Abel in Another Meeting Under Eko Bridge

13 Sep Abel in Another Meeting Under Eko Bridge

The town of Bammakk City was readying for sleep when Abel reached his room in the Maxi Hotel about 10 P.M. His back ached from the rough ride, his hands sore from gripping the handle bars and his neck throbbed where he had been slugged by the hapless thief. Abel thought back on the fact that he had defended himself well, beaten the man into submission and then handed over the bike to the would-be thief. Every criminal should pick his target as fortuitously.

Despite his exhaustion, Abel went through the usual security checks in his room. He looked in the closet and found his clothes undisturbed, then looked through his suitcase. Nothing was missing. His cleverest trick had to do with the drawer where he kept his socks and underwear. He always arranged his socks in a certain way. If someone had rifled through the drawers he would immediately know. But the socks were exactly as he left them. Feeling secure in this neat, comfortable room, worlds away from the poverty, dust and dirt of Limi, Abel took a shower then ordered two beers from room service.

The arrival of the cold beverages was a welcome sight, and in his delight he over-tipped the grateful room service boy. Why not? Abel thought. I gave a robber a bike. I can give this guy a few extra coins.

Abel collapsed onto the small couch opposite his bed. It was more the size of a love seat, and its short dimensions could not accommodate Abel’s height. But Abel sat there purposefully, so he would not be tempted to lie down. If he had stretched out on the bed, he would have been asleep in minutes. And he wanted to stay awake to think.

As he reviewed the events of the day, it wasn’t the murder in Soto’s hut that drew his attention. As horrible as that was, it had precious little to do with his mission to uncover government corruption. Soto was a pawn. Government officials used his animistic fanaticism to distract the populace from what was really happening. It was a magic trick. A sleight of hand. The villagers were watching Soto while they make the money disappear.

Abel focused on the conversation he had in the bar with the battling locals. One comment stood out, the young cynical man’s mention of London. He said the money stolen from Nigeria was used to buy yachts, jewels and mansions in England. The information probably was exaggerated and certainly anecdotal, but sometimes grassroots rumours are the most reliable. Abel made a decision. As he sipped the last of the beer, he reached for his satellite phone.

Chief Benson picked up after two rings. He always answered quickly, and it reminded Abel of the old IBM rule. No employee was allowed to let the phone ring more than twice. Benson must have recognized Abel’s number on the readout because he answered with a cheerful greeting. “Abel, boy. How’s life in Limi?”

“Bad, chief. Worse than I even imagined. These poor people need water.”

“You found out anything?”

“Not specifically, but enough to be convinced the story has real teeth. And that our friend is worth listening to.” Abel knew better than to use Camp’s name.

“When are you coming back?”

“Tomorrow. Listen, when can I have my next vacation? This trip was brutal. I need a rest.”

Abel used the code question he had established with Camp. He needed to speak to Camp about the possible London connection, specifically about the expenditure of money there, to find out if Camp had a contact he could use.

“You have some place you’d like to go to rest up?”

“London’s nice. Friendly people. Good beer.”

“All right, Peter. Take a few days. Come back fresh. I’ll have my secretary make your reservations.”

“I’ll be back in Lagos tomorrow. What time can I pick them up?”

“Might take all day. Stop by about eight tomorrow night. We can have a drink before you leave.” They both knew this meant that Benson would arrange a meeting with Camp for Abel at eight o’clock the next night. Same place. Under the bridge.

“Anything else I should know?” Abel asked since he’d been out of touch for twenty-four hours.

The chief hesitated. Abel got a sinking feeling, since this usually indicated something he didn’t want to hear. Benson didn’t like delivering disturbing news, even though he never failed to do so when crucial.

“Yes. The police are investigating a threatening tape sent to Theodora Camp. Do you know who that is?”

Abel recognized the Chief was disguising their source by bringing Camp up independent of the corruption discussion.

“Yes. Doctor Camp’s wife, isn’t she? He’s the agricultural minister?” The games they had to play.

“She is. The police released a copy of the tape to the press.” There was a shuffling and clicking as Benson retrieved the tape recorder. Then Abel heard an electronically altered voice: “A politician’s maturity lies in the ability to see an opportunity and grab it, as well as the ability to see danger and avert it. Please talk to your man.”

“The caller altered his voice. Does that mean he knows to the Camps?”

“Could be. Call came into her office this afternoon. Papers all over Lagos are covering it. Just thought you should know.” Benson hung up.

Abel sat back and sighed. How could anybody know about Camp’s connection to Abel already? Or was someone just trying to scare him just in case he was thinking of talking to the press? Whatever the situation, it made Abel’s mission that much more urgent. He would travel to London as soon as he talked to Camp, but he still had things to do in Limi the following day.

When he awake in the morning, he used a local source who had an in with the police, and found out that no report of the ritual killing had emerged from the village. Obviously, the priest would not tell anybody about cutting the young man’s throat, but Abel wondered why nobody had been declared missing. He made one other stop before leaving Bammakk City. He checked archives of the local paper and discovered that Soto was a spiritual consultant to some leaders of the People’s Party in the state capital. Of course. It all made perfect sense. Soto was using the Party. The Party was using him. Win win. Except for the people. They lost every time.

( ( ( ( (

At eight o’clock that night, Abel was back in Lagos, standing under the Eko Bridge, waiting for Camp. Abel had made his way using a different route than the first night. He left his car at the hotel and took several buses to within six blocks of the town limits and walked the rest of the way. The cigarette butt he’d seen lying next to his car door after his first secret meeting made him fear he and Camp already were under surveillance. The fact that Camp’s wife had received a very thinly veiled threat so soon made Abel extra cautious and kept him on guard when talking to anyone.

Abel checked his watch, using a silver cigarette lighter to illuminate the dial. Camp was late. Abel wondered if something had happened to him. He might have been spooked by the message to his wife, or might have been delayed by official duties, or he might not have been able to slip away without being seen. As Abel tried to decide what to do, he heard footsteps approaching. Camp appeared around the piling.

“Good evening, Peter.”

“Minister.”

“I hear you had an interesting day. You witnessed the rain-making ritual of the irrepressible Soto.”

“I’d have used a different word. I saw him slit a man’s throat as a sacrifice. He would have slit mine, but I escaped.”

Even in the dim light, Abel could see Camp’s shock and revulsion. His body language conveyed his feelings as he shifted uncomfortably, then looked off in the distance. “I have heard rumours. I would love to put that man out of business.”

“But, of course, even if I offered to testify…”

“Soto is protected by powerful men who have an interest in seeing him continue to lead the animists in the village. They would see to it you were discredited. No, as tragic as the death is, it’s more important to keep doing your work. If you came forward, you couldn’t pursue the story.” Abel nodded.

“I did find out one thing. I thought you might help me. A young man said the top Tinnaka officials are spending the money they steal on a lavish lifestyle in London. He could be citing unconfirmed reports in the media.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. It could be this boy whose relative works in the finance ministry. God, how I wish I’d stayed at the UN. I really do, Peter.”

Abel knew exactly what Camp was thinking.

“I was sorry to hear about the threat to your wife, sir.”

Camp inhaled sharply, obviously disturbed. “I had extra security assigned to Theodora and the children. She doesn’t want it of course, but I insisted,” he paused as if considering the whole mess. “I do have someone I can point you to in London.”

“Can I use your name?”

“Yes. When I was with the UN, we dealt with some corruption in Mozambique. Certain business interests were skimming money from aid packages and laundering it through English contacts. I met with a man named James Clarke. He’s with the MET’s Money Laundering Investigation Team. He will most likely remember me. Tell him I am the UN official who beat him at darts. A group of us played a lively game at a pub one night. Mr. Clarke fancies himself an expert darts player, and he doesn’t like to lose.” Camp chuckled.

“I do have one other question, sir. The money these officials stole from the well project, do you know how much is missing?”

“Tinnaka was awarded over seventy million dollars for famine relief. Most of it came from abroad, some from the federal government. Half the funds were to go into well-drilling. Each well costs ten thousand dollars, American. So far ten wells have been finished. The government claims they have no money for more. I tell you this because it is all public record.”

“With such a huge discrepancy, hasn’t the police or the EFCC investigated?”

Camp shook his head as if Abel had asked an incredibly naïve question. Finally, he said, “That is your story, Peter.”

This told Abel something extremely important. He wasn’t just dealing with the governor of Tinnaka State. Others in many venues had been bribed or paid off or were sharing in the wealth. The net he would have to cast must be wide.

Camp stepped closer to Abel and took his arm gently in his huge hand. “After what happened in Limi, perhaps it’s better if you stay in London for awhile.”

“Do you think they already know about us?”

“I can’t be sure. But it’s better you do your work from abroad for now. Let them think they scared me off, if that’s what they were trying to do.”

“But if they already know,” Abel said, “what difference does it make where I am?”

“If they were sure, I’d be dead already. And you never would have gotten out of Limi alive. No, they might suspect, they might fear, but they aren’t sure. They will think you’ve gone to London on holiday. That is what your boss is letting out. So, had they been watching you, they will relax now. And I’ll go about my own business doing nothing to make them think I’m going to make trouble. In fact, I will consult with the governor himself soon. Talk to him about the crisis as if I were just another one of his obedient bureaucrats. Keep your enemies close, as they say, Peter.”

With that, Camp turned and departed. After ten minutes, Abel followed.

Later that night, he met with Chief Benson in his office. They did not mention the meeting with Camp, but instead discussed the sights of London. Benson highly recommended the Tate Gallery, being fond of William Blake. And he told Abel to visit 221B Baker Street, the storied home of the renowned Sherlock Holmes, now a tourist museum and pub. “Everything ends in a drink,” Benson observed, smiling.

Abel, feeling less cheerful than his boss, bid Benson good night and left with his tickets in hand. When he got into this car, he could have sworn someone was watching from the shadows. He shook his head. He was used to being watched during his undercover assignments, but it reminded him that he had to stay one step ahead of his subjects.

( ( ( ( (

As Abel turned the key in his door to lock it, his cell phone rang. Thinking that it was Chief Benson, he fetched the phone from his pocket quickly.

“Hello, sir.”

Suppressed laughter on the other end. “Not a sir, Abel. I am Ibrahim.”

“And what can I do for you, Ibrahim?”

“Ibrahim of the EFCC,” the caller said in a whisper.

“It doesn’t answer my question. You guys are chasing corrupt politicians. I’m a bloody journalist remember?”

“Well, Abel. I’m Mallam Isa Ibrahim, you remember me? We met when my chairman visited your publisher.”

“I hope you are not paid to keep people awake. It is…..” Abel looked at his watch to tell the time.

“We have to work together over the case in Tinnaka. A collabo …”

Rooted to the spot near his door, Abel was becoming agitated. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“It is under the Eko Bridge.”

“Oh, you are the guy who tried to burn my car?” He laughed and hurried to sit down in the nearest sofa.

“I don’t smoke, Abel. My boys told me the guy who was smoking near your car could be your source’s bodyguard.”

Wrong, Abel thought. “Okay, Ibrahim. Let’s go. I have to catch some sleep,” he said trying to hide his anger.

“We have piles of allegations, but no substance. The guy you met is the most credible guy in that government to talk to, but he doesn’t want to talk to us.”

“I see,” Abel headed to the kitchen for a drink. “You must have forgotten your job description.”

“Well, Abel, be careful not to bungle the case,” Ibrahim said sternly.

“What did you just say?” Abel stopped at the kitchen door, fuming.

“Don’t bungle the case, Abel. We don’t want the guy killed before he talks to us.”

“You have access to him, don’t you?”

“On a more serious note, Abel,” Ibrahim cleared his throat. “It looks like he fears for his life.”

“I think so, but I also think you guys don’t protect your sources enough.”

“We will move quickly to get the bad boys as soon as we build a strong case.”

“Okay, listen, Ibrahim. If you guys don’t blow my cover, you will soon be using my reports as foolproof evidence,” he said and stifled a yawn.

“Fine, Abel. My chairman wants to talk to you tomorrow afternoon; but remember, I didn’t discuss Tinnaka with you. He wants you to join the Commission soon.”

“Thanks, Ibrahim,” Abel said and paused to suppress a laugh. “I know your boss is talking to my publisher, but you must know I can’t work in a regimented system. I don’t know the guy who founded military intelligence,” he giggled. “Intelligence work is best in a free atmosphere, where one can follow gut instincts and listen to those small voices.”

Ibrahim broke into laughter. “Good night, Abel. I won’t forget to tell the Chief of Defence Staff this joke, but remember to see my boss at noon.”

“Good night,” Abel said, relieved to have gotten Ibrahim off the line.

He got himself a can of beer from the fridge and took a sip. Then he switched to a satellite phone to call his publisher. Chief Benson assured felt the EFCC was new and lacked resources to take on too many cases at the same time. He promised to strike a deal with the Commission for any hard evidence Abel got in return for their silence over his cover.

Peter Abel’s status at The Zodiac freed him from dealing with the hum-drum issues that arose almost daily. Not only was he a renowned undercover reporter, but he sat on the editorial board. He was Chief Benson’s most trusted employee. It was the combination of Benson’s funds and managerial acumen, and Abel’s skills as the country’s number one news-breaking journalist that made The Zodiac Nigeria’s leading paper soon after it was established eleven years prior.

Success did not blind Chief Benson to the magic of that combination. Grateful, he had continued to treat Abel the way he would treat a favoured first-born. He gave him everything he needed for his assignments, but Abel knew it was his personal responsibility to stay alive. Now he had an additional responsibility to keep Dr. Camp too alive.

( ( ( ( (

The next day when he boarded the plane, he saw a man standing on an overhead level, looking down at him, a camera around his neck. He might have been a tourist, or he might have been there to document Abel’s departure from Nigeria.