CHAPTER 24
Dobson was sipping Coca-Cola in the bar at the Southern Sun. It was early evening but Vigo was late and there was nothing to do but wait.
Colin Asher had phoned. "That Korean job's a snake pit."
"So, you need a snake charmer, Colin, but I'm out here. Did you find Steve Kendrick?"
It had been Dobson's idea to check if Steve Kendrick could put up bail for Gabriel.
"He was at Albatross headquarters in Monaco," Asher said. "Bobbing up and down on the Mediterranean as the gentle waves lapped against the marina. I could hear the seagulls. But, yes, he's willing to put up bail. It was a good idea of yours. I've since told Gabriel and we're now waiting to hear from the Court Judge about a decision."
It was another hour before Dobson first heard and then saw Vigo, Mazda and Chelsea. They were grinning, jigging about, Vigo in his cowboy hat and swinging a bunch of keys on a long chain, trainers squeaking on the polished floor of the Southern Sun. A fourth man with a knitted teapot cosy hat was amongst them.
"Hey, Mercedes," Vigo's voice called across the open space. "We got progress."
Dobson got up. "Already? Who's this?"
"This big Civic man, the one who...." he lowered his voice, whispered with breath that mixed cigarette smoke with spicy jollof rice into Dobson's face, "The one who slapped Balogun."
"Nice work."
Civic nodded, Chelsea grinned and Mazda glanced around the hotel lobby. He took Vigo's arm. "Too many akata. We scare them like this."
Mazda was right. A serious, suited American looked up from a laptop. "Why don't you take your noisy friends somewhere else, buddy. Looks like Chicago's just dropped in."
Dobson nodded at him. "Sorry, mate. I'll take them outside where they belong."
Outside, Vigo explained. "We made calls, Mercedes, spoke to others who felt the grief and we got more names - big long list of Festus's friends. Fat men in suits, work in Government in church, some other Pastors not like Gabriel."
They sat on a low wall that surrounded the hotel car park as Dobson listened and wandered around, a few yards this way, a few that, his feet ankle deep in garbage that had been swept or blown into a heap. He was hearing names he'd found from online research and names he'd never heard of - ministers, governors, heads, directors. But no-one mentioned the President. President Azazi himself seemed clean or maybe they were just too scared to mention his name.
As Dobson listened a dense cloud of moths, insects and a few bats flew in circles around a light over their heads, mingling with rising cigarette smoke, but when he started to hear repeats he knew he'd heard enough. It was time to show his mean streak.
"But what now? I'm not paying money for names I already know."
Vigo held up his hand. "Slow down, Mercedes. You wanna say, Civic?"
Civic jumped off the wall, whipped of his knitted hat and stood looking up at Dobson, the whites of his eyes shining big in the overhead light. "After we smack Balogun, I get taken by some hard boys with no names. They ask questions, serious and no laughing and show gun to my face. I stay cool. But then someone come and whisper in their ear and they leave, sudden like, as if they scared to make more trouble.
"So, I start to find my way home but then some other car follow me, stop and push me inside - big car like bus with telephones and equipment. No fancy uniform but smart, smart. Good talking. Driver he sits and do nothing but other guy pose more questions, polite, like real police. Then dey also open door and let me pass."
Civic paused a moment to drag on his cigarette. Dobson waited.
"You know my thinking?" Civic said eventually. "I got one good friend in the genuine SSS," he smiled. "I knew him long time in the army. I think maybe he was the one who got me released. He top man in SSS the State Security Service. I not see for long time but he good man, clean and clever man."
"What's his name?" Dobson asked.
"Colonel Martin Abisola. I not see for long time but he good man, top, top."
Just then Dobson's phone bleeped - a rare text from Colin: "Bail granted but passport not returned."
It was almost midnight when Dobson returned to his room. He showered, lay on the bed and then the room phone rang. He looked at it for a second or two, then picked it up.
"Mr Richard Hicks." It was a statement not a question and the man's accent was what Dobson called cultured Lagos.
"Yes?"
"Please come down to reception. I'll be waiting."
"I see. Who will I be meeting?"
"Come down, Mr Hicks and I'll introduce myself."
Dobson replaced the phone, pulled on some clothes and took the lift down.
The hotel lobby was quiet but the bar still busy. He wandered towards reception but saw the visitor before he got there - an ordinary looking Nigerian man of about his own age, pleasant enough looking but with no special features except a relaxed but sweaty, street look. He wore an open-necked green shirt and a red tie that hung loose. He was looking straight at Dobson from a chair in the corner next to an empty table, legs apart, muscular thighs filling grey-green trousers, hands resting on the arms of the chair. He looked untidy but wide awake and physically fit.
Dobson knew who it was. Colin Asher had dug out a photo from somewhere together with a brief CV. In the photo, he'd been wearing an army uniform but Dobson still recognised him.
This was Colonel Martin Abisola, ex Deputy Director of the Presidential Communication, Command and Control Centre at the Presidential Villa, now head of the State Security Service, the SSS, Nigeria's primary intelligence gathering agency tasked with protecting the President and state governors. According to Asher he was supposed to report to the National Security Advisor, but there wasn't one - the last incumbent had been charged with corruption and possession of firearms.
And Asher had come up with more interesting stories about that last incumbent - a man at the centre of a row over arms intended for the fight against the COK. It was a murky deal. No arms had ever arrived but suitcases packed with millions of dollars had been found at the airport in Johannesburg.
Mark Dobson enjoyed stories like that and normally enjoyed meeting guys like Abisola. This time he wasn't so sure. Nevertheless, he walked towards him.
Abisola stood up. "Mr Hicks." A hand was offered and Dobson grasped it. It was hot and greasy.
"Yes, how can I help?"
"Take a seat please. A cup of coffee?" It was an accent with a touch of educated English: Cup of not 'cuppa' or anything similarly abbreviated.
"No thanks."
Abisola tugged on his tie and might as well have removed it completely for all the decorative good it was doing. He leaned forward. "You are also Mr Mark Dobson."
It was nicely said, like a polite accusation.
"Sometimes," Dobson admitted truthfully. There was no point in denial. "But you are always Martin Abisola."
Dobson received a faint smile and a nod that he assumed was confirmation.
"You take great pride in your hair, Mr Dobson."
"Dark chocolate suits my complexion, but washing it makes me nervous."
"And you enjoy your work?"
"Never a dull moment. How's yours?
"Challenging." Another faint, lopsided smile. "I have found that anything to do with Pastor Gabriel Joshua is challenging. Do you share my opinion?"
"I do."
"Mmm." Thoughtful. as if assessing which direction to take. "You feeling tired, Mr Dobson?"
"Not any longer. What have you got in mind?"
"A late night."
"Suits me, I've had an easy day."
Abisola sat back, crossing his legs, exaggerating the many creases in his khaki trousers as if he'd slept in them for days. Stains showed at the knees as if he'd recently crawled beneath a car. "So, where's Gabriel?"
Mark Dobson leaned forward. "You know where he is as well as I do"
Abisola looked at Dobson, hard. "I could arrest you."
"Why don't you?"
Abisola leaned forwar
d again, their faces so close that Dobson could almost count the three-day stubble on his cheeks. There were the makings of a moustache and more unpleasant looking stains on the twisted tie.
"I checked you out," Abisola said.
"Of course."
"You've been around."
"Here and there."
"Perhaps we should co-operate."
Dobson said nothing but it sounded interesting.
"But never underestimate Nigerian Intelligence, Mr Dobson. We are very, what shall I say - intelligent."
"I've never doubted it,"
"So why are you here?"
There were a hundred reasons why Dobson was there. He chose the generic one. "I like Gabriel."
Abisola nodded. Perhaps he did too.
"His business was shut," Dobson added trying to add substance. "There are accusations of fraudulent trading by Solomon Trading. As an investigator of commercial fraud, I don't believe it. I still don't. Then there was a warrant issued for Gabriel's arrest........."
"Forged." interrupted Abisola. "Carry on. Why are you here?"
"Because Gabriel is a good man with honourable intentions. He's highly respected in many places, feared in some, detested in others. Some would say he holds extreme views, others that his views are so good they should be acted upon. None of that is reason to destroy him or his business or his good friend Solomon or Michael Fayinka or murder his UK business manager Kenneth Eju."
Dobson stopped, wondering what Abisola's reaction would be, but if he'd been intent on arresting him he'd have done it by now in the old-fashioned way - breaking into his room, dragging him out in cuffs. If Abisola had brought re-enforcements, they weren't visible. And he seemed an interesting sort of guy, likeable, in fact. He certainly didn't have the look of someone who lived for money.
"So why have a private army?"
"To defend his patch of land while he attempts to create something in keeping with his beliefs. If you've ever listened to his speeches, you might understand."
Abisola nodded. Encouraged, Dobson padded out his answer with more detail.
"He wants to create some sort of self-sufficient community, a new type of economic system because he thinks the old system is failing the poor. Debateable, controversial, feasible, impractical - we could discuss it all night. But his land is in an area popular for COK raids and abductions. Maybe that's why it was cheap. But he has no confidence in government defences. My opinion, for what it's worth, is that the defence thing has got out of proportion but Gabriel's views on how to defeat modern terrorism and create an economy more suited to modern Africa is another very long story. How long a night did you envisage?"
Abisola shrugged. "And who runs his security operation?"
"I'm surprised with your intelligence you don't already know."
"Confirm it for me."
"A British guy called Bill Larsen."
Abisola nodded again.
"You have a problem with that?" Dobson asked.
"I don't," Abisola said it as if it was only a problem for others. But something else seemed to bother him. "His land stretches over the Nigerian border into Niger, right?"
"Yes."
"So how does he deal with Niger?"
"There are good relations with their President and Prime Minister."
"They turn a blind eye?"
"And they probably appreciate the extra military expertise he's put at their disposal. It costs them nothing and it's far better than having to kowtow to the French, the Americans or the UN. Larsen is a highly-respected pro."
"Interesting," Abisola said and they both sat back eyeing one another.
"Any more questions? You want to arrest me?"
"Not immediately. Your passport looks convincing. Who did it? Asher and Asher?"
Dobson said nothing but, feeling safer for the moment, decided to mention a name in the form of a question. "Osman Olande,"
It was one o'clock, private laughter still coming from the bar area but otherwise the hotel was quiet. "Go on," said Abisola.
"The name keeps cropping up. It seems to me he is, for want of a better word, a hit man."
"Worried he'll hit you?"
"Someone already tried." This was obviously news to Abisola because he raised both eyebrows. "Why do you think I'm calling myself Richard Hicks? Who does Olande work for?"
"Whoever pays him."
"So why not arrest him? The UK police might also like a word. You know where he is right now?"
"Nope," Abisola replied like an American and as if it was a genuine problem for him. Then he suddenly dragged his tie off completely, dropped the screwed-up shred of red fabric on the table and sat forward, deliberately closing the space between them. "I like your set up," he said quietly. "You help me and I'll help you."
"Mmm. So, what can you do about Gabriel's arrest warrant?"
"The problem is it's stamped and signed by a Judge," Abisola replied. "Nigerian society is riddled with cults - mysterious, feudal systems like your Freemasons. What is it you say? You scratch my back I'll scratch yours? That is how it works. You also say things about turning a blind eye. This Judge gets his back scratched and turns blind eyes whenever it suits him."
"What if I had evidence of it being forged in the shape of a signed piece of paper by one of the forgers?"
"Do you?"
"It was signed under some duress but it's available. You want to see it?"
"You got it with you?"
"No. It's too sensitive to carry, but I can ask Colin Asher to send it."
"Do it," Abisola replied. "Can he send it to my phone?" He gave Dobson a number and Dobson gave Colin Asher a quick call. It was way past midnight in London but matters like that never bothered either of them. Wherever he was, whatever the time, Asher could access the data.
They waited and chatted until Abisola felt his phone doing something in the pocket of his crumpled trousers. He leaned back, fished around, extracted an IPhone, pressed a few buttons, swiped and fell silent.
"Enough?" Dobson asked when he looked up.
"You know the guy?"
"Kenneth Balogun, I believe."
Abisola seemed impressed. "How much duress?"
"A few slaps.".
"Inflicted by who?"
"My close-knit."
"Is that the crowd that were here earlier."
"Some of them." There was no point in denying it.
"I'll deal with it later," Abisola said, which Dobson took to mean he'd deal with the warrant and the video evidence, not members of the close-knit.
"How'll you do that?" Dobson thought he might be pushing his luck but he had a professional interest in persuasion techniques.
"Sometimes a Judge can be made to feel so embarrassed that, rather than fall foul of the law they are supposed to uphold, they'll admit to an administrative oversight, a typing error. The embarrassment can produce surprisingly quick solutions."
Confidence rising, Dobson pushed his luck further. "Another name that keeps cropping up is Festus Fulani," he said. "My team produced a list of friends of his that's as long as my arm."
"My list would be longer than yours."
"And he travels a lot."
"He likes money."
Dobson dangled some more bait. "And a man with ambitions."
Abisola merely nodded so Dobson decided to hold back on his own theories for a while. Should he mention Kenneth Eju's murder? No. But should he try linking Olande to Festus? Yes.
"You mentioned Osman Olande works for whoever pays the most."
"He's Nigerian," Abisola said as if that explained it.
"I've got video evidence of Olande running a bag snatch in London."
Eyebrows rose again above Abisola's dark and stubbly face. "You got full time cameramen in your team?"
"Just struck lucky," Dobson replied. "We watched the live performance. Cumberland Hotel, Marble Arch. A couple of Nigerian Pastors not known for their admiration of Gabriel got stung. One
minute they were receiving a case full of cash, next minute they'd lost it to a couple of Nigerian shysters who quickly transferred the bag to Mr Olande. Blink of an eye. Brilliant performance."
For the first time, Martin Abisola smiled.
"Want some more?" Dobson asked.
"Go on"
"The FAA contract. Solomon Trading tried to win that contract fairly, openly, corruption free, because that's their company's philosophy. It took years but still failed. It was awarded to a Russian company - part of Aron Kaplan's group" Dobson got a faint nod that suggested he already knew. "It was Aron Kaplan's son who handed the cash to the two pastors."
Abisola scratched at the stubble. He'd already been helped to add two and two together to make four and now he was being urged to add four and four together.
"So, in the blink of an eye the pastors lost it to Olande, Is that what you're saying?"
"But Olande didn't do this alone. This was a well-planned set up, a payoff involving several individuals, including the Russian."
Dobson sat back, happy to wait for as long as it took for a reaction. The silence that followed lasted almost a full minute.
Untroubled silences were another reason Dobson was beginning to like Martin Abisola. Men who sat comfortably together in silence whilst digesting facts or contemplating the right way to pose a question or answer one were all too rare. It was all too common these days for non-stop blathering of bullshit out of some sort of need to impress. Quick fire repartee had never been Dobson's style. It wasn't Abisola's either. Abisola's silences were like an art form behind which probably lay a fatal bite if he felt so inclined.
Dobson wasn't yet immune to the bite but felt confident to be the first to break the silence. It wasn't often he sat with the head of a State Security Service.
"The COK," he said. "Who finances it?"
"Good question." Abisola replied but there was nothing that followed.
"Does Nigeria have the resources to deal with the COK? To mount an effective response?"
There was a shorter pause this time. "Defence is not my job. Securing the Presidency and allowing government to operate freely, unaffected by private agendas, corruption and manipulation is."
"Is Nigerian corruption helping the COK?"
Abisola nodded and Dobson sensed he'd hit a nerve. Nothing was yet confirmed but he felt he was getting closer. Abisola's next comment re-enforced it. "No one country can fight fraud and corruption on this scale. It has to be a combined international effort."
"And how do you rate the effort from the international community?"
"Inadequate."
"And militarily?
"Inadequate. Militarily, it is manpower, feet on the ground, feet belonging to men motivated by a clear understanding of what is right and fair. And yet Africa has millions of youths desperate for work, for action and for a purpose in their lives. What's lacking is the leadership."
"That's exactly Gabriel's opinion," Dobson said.
"Yes. I know," Abisola said. "Gabriel and I probably see eye to eye on many matters."
By three o'clock Dobson knew it was one of Abisola's men who had grabbed Civic off the street, interviewed him and let him go. And Dobson's own information had so galvanised Martin Abisola that he knew he could expect action. Whether it would come to anything was anyone's guess but he also knew that President Azazi himself would be told a few things before the day was out.
At last Abisola stood up. They walked to the door and stood outside in the humid stillness of the Lagos night: "Should I call you Mr Hicks, Mr Dobson or Mark?"
"Mark sounds friendly."
"And what are your immediate plans?"
"I came to sort out a shipment for Solomon Trading because there's no-one available to deal with it. It'll be straightforward. Then I'll go up to Abuja to meet Michael Fayinka. After that...........?"
"Then I'll see you in Abuja. Meanwhile, watch your back, Mark. Any friend of Gabriel's is as much of a marked man as Gabriel himself. And you stick out like a sore thumb despite the change of hair colour. If you want my opinion, I prefer your natural look. Go careful with emails and phone calls. Online scams are not the only thing Nigerians are good at. And don't believe what you sometimes read or hear said about President Azazi. He is a good man with an almost impossible job."
He paused and looked at Dobson. Eye to eye, they were exactly the same height. "Even members of his own family cause him sleepless nights," he added. Then he walked away, presumably to find his car. But, after only a few steps, turned. "And he gets on well with Hama Dosso, the President of Niger - another good man with a tough job." Then he waved his hand, the one holding his screwed up red tie, and disappeared into the night.
Martin Abisola's description about sticking out like a sore thumb was running through Dobson's mind next morning as he left Colin Asher an update on the secure site. He then called Vigo to discuss Solomon's containers sitting at Apapa port. They agreed a price for the job that included likely inducements for port officials and then he left for Abuja to meet Michael Fayinka.
They'd agreed to meet at the Grand Ibro Hotel at eleven but both were late. By the time they'd found each other they were both hungry
"There's a Mr Biggs." Fayinka suggested.
Dobson normally avoided burger joints but they walked there and then talked - about Michael's family, his time spent managing Solomon Trading, about the many contracts they'd won and lost because Solomon insisted on corruption-free trade.
"Like fighting with an arm tied behind my back," he explained. "Like walking with legs in shackles."
"But you proved that corruption is not necessary for success, Michael."
"But now look at us," he replied despondently and Dobson had to admit he had a point.
"So, what do you want to do now?"
"Re-open the business as soon as possible."
"Not giving up entirely?"
"Sol says we become better people by learning from the bad nature of others." Dobson nodded. He'd heard that one, too.
Later that day, Dobson moved northwards to Kano