco shops, open lots, and old dusty cars and trucks. A freestanding billboard advertised Grace of Light Church, with an illustration of a woman in a choir robe, eyes on the sky and arms open to God.

But it certainly wasn't God that I heard next.

It was the deafening chop of a helicopter, loud and very close to the roof of the Escort.

They'd found us already.

They were on top of us, right over our heads.

"It's the police!" said Adanne. "They'll kill us, Alex. I know things they don't want in any newspaper."