Party Chairman’s wife tempts Peter Abel

11 Oct Party Chairman’s wife tempts Peter Abel

Peter Abel stood in front of an impressive display of medieval armour, a proud part of the British Museum’s permanent collection. Looking at the forged metal, pounded by hand centuries ago, he thought of the battles and jousts and ceremonies each outfit had witnessed. The very idea of these things having been a part of so much history left Abel in awe.

He was transported back six hundred years. He would love to have lived in those times. One of his favourite books was about a man who was transported from the present back to the Middle Ages, Mark Twain’s, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. Of course, the book ends in a massive slaughter, modern technology corrupting the Arthurian idyll, but the flaws inherent in the men themselves played a big part as well. That seemed to be Twain’s point. Modern weapons just allowed people to kill more efficiently and in greater numbers.

Abel thought about how men bring about their own destruction, no matter from what age or what culture or what religion. His own country had within its grasp the means to save its people, yet greed, avarice and petty self-interest stood in the way. As it always did. Lancelot betrayed Arthur. It was at the heart of the legend. The Round Table was a mirage, a symbol of a brotherhood that existed only in theory.

Abel left the museum thinking of how much greater a betrayal man was perpetrating upon the earth itself in these modern times. In Arthur’s day, slaughter remained confined to rival tribes and internecine rivalries. Even as late as World War II, the destruction was mainly infrastructure, and human life, surely, but life itself easily persisted. But today, war was waged not on the battlefield between rival armies, but in the boardrooms of large corporations, dividing up the spoils the earth had to offer. The things being destroyed today could not be replaced, at least not in any time-frame human beings understood.

These corporate raiders, men in suits, not of armour but of fine cloth, couldn’t see beyond the next quarter, yet were determining the fate of the human race. Global warming, climate change, melting of the polar ice caps, the destruction of the rain forest, all were casualties of a very different war, one few people acknowledged. But in this war, there would be no winners. Everyone would lose – everything and forever. The end of civilization and mankind. Maybe it was time.

As Abel made his way to the West End of London, a section of the city he loved, he told himself that he needed to lower his expectations. He was trying to save one small spot on the planet, Tinnaka State. There was nothing he could do about the larger issue of global warming. Like those myopic board members who played fast and loose with the fate of the human race, Abel was only out to affect the next quarter. He just wanted to save a few lives by digging for water. He was not trying to save the world. Larger forces would have to do that, if they cared. If it was possible.

What rankled Abel were people like Huud and Tiko, who had been entrusted with the welfare of the state, but who abused it and worked only for their own benefit.

Abel arrived at Trafalgar Square and spent some minutes studying Nelson’s Column before lounging by the blue fountains and watching a group of school children climb on the lion statues.

He finally pushed himself to his feet and made his way past the entrance of the National Portrait Gallery, down a wide corridor that lead onto the south side of Leicester Square. Huge cinemas and nightclubs bordered the Square and Abel was tempted to buy tickets for a show. He’d read the Times that morning and noticed Dame Judi Dench was appearing in a revival of Albee’s, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf. Abel associated the role of Martha with the amazing Elizabeth Taylor, but he was sure Dame Judi could hold her own as the acerbic, vile, but ultimately pathetic academic’s shrewish wife.

Abel took his place in the queue to buy a ticket when a familiar female voice called to him from across the street.

“Peter! Peter Abel!”

Abel turned and spotted, to his amazement, Millie Tiko, the wife of Party Chair Timo Tiko. Millie was dressed in a very English pair of plaid pants with matching jacket and white blouse, wide bough tied at the neck. The outfit was modest but did not conceal her full but curvaceous figure, which had always tempted Abel down the path to infidelity.

It had burgeoned when Abel was covering political campaigns and spent hours at Party Headquarters waiting for interviews and press conferences. Millie, several years younger than her husband, had come from a rich family. With her husband completely consumed by the campaign, Millie’s eye wandered, something she seemed a pro at. Abel, looking for inside information and any advantage over the competition, was too happy to lead her on.

When she visited Lagos a month later, Abel invited her for drinks one night when Tiko was in the north dousing some political fire that had flared up. When they reached a small out of the way bar at Lekki, Millie removed her jacket, revealing a sheer low-cut blouse that exposed a great deal of flesh. The message was clear, and Abel had difficulty resisting her.

But Abel did resist; he drew the line at adultery. Millie had thrown a drink in his face – so Hollywood – and stormed out of the bar. He chased after her and insisted on putting her in a taxi and paying the driver. Abel got no information. But he learned later that Tiko told his wife nothing and preferred she stay far away from politics. Millie eventually got over the rejection. She acted civilly toward Abel when their paths crossed, and eventually they became friendly again, if platonically so.

Abel was relieved that his charade was over. He had not liked leading Millie on. Those things have a way of backfiring, and the last thing he wanted was to embarrass his paper should rumours spread. As far as Abel could tell, there never were any repercussions. If Tiko ever suspected a flirtation between his wife and Abel, he never let on.

Abel left his spot in the queue and crossed the street to greet Millie. The two hugged warmly and exchanged kisses on either cheek. “What a wonderful surprise! I couldn’t believe it was you. But here you are!” Millie said in a delighted rush, with the enthusiasm of someone surprised with a present.

Abel felt her cheek against his and the swell of her soft breast on his arm. Memories of their times together overwhelmed him, and he felt a surge of hope that his past reluctance to commit adultery would return to help him resist her again.

Then it hit him. This might not be the happy coincidence it appeared. What were the odds of Millie being in London, much less running into him. Was she the spy he’d been looking over his shoulder for? Or was this really just dumb luck?

“What are you doing here?” she finally asked.

“Holiday,” Abel smiled. He pointed across the street toward the ticket merchant. “I was about to buy a ticket for the Albee play. But I’d rather catch up with you.”

Millie smiled at him and shook her head. “Edward Albee. You have such serious taste, Peter, always drawn to the dark side.”

“Yes,” he confessed, “You know me too well. But what are you doing in London? Is Tiko with you?” Abel decided the direct approach was best. He’d be totally open and inquisitive as if he had no other agenda than tourism.

“Oh, no, Tiko is tied up with politics, as always.” She did not volunteer what she was doing in London.

“Then you’re here on holiday, too?” Abel thought he saw her hesitate before answering, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Yes, partly. Some personal business. So, imagine us meeting in such a far away place.” Now Abel knew this was a come on, pure. He wondered how to resist. He was aroused. But a voice in his head warned him of the dangers, no less now than before. He decided to postpone the moment of truth.

“How about having dinner with me?” he smiled at her.

“I’d love to.”

They arranged to meet at the Aberdeen Steak House near Victoria Station at seven. Abel offered to pick her up, but she declined. Abel arrived first and stationed himself at the bar, ordering a scotch. As he waited for Millie, he reviewed things. If she had been, as he suspected, sent to find out what he was up to, Tiko already knew of their previous flirtation. And since Millie had been so upfront about their seeing one another again, Abel figured Tiko had given his blessing to do whatever it took. Great guy, pimping his wife out for political gain. Even as one of the many wives of Chairman Tiko, it would be weird for him to do so, but in politics there is nothing personal.

But Abel wondered if he was any better. He was actually thinking about sleeping with the woman to see if he could pry anything from her. Had he learned nothing since his first temptation? But then he thought that his cause was worth the dicey moral choices, because after all, he was trying to save lives not steal money.

Abel began to doubt his suspicions after his second drink. Perhaps this was just a happy accident, an innocent coincidence. Millie entered the restaurant. He immediately put the happy accident option aside. Millie was dressed to kill. This was a come-hither date meant to find out what he knew. Abel took a breath, finished his drink and met Millie at the door.

She wore a strapless dress, breath-taking in its brevity, tight around the hips and coming to an abrupt, if artfully tailored, stop halfway down her very shapely thighs. Every waiter in the place dropped by their table under some pretence – water, bread, pickled onions, drinks, napkins, you name it. Abel never had such good service.

As they talked about their lives since they last saw one another, Millie became sentimental and sad. She confessed she saw very little of Tiko, who was either away on business, at the office or with his four other wives. She was lonely and had come to London to visit various friends.

This was all pre-bedroom information, words meant to convey her willingness to be seduced, not that Abel needed to hear a sob story. The dress was pretty blunt and to the point.

Abel talked about the exhausting trip he’d taken to Limi and the subsequent need for rest. He told her almost everything that happened there, figuring she knew anyway and this would come across as candid. He didn’t, of course, tell her about Camp, but he did say his paper was doing a story on the severe drought and the effects of desertification.

Global warming was a safe topic, since nobody in Nigeria could do much about it except breathe less, thus spewing out fewer molecules of carbon dioxide. He was careful not to blame the government for anything, instead railing against the industrialized West and their endless pollution.

Millie kept returning to Abel’s reason for being in London and his plans while he was in the city. He could say with total honesty that his plans involved visiting as many tourist spots as possible. But he gave her no compromising information, if in fact she was even fishing for any.

After dessert, they walked through the city, eventually ending up on a park bench.

“We could be sitting in your hotel room,” she said.

Abel smiled. “And if you were out all night, wouldn’t your friends worry about where you are?”

“I told them not to wait up. They have to get up early for work. Very blue collar.”

The time had come for Abel to take a stand.

“Millie, you must have noticed how hard I have been trying to hold my emotions back,” he said. “We’ve been through this once. I was disappointed. You were furious. We didn’t speak. Then we did. Finally we worked our way back to being friends. Can we just stay friends this time, without going through all those other steps?”

Millie sighed deeply and smiled. “Then I should go.”

“I’ll get you a cab,” he said and stood up. She put a hand on his arm.

“Could I borrow your cell phone while you’re looking for a taxi?” she said.

Abel handed it to her and walked to the curb. After a time, a taxi answered his wave. Millie climbed in and handed Abel’s phone back to him. Then she leaned out and kissed him on the cheek.

“Good night, friend,” she said. “Thank you for dinner.”

“Again tomorrow?” he said.

“Can’t. I promised to spend the day with some of Tiko’s friends. And I’m flying back home the next day. Maybe someday you’ll be man enough.” She sat back in the seat, the conversation over.

Abel listened intently, hoping she would tell the driver her destination, which would give him a clue as to the neighbourhoods he should be checking for evidence of Tiko’s real estate holdings. But he had no such luck. The door closed and the taxi moved off.

Abel hailed one to follow. He felt like a character out of an old movie.

When he settled back in his seat, he opened his cell phone. Millie had turned it off with the “Recent Calls” page open. She had checked his numbers. Abel had anticipated the possibility and so had been careful never to use his cell to call Clarke or anyone else involved in the investigation. What Millie found were the numbers of museums and restaurants and theatres. And the airline.

But her manoeuvre was very revealing. She was here to check him out, and that meant she had likely lied to him about where she was staying. When he’d offered to pick her up for dinner and she’d refused, he became suspicious. Abel suspected she was living in a house owned by her husband. And this might be the link he needed to back to allegations of money laundering he was investigating. But he had to find out where it was.

Abel’s driver got caught behind a lorry that stalled at an intersection and lost Millie. But he noted the road on which they were travelling lead to Surry and Richmond, both exclusive wealthy areas of London, nothing blue-collar about them.

He knew the general area where she and Tiko must have purchased his house. And he would feed this intelligence to Clarke as soon as he could. With it, Clarke could check real estate sales records for certain neighbourhoods and with any luck uncover the address. With that, he could begin back tracing the cash used to buy the house.

It felt like progress.