She leaned over and greeted Ed with a peck on the cheek.
“I intend to listen,” she said, “but first I need to talk business.” She turned to James. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” He smiled.
“So, what do you hear?” she asked. “Anything happening?”
“Nothing new,” said Ed. “We just got back from Zaire. Incredible. Kinshasa is still the same scary place. You remember Gabe Weston from the L.A.
Times
? He hid in the hotel the whole time. He kept coming up with phony reasons not to come with us. Wrote his piece from the bar at the Continental. The rest of us tried to get by the military blockades and talk to villagers about that Australian stringer who disappeared.”
Interesting, Lindsay thought, but an old story. Still, she couldn’t seem too eager to get back to Olumide, or they’d know she was on to something.
“Oh, right. Did you find out anything?”
“No. Nothing but rumors. One story is that the stringer stupidly went into the barracks to interview the soldiers about torture. They say he never came out. Word is the bastards tortured him to death, but you can’t get anyone to say so.”
“I wish you guys didn’t despise Gabe so much,” Maureen said. “I know he’s cautious, but he’s also idealistic. He really believes his work can do some good.”
“It’s not his doing good that we despise. It’s his riding on our coattails,” Ed responded.
“Come on, let’s get something to eat,” Lindsay said, trying to guide Maureen toward the buffet table.
“It just makes me mad,” Maureen confided, ignoring her friend. “This macho guy thing. Next thing they’ll be bragging about their sexual exploits.”
Ken overheard her. “Not this time,” he said. “Zaire was pretty much a nonevent on that score. We were all on our best behavior. No sneaking around to get an exclusive and no sneaking in and out of bedrooms.”
“Well,” said Ed. “There’s always Vale, the great swordsman.”
“I thought Vale was in D.C., packing the last of his meager possessions,” said James.
“I was, but I met up with everyone in Kinshasa after.”
“Bragging about sex on the road.” Maureen laughed. “That’s right up there with cheating on your expense account.”
“That we managed to do,” said Ken.
Lindsay burst out laughing and Maureen couldn’t resist joining in. “Touché,” she said.
Ed put his arm around Maureen and gave her a hug. “What would we do without our very own Jiminy Cricket?”
Maureen rolled her eyes and drifted away. Lindsay turned back to Mike.
“You know a lot of people here for someone who spent the last few years posted in D.C.”
“Yeah, well, I spent the five years before that posted right here.”
“I didn’t know. How do you feel about being back?”
“Resigned. I got a stint in D.C. basically for R and R. But my beat is West Africa. You can’t cover it from the cocktail circuit there.”
“I see. Your piece on art fraud—was that about African art?”
“Mostly African. That’s why I needed to know this guy.” He gestured to James.
“I’d really like to know about the ibejis,” she said. “I hope all this shop talk didn’t put you off.”
“Not at all.”
“Please—go on,” said Lindsay.
James guided her toward the garden. “Ibejis are twin sculptures,” he said. “They’re related to religious ceremonies—like the best of African art.”
“I don’t know anything about African art,” Lindsay admitted. “How does the religion come into it?”
“Twins have a special value. Some tribes consider them a blessing, like the Yoruba. The Ibos think of them as a curse.”
“Which tribe makes the ibejis?”
“The Yoruba. They have them made to honor the birth. Then, if one twin dies, the family makes a shrine to the ibeji representing that twin. They bring him flowers, shower him with gifts on his birthday. The idea is to prevent the dead twin from being jealous of his living brother. Otherwise he might take the boy to the land of the dead. The good ibejis—by that I mean the real ones—are very old. There are hundreds of imitations, but when you find an authentic one, you know it immediately.”
“And what about the Ibos? What do they do?”
James took a canapé off a passing tray.
“Their custom is brutal, I’m afraid. They take one twin into the forest and leave it there to die.”
“Really?” Lindsay said, shocked. “Even now? This still goes on today?”
“Sometimes. It was a custom the English tried to stop, of course. They were somewhat successful, but it still goes on in the bush.”
“How fascinating,” Lindsay said. “Do you think it would be possible to meet someone who is familiar with the practice? It would make a great story.”
“No. It’s against the law and very hard to even get anyone to talk about it.”
Lindsay and James walked a bit closer to the lagoon. It looked mysterious in the twilight. Lindsay watched a lizard the size of a small squirrel pause on a stone wall. Its skin shimmered in the floodlit garden, an iridescent aqua. It hovered for a moment, tilting its head and leaning forward as though searching for something to eat, flicking its tongue in and out of its mouth. A city girl at heart, Lindsay was squeamish about its proximity. She tried not to show it, but she was relieved when it scurried off.
“I wish I knew more about Nigeria,” Lindsay said. “I fly in and out writing about politics, coups, and corruption. It’s easy to get cynical and forget that there is a powerful ancient culture here.”
“Well, much of that is disappearing. There are still some remnants, but they’re not easy to find.”
“I’ve seen some of the modern artists,” Lindsay said. “I thought they were amazing. Would you say they’re any good?”
“Yes. But their work isn’t the kind I deal with; it’s closer to folk art.”
She smiled. “I told you I didn’t know anything about African art.”
He shrugged. “Just because I don’t have any clients who want to buy it doesn’t mean it’s not good. Anyway, I don’t know anything about African politics.”
“You’re not missing much,” she said.
“Why don’t you meet me for lunch tomorrow and fill me in?”
She was silent for a moment, pretending to think about it. The sun had set and the garden was lit with tiny colored lights. The moon was only a sliver but the lagoon appeared to be bathed in its light. The water flowed lazily downstream, toward the British high commissioner’s residence. In the distance she made out a large mass, probably twigs and moss, carried by the water, pushed along by the gentle current. Lindsay watched it as they spoke.
“I’d be happy to meet you,” she said at last. “It will have to be the day after, though. I’ve got a morning interview at the president’s office and I don’t know how long he’ll keep me waiting or how much time he’ll give me. I’ll want to write the piece right after, while it’s fresh in my mind.”
“That’s fine. Can you meet me on Awolowo Road, by the Motorboat Club?”
“Well, yes. I’ll find it. I thought that was members only. Do you belong?”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’ve got a surprise for you. Just meet me there between one and two. And bring your swimsuit.”
“My swimsuit?” she asked, puzzled. She saw Ed and Ken watching her from across the garden. They were horsing around, giving her a thumbs-up as a sign of approval. Maureen had a big know-it-all smile on her face as well. What a bunch of goons, Lindsay thought, but not without affection. She turned back toward the water so as not to encourage them.
Her eyes focused on the debris, floating down the river. It was now close enough to see that the twigs and moss were attached to some large, bulky object. Lindsay leaned forward, as did James and a few other people. Suddenly a woman screamed, “Oh my God, that’s a body.” Now, everyone in the garden started moving to the water’s edge for a better view. Lindsay could make out a man, facedown, his arms and legs splayed wide, tangled in algae and bits of rubbish. The body drifted past them, slowly pulled by the current, and finally washed up on the British high commissioner’s lawn.
The American diplomats began circulating through the crowd, trying to calm everyone down and move them inside. As Lindsay slipped away, she saw James looking for her, going inside to see if she was among the reporters who had regrouped at the bar.
CHAPTER 6
Lindsay walked along a narrow side road that led to the rear entrance of the British high commissioner’s residence. Two uniformed guards stood on either side of a white gate leading to the garden. As she approached, they pointed their weapons and brusquely told her to move along. She thought of trying to charm her way in, but they looked as if they were nervous enough to shoot. She walked around a hedge to the front of the house, where she spotted two more guards.
She knew there was only a slim chance of gaining entry. Still, she put on an innocent face and, summoning an air of assurance, approached the guards. One put his hand on his weapon.
“I’m a reporter for an American newspaper,” she said calmly. “I’d like to go in if I could.”
The guards stared at her in silence. She knew she had to tread a delicate line—polite but not supplicating, assured but not bullying. “I need to go in to get information for my story.”
“That’s not my lookout,” said the guard.
“Look, I’ve got official identification,” she said, hoping that this time her papers would help. She rifled through her purse for her pass to interview President Olumide and held it out. It was impressive: her photo, three signatures, and two stamps marked “ENTRY APPROVED” under the seal of Dodan Barracks, seat of the military government.
She waved it so that the plastic reflected back the light over the doorway.
“Surely this entitles me to enter,” she pronounced.
One of the guards seemed less sure of himself. He looked at the pass for a long time and then handed it to his partner, who did the same.
“Wait here,” he said, walking off—undoubtedly in search of a supervisor.
Fifteen minutes passed. Lindsay saw activity at the gate as a group of policemen entered along with some other men whose identity she either didn’t know or couldn’t make out. Her chances of getting in were diminishing with each passing minute. Finally the guard returned.
He handed back her pass and waved her through. Apparently Dodan Barracks trumped orders from the local authorities.
“Be quick,” he said, nervously.
Inside she was met by one of the high commissioner’s house staff, who ushered her through the house to the back door. A flood of light from the second floor blazed over the garden, elongating the shadows. A few policemen and some British diplomats were grouped near the lagoon, standing by the body.
No one seemed to take any notice of her as she approached. The body was lying in an unnatural position, covered in algae and mud. But the face was visible and she gasped when she saw the Yoruba scars, three horizontal lines on each cheek. Even before she noticed his sodden T-shirt proclaiming THE NEXT STEP, she recognized him. His neck was circled with a purple mark and bits of refuse clung to his hair and body. She saw a gash on his forehead where the club had landed. Feeling sick, she turned away when something caught her eye.
A contingent of military police was arriving. The leader was the officer she had encountered at the demonstration, the very man who had followed her. Could she pretend not to recognize him or the body?—he just might believe that a woman could be that stupid. She began to walk away from the corpse, just as the MPs swarmed into the garden.
The officer strode purposefully toward her. He spoke sharply, dropping the pidgin he had used earlier.
“You!” he barked. “What are you doing here?”
“I was at a party at the American ambassador’s next door,” she said. “I was hoping to get some details, but I didn’t want to go near the body.” She pretended to shudder at the thought. She took out her notebook. “I was told he’s been hanged, right?” The officer just stared at her. “I wonder if this is the guy who’s been doing all those robberies in Ikoyi and Victoria Island?”
The officer nodded slowly.
“Maybe,” he said, less threateningly. “We don’t know anything yet. There will be an official statement tomorrow.”
Lindsay jotted a few words in her notebook. “Thank you,” she said evenly, moving a little nearer to the house. “I better get back to the ambassador’s party now.” He continued to stare at her, but he allowed her to leave.
She walked as fast as she could, trying to look inconspicuous, which was impossible under the circumstances. She just needed to get out of there before he changed his mind. Her sense that her identity as an American journalist would shield her had evaporated. The images were burned into her memory: the purple gash on the young man’s bludgeoned head, the red wound circling his neck. The authorities were undoubtedly trying to make it look as if he were just another victim of street justice, but she knew he was a protester, possibly a leader of the dissidents. She wondered just how big a triumph this murder was for the government.
As she passed through the house, the steward came over to show her out. As they walked, he mumbled something she could hardly hear. She looked at him. He appeared angry, in contrast with his officious manner. He glanced around, then raised his voice ever so slightly.
“That man no be robber. He be Babatunde Oladayo,” he said softly. He pronounced the name with emphasis, as though it were someone who might be known to her. Before she could respond, they reached the door and he said in a loud voice, “Good night, madam.”
Babatunde Oladayo. Lindsay stopped to write the name in her notebook. As she passed the guards at the door, she saw Maureen trying to talk her way in. Lindsay caught her eye, shrugging her shoulders in mock sympathy.
She had to return to the American ambassador’s to fetch her car. When she reached the house, the party was breaking up. Her colleagues had disappeared, except for Mike Vale, who was sitting at the bar. He offered her a drink and when she refused, he flipped open his notebook and asked her what she’d found. Talk about riding on other people’s coattails, she thought, but she filled him in with a few facts, though not The Next Step or the name of the man who had been killed. He asked how the victim had died. When she mentioned the burn marks on his throat, he quickly closed his notebook and went back to his drink.