An African Affair (28 page)

She swallowed hard as the pieces fell into place. The statues at Roxanne’s, that’s where he stashed the drugs. What a perfect foil—delivering African art for sale in the West. Mike must have been on to them—that’s why he held one of the contraband statues. But she was confused by having found the carton of statues in the shed used by Olumide’s thugs. If Olumide was involved, why was James dealing with Abdul Abdeka, Olumide’s enemy? Was he a double agent, working for both of them? The two tickets to Paris simply said “one-way passage to Paris,” and she wondered who was going with him. She pulled out her notebook and copied as much information as she could before realizing that an hour and a quarter had passed since she’d left James. She wrote faster, gripping her pen so tightly that her third finger hurt and she could see a small indentation where the pen pressed tightly against it.

She carefully put everything back in the safe, closed it, and put the drawer back in place, taking care to leave it slightly off-track as before.

Then, as she was replacing the fallen book, she heard a murmur outside the door followed by a knock. She didn’t move, tried not to breathe.

“James, open the door,” said a man urgently. “We need to talk.” The accent was British, but tinged with the musical lilt of an Oxbridge-educated Nigerian.

“Let’s open up and let us wait for him inside,” said another voice.

Lindsay froze. She looked around for a hiding place, her eyes darting from the closet to the bedroom. Someone was fiddling with the doorknob.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said a third voice. “Mr. Duncan doesn’t allow anyone else to hold his key. Perhaps you can wait downstairs.”

More mumbling, and then footsteps receded down the hall. Lindsay waited a few more minutes, knowing she had to leave quickly. She cautiously cracked the door open and peered out. No one. She stepped into the hall, closing the door and making sure it was locked. She darted down the stairs and hurried into the parking lot.

The traffic was moving slowly, but it was not at a standstill. Thinking she’d get home with time to spare, Lindsay crossed the bridge onto Ikoyi only to be forced to stop by a massive go-slow. She got out of her car to peer down the line of cars, but saw nothing to explain the sudden traffic jam. She sat at the wheel, checking her watch every minute or so, desperately trying to think of what to say to James if he were awake when she got home. Finally, she pulled over and drove on the shoulder—a violation punished by a police whipping in Lagos. She drove freely for about half a mile until she saw a police car ahead of her and signaled one of the cars to let her back in line. Luckily, a woman complied and Lindsay avoided being seen by the authorities. Gratefully, she waved at the woman, who waved back. The police were letting the cars through a makeshift barricade, checking identity cards. Almost two hours had passed since James fell asleep when finally her turn came. She nervously showed her passport, unsure whether or not to offer a dash. This time a bribe wasn’t necessary. The officer abruptly waved her on. The road cleared and she stepped on the gas.

James was still asleep when she tiptoed in. Greatly relieved, Lindsay gently put his keys back in his pocket. He stirred and she withdrew her hand as if burned. She bent down and tentatively kissed his cheek to see if there was any reaction. Nothing. He sank back down into a deep sleep.

She poured herself a scotch, her hand shaking. Then, quietly, she opened her filing cabinet and placed the notes in the file titled “J.R. GOVT. OPPOSITION.” As she locked the drawer, she noticed James had opened his eyes. He appeared dazed but she wasn’t sure if he had seen her at the filing cabinet. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright and looked at his watch.

“What happened?” he asked, sounding angry.

“You were so exhausted you fell asleep.” Lindsay moved toward him and hugged him from behind. “I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

He didn’t respond, but he stared at her in a way that made her nervous. When he stood up, he was clearly still disoriented and he held on to the table for support. Lindsay couldn’t tell if he was confused or suspicious. He looked at her for a long moment and she felt her heart pounding.

“James,” she said softly. “Are you okay?”

“I really have to go,” he mumbled.

Before she could answer, he left.

Lindsay was dry-eyed as she arrived at the embassy the next morning. When Vickie saw her, she leaped up to greet her, but Lindsay waved her back. This was not a social call.

Lindsay opened her notebook, tore out the pages that recorded her espionage work, and tossed them onto Vickie’s desk. Sitting down, she told Vickie what she had discovered.

Vickie’s manner was professional, for which Lindsay was grateful. After answering a few questions, Lindsay knew it was time to go, but she just sat staring at the floor. Vickie was silent. Finally, Lindsay rose and reached over awkwardly to shake Vickie’s hand.

“I’ll be leaving soon,” she said. “After my story on J.R.’s murder, I’m pretty sure my credentials will be lifted. In any case, after working with you, I’m through as a journalist anyway—”

“Not necessarily,” Vickie started to interrupt.

“Forget it, Vickie.” She gave a small, tight smile, turned, and walked out.

“One more thing,” Vickie called after her. “You didn’t say if you found out his plans. We need to know when he’s leaving the country and where he plans to go.”

Lindsay had deliberately left the page with his escape plan in her notebook, and she hesitated before answering. She knew that his plane was not leaving from Lagos but from a small airport about an hour’s drive away. Even if he was being followed, James was adept at shaking a tail. Vickie would be unlikely to find out if Lindsay didn’t tell her.

Vickie seemed to understand.

“Jesus, I know what you’re feeling. You think you can stop his network but let him get away. But remember what he’s done. Stopping the network isn’t enough because he can always build another.”

Vickie was talking so loudly that Lindsay was alarmed. “Please keep your voice down,” she said icily. She knew that Vickie was right. She knew what she had to do. Still, she hesitated.

“He’s used you,” Vickie said, in a near stage whisper. “He used you from the beginning. Are you going to let him continue?”

“You used me too,” Lindsay said.

Vickie couldn’t answer that.

“And I used him too,” Lindsay continued. “I owe him something for that.”

“That’s bullshit, Lindsay. How can you compare it? How did you ‘use’ him? By loving him?”

Lindsay looked down in frustration. “Being with him changed me.”

“He changed you the way love changes you, the way pain changes you. So what do you mean? That you used him to open something inside you, to help you feel? Okay. Maybe that’s true. But he used you in a more callous way. He used you to help him achieve terrible goals.”

Lindsay was silent.

Vickie continued, speaking urgently. “Look, Lindsay, if you won’t think of all the anonymous people he’s hurt, just remember Maureen.”

Furious at Vickie for manipulating her, Lindsay couldn’t help thinking of her funny, ambitious, loyal friend, whose body was blown to bits. Then she thought of Eduke, of Martin banging his fist against the wall, of J.R., and finally, the bloodstained couch, the dead dog, its fur sticky with its own blood.

“Paris,” she said at last. “Thursday night, six o’clock from a private charter airline. The flight leaves from a small airport outside of Lagos. Two tickets. I think one is meant for me.”

Vickie released her breath. “Thanks, Lindsay.” She scribbled the information onto a pad. “Believe me, you did the right thing.”

Before leaving, Lindsay stopped in the women’s bathroom across the hall. As she opened the door to leave, she saw Dave Goren and the ambassador go into Vickie’s office, followed by the ambassador’s secretary, pad in hand. They didn’t see her and they left the door partly open—she could hear the murmur of their voices in the hall. Stealthily, she moved closer to listen. She couldn’t hear every word, but caught snippets of conversation.

“Good work,” a man’s voice said. She identified it as Goren’s. “. . . never thought . . . Lindsay.” Then a laugh.

Vickie’s voice was louder and easier to make out. “It was painful for her. She’s full of guilt and anger.”

Goren spoke louder this time. “Right. But her psychology isn’t my concern.”

“Her psychology may become all of our concern,” the ambassador said in a sharp voice.

“We have to get him before we move on the others. We can’t let him escape.”

“Hell no,” Goren said. “This time we’ve got the bastard cold.”

“Well, he’s got tickets for them to go to Paris,” Vickie said. “The French will cooperate as long as we’re not going to charge him with a capital crime. We can extradite him.”

Lindsay couldn’t hear a response. She moved slightly closer to the door.

“Extradite him?” she heard Goren say contemptuously. “Vickie, get real. We can’t extradite him.”

Vickie’s voice was louder this time. “Why not? We have good relations with the French secret service and plenty of evidence against him.”

Goren laughed. “Evidence only matters if you are going to trial.”

Lindsay heard a sound in the corridor and turned quickly. A young man pushing a cart laden with packages was walking toward her. She ducked into the bathroom again and waited a minute or two. When she came out, she caught part of Goren’s sentence: “. . . embarrassing to us and worse.” Then something she couldn’t make out before he said, “He’ll compromise all our other operations. There will be investigations, congressional committees.”

Vickie spoke softly now, but Lindsay could still make out her words: “You want him to disappear without a trial, do I understand you correctly?”

“Without a public trial, Vickie. That’s all,” said the ambassador.

A woman from a neighboring office opened her door and headed for the ladies’ room. Lindsay hastily moved away from the door and walked down the hallway toward the front exit.

She could hardly believe what she had overheard. Goren wasn’t talking about a private trial. He was talking about a disappearance, an assassination. She was sure that Peter Bresson wouldn’t sanction Goren’s plan, but she was still disturbed that Goren would suggest it and that Peter listened without throwing him out of his office. She knew that there were undercover CIA operations in which people “disappeared,” but they were not, to her knowledge, aimed at Americans.

She had decided she would leave Lagos as soon as possible. She’d quit her job, go back home to New York, and start to think about what she should do with the rest of her life. She’d have to see James again before he left or he would know something was wrong. He might even invite her to come to Paris with him, but she’d come up with some excuse and pretend to make plans to meet him there. She rooted around in her bag for her keys as she approached her door. Just as she found them, the door opened.

“I’m back, madam.” Martin beamed at her. “Are you well?”

“No, Martin. Not at all well. But I’m very glad to see you.” Then, suddenly, she burst into tears.

“I’ll make you some tea,” he said, embarrassed. “And I baked some banana bread. Would you like some?”

“Yes,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Thank you.”

It was time to pack. Lindsay moved around the room, picking out her most treasured possessions.

She chose the items that mattered to her. Picking up two small statues dressed in cowry shells, and wrapping them carefully in tissue paper, she remembered her first conversation with James about ibejis. She packed the Shango staff she bought the day they went to Ibadan, the day she bought the fertility statue and lied to him about it, saying she’d paid less than she did. She opened her safe and removed the fine antique ibejis James had given her. She looked at them for a long time, then put them back in place. Every item held a memory; every memory was painful. She went into her bedroom for her clothes.

What a nightmare. She returned to the safe, pulled out the ibejis again, and went in search of Martin. She found him in the laundry room and handed him the statues.

“These are very good sculptures, Martin. You can sell them for a lot of money. I’d like to give them to you as a good-bye present.”

Martin held them and said shyly, “These are too good, madam. You keep them.”

“No. I don’t want them. They’re for you.” She walked away before he could say another word.

She went upstairs, undressed, and stepped into the shower. The phone rang but she ignored it, listening for the machine.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

His voice sounded so cheerful, so dissonant. “It’s me. Let’s have dinner tonight. There’s something I need to talk to you about. I’ll drop by at eight.”

She stood in the shower and let the water wash over her for a long, long time.