An African Affair Page 3

  CHAPTER 4

  A marine guard led Lindsay into the ambassador’s waiting room. Hot and sticky, her clothes moist with perspiration, she luxuriated in the air-conditioning. Linda, a perky blond secretary, offered her a soft drink. When she returned with an icy Coca-Cola, Lindsay downed it gratefully.

  “I love America,” Lindsay said as she flopped back on a green tweed upholstered sofa under a large print of New York harbor in the nineteenth century.

  Linda looked pleased.

  “Yes,” she said. “Isn’t it wonderful? We’re very lucky.”

  Lindsay had meant the air-conditioning, but she smiled politely. After checking that the ambassador was ready, Linda ushered Lindsay through a set of double doors.

  “The ambassador will see you in the secure room,” she said.

  Lindsay was puzzled. She knew that in certain countries, especially in the Eastern bloc, U.S. embassies guarded against electronic eavesdropping, but she couldn’t conceive of such a need in Lagos. In fact, given their telephone and power problems, she doubted the Nigerians had the necessary infrastructure.

  Lindsay had dated Peter Bresson, the ambassador, briefly when he was on the Africa desk in Washington. She had liked him, but then he had been reassigned to Kenya, and she too moved on to London. They had corresponded only a few times, but she was looking forward to seeing him.

  Running her fingers through her hair, she followed Linda up a staircase to the top floor. On the right was a small door with a plaque saying: “TOP SECRET. ANY MENTION OF THE EXISTENCE OF THIS ROOM IS GROUNDS FOR PROSECUTION UNDER ACT 831 OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY CODE.”

  The room was windowless with white noise pumped in to drown out all other sound. Lindsay saw another small room within, made of transparent plastic. Wires suspended this room so it didn’t directly touch the outside wall or the floor. Peter Bresson was sitting inside.

  “Pete,” she said, kissing him on both cheeks. “Is all this really necessary? Because if you’re just trying to impress me, you’ve succeeded.”

  He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, with an athletic frame that had softened slightly around his middle in the years since she’d last seen him. He charged toward her awkwardly, pulling her into a bear hug.

  “Hey, Lindsay. It’s great to see you. I’m sorry about all this cloakand-dagger stuff, but we do really need to be careful about what gets back to the Nigerian government. This room is totally secure.”

  “It’s not the room I’m worried about,” Lindsay answered. “I just had a really disturbing experience.” She told him about the demonstration, the brutal arrest, and her own brush with the military police. He nodded thoughtfully.

  “I’m sorry that happened, but maybe it’s a good thing you saw firsthand exactly what we are dealing with here,” he said. “I wanted you to come in anyway, partly to warn you.”

  “Warn me about what?” Lindsay asked, startled.

  “I hear you have an interview with Olumide tomorrow.”

  Lindsay nodded. Of course he would know.

  “I wanted to talk to you before you go. First of all, everything I say is completely off the record.”

  Lindsay understood perfectly. She could use the information as background, but couldn’t say anything that would allow it to be traced to him or the embassy. She hesitated for a second, then said, “Okay.”

  “Well, the situation here is heating up. Our information indicates that things will get very tough in the next few weeks, tough for everyone. By all means do your interview tomorrow—you’re lucky to get it. But afterward, you should leave. If you file any story from here that is critical of Olumide, you’ll be in serious personal danger.”

  “You mean like William Agapo?” she asked.

  Bresson flinched. “Terrible business. Him and his wife—throats slashed. That’s one more reason you should leave.”

  Lindsay sat quietly, watching her old friend’s face. Then she leaned forward and spoke slowly.

  “Now wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that something really big and newsworthy is about to happen. And you decide that, good reporter that I am, I should get out of town, leaving my colleagues to hit the front page day after day? Did I get that right or did I leave something out?”

  The ambassador smiled ruefully and stood up.

  “Yeah, well, I knew this was a long shot.”

  He poured himself a glass of orange juice, offering her one. She shook her head no.

  “You’re the one with the Olumide exclusive. I don’t think you should be here when it comes out. You can always come back later.”

  “Right. If whatever it is you think is going to happen is so potentially dangerous, they’ll never let me back in and you know it.”

  Bresson looked crestfallen, so she softened for a moment.

  “Pete, thanks for your concern. Really. But you know I can’t leave. This is the kind of situation a reporter dreams of. I wouldn’t be much good if I left the country because I knew that some big story was about to break. Anyway, you don’t really know for certain.”

  Bresson paused for a few seconds. Then, lowering his voice, he repeated, “This is off the record.”

  “I understand.”

  “We have information that sometime in the next few weeks Fakai will be arrested.”

  Lindsay leaned forward.

  “Arrested? For what?”

  “He’ll be charged with plotting a coup. They are going to pin the Agapo murder on him.”

  “Jesus. Is there any truth to this?”

  “Not likely. We think the charge is trumped up.”

  “But if they arrest him, there’ll almost certainly be demonstrations.”

  “Exactly. That’s the idea. Olumide will then use the chaos as an excuse to call off the elections and continue military rule.”

  “And Fakai will be effectively out of the way since he’d have been sure to beat Olumide in the elections,” said Lindsay. She paused, then added, “Well, frankly, that doesn’t sound like a scenario that would upset our government. American oil companies can’t be too happy about Fakai. He’s been hinting at more local controls, even partial nationalization.”

  “It’s complicated. I’m not going to say more on that.” He poured himself another orange juice.

  “I’m grateful you said what you did, Pete. Thank you.”

  “Lindsay, I can’t force you to leave, but I am asking, as your friend, for you to be careful. I’m not going to lie to you. Of course the U.S. doesn’t want an incident. You know as well as I do that Olumide is dangerous. And I’m sure you realize that there are factions in our government who will tolerate anything to get rid of Fakai. I don’t know how much I can protect you.”

  “I guess we’ll find out,” Lindsay answered. “But I do promise to be careful, and I thank you for the warning. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Before you go, I’d like you to meet our new political officer. Since you are obviously going to be here for a while, she will be your main contact.”

  He picked up the phone.

  “Ask Vickie to drop by, please.”

  A few minutes later, Vickie bounded into the room and shook Lindsay’s hand.

  “Welcome to the Bat Cave,” she said. “Is this your first time?”

  “Well, yes,” Lindsay said. “At least the first time in Lagos. But I should be welcoming you. When did you arrive?”

  “Just a few weeks ago, but I did a tour here five years ago. Things were even worse then, if you can imagine that.”

  “So how badly did you mess up for them to send you back?”

  Vickie laughed and looked at Peter. “Hey—you told me it was a reward for a job well done. . . .” She looked at her watch and then turned to Lindsay. “I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to run to a meeting. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” She walked out, wiggling her fingers in a wave.

  “I really ought to be going too,” Lindsay said. She thanked Peter, and caught up with Vick
ie in the hallway.

  “Are you coming to the ambassador’s party tonight?” Vickie asked.

  “Yes, I’m planning to.”

  “Well, good. I’ll see you there.”

  Vickie had reached her office and was about to enter when she turned back toward Lindsay.

  “What are you wearing?”

  Lindsay was taken aback, but only for a moment.

  “A silk dress. Bright orange, wraparound skirt. What about you?”

  “I’m not sure. I was thinking of a black cotton sheath. I read in some fashion magazine that it doesn’t matter what you wear, as long as it’s black. Bye.”

  Lindsay smiled, watching her disappear behind the closed door. As she was leaving the building, she bumped into Dave Goren, the embassy’s chief political officer.

  “Hey, Lindsay, how’s it going?”

  “Pretty well,” she answered, guardedly.

  Goren was thirty-two, a total straight arrow, growing up in Racine, Wisconsin, graduating Georgetown, followed by an orderly climb up the State Department ladder. His blond hair was cut very short, like a marine’s.

  He was good-looking in a clean-cut midwestern way, but she’d never trusted him. He moved around a lot and it was unclear exactly what his duties were, but he dropped in at most of the hot spots. In fact, he turned up in a lot of the same places as Lindsay, which was natural for a journalist, but for a government man it suggested one thing and one thing only: CIA.

  “You do your Olumide interview yet?” he asked.

  Of course, thought Lindsay. He knows too.

  “No,” she said. “Tomorrow.”

  “So, who you been talking to?” Dave asked casually.

  “Peter,” she answered.

  Dave snorted. “Did he say anything helpful?”

  “Nothing much,” Lindsay answered. “Just background.”

  “Well, just between us, and off the record,” Dave said, leaning closer to her, “I’d take his briefings with a grain of salt if I were you.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I don’t mean to criticize Peter, but he can be a little naïve. You should talk to me before the interview.”

  “Naïve how?”

  “He sees things in black and white—forgive the pun.”

  Lindsay waited.

  “He doesn’t realize how important Olumide is to our interests,” Dave continued. “We have a lot of influence as long as he’s in power. He deserves our support.”

  They were standing on the steps of the embassy and, looking out, Lindsay noticed the black car still waiting at the end of the street.

  “Well, see if you can use your influence to get those guys to stop following me,” she said.

  Dave glanced at the car. His expression didn’t change.

  “It might be better if you left the country after your interview,” he said.

  “Ah,” Lindsay answered. “There’s something you and Peter agree on. Why do I get the feeling you’re all trying to get rid of me?”

  He shrugged.

  “What have you been doing lately?” she prodded.

  “Nothing much.”

  “I heard you were out of town when William Agapo was killed.”

  “Really? Who told you that?”

  “I hear things. Any idea who’s responsible?”

  “No.”

  She was about to ask more but stopped when she noticed him staring at her, his eyes icy blue.

  “Coming to the party tonight?” she asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Well, I’ll see you there,” she said, walking toward her car.

  CHAPTER 5

  Lindsay made her way to the bar and ordered a scotch, hoping the liquor would steady her. It burned going down but had a soothing effect. It had been a trying day. The black car had followed her home. She hadn’t seen it again when she left for the party, but she remained on edge throughout the drive, nervously checking the rearview mirror.

  She looked around the room, spotting a few of the local hacks who turned up regularly at these events for the free booze and the hope of loose tongues among the diplomats and occasional government officials. She saw a man she didn’t recognize chatting with some journalists and, assuming it was the new man from the Observer, made her way over to meet him. She stood at the edge of the group, listening to the end of a tense exchange between the stranger and Dave Goren. When Goren left, the newcomer muttered under his breath, “Stupid shit.”

  Lindsay moved forward. “Well, I can’t think of a better moment to introduce myself,” she said. “We already have so much in common.” She put out her hand. “I’m Lindsay Cameron with the Globe.”

  He turned toward her, his expression still angry.

  “Mike Vale,” he said, reflexively taking her hand. “Observer.”

  His face took on the engaging expression she sensed he used for pretty women.

  He was tall and thin with black hair, hazel eyes, and a complexion dark enough to make her wonder about his ethnicity. He was dressed in the classic safari suit of light cotton pants and a matching shirt. He was handsome, Lindsay thought, a filmmaker’s idea of a foreign correspondent.

  “Welcome to Lagos,” she said. “I knew your predecessor. I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before.”

  “I just arrived. My last assignment was Washington and I had to go back to settle my family and tie up some loose ends for the move.”

  “When does your family come?”

  “They don’t. My wife’s decided to stay in D.C. with the kids.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “No. Don’t be. This is no place for children.”

  Ken Abbot of the Telegraph chimed in: “I’ll drink to that.” He sidled up and put his arm around Lindsay’s shoulder.

  “You’ll drink to anything.” She laughed. “What’s going on?”

  “Goren just finished his ‘we ought to love Olumide’ speech,” Ken said. “He thinks he’s the best Africa hand in the business but he doesn’t know jackshit.”

  “He did some time in the Congo before he came here,” Mike said.

  “Yeah, that’s true. That makes him the only one in Nigeria who thinks he’s come up in the world,” Lindsay remarked.

  “He’s a spook,” Ken said. “Who knows what he’s thinking? All you can be sure of is that whatever he does tell us is a lie.”

  A veteran reporter who had worked for the Telegraph in posts from China to South Africa, Ken had been stationed in Lagos for five years. He was so burned out he rarely covered anything more than government releases.

  Lindsay spotted Maureen across the room standing next to Vickie, who, true to her word, was decked out in a sexy black dress adorned with large amber beads. They were in an intense conversation with a man Lindsay didn’t know. Vickie caught her eye and gave a friendly wave, gesturing in the direction of the bar. Lindsay was about to join her but was stopped by Maureen, who was leading the stranger over to meet her. He was about forty, with sandy hair that touched his collar. As they approached, the man smiled at Lindsay with an easy grace. She smiled back. His intense brown eyes never left her face.

  “Lindsay,” Maureen said, “I’d like to present an old friend, James Duncan. James, this is Lindsay Cameron, an even older friend.”

  “Such an old friend, in fact, that I can’t believe Maureen has a friend that I don’t know,” Lindsay said.

  “Well, he’s really an old friend of Mark’s,” Maureen admitted. “But we’ve both seen him several times in London. I had no idea he was coming to Lagos.”

  Lindsay extended her hand.

  He took it and held it just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I know and admire your work, but I’ve mostly seen a London byline. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here for the paper. And you?”

  “I own an art gallery with branches in London and New York. One of my New York clients has developed a passion
for West African art—ibejis. I’m looking for some good ones.”

  “What are ibejis?” she asked.

  “Now you’ve done it,” said Mike Vale, who was still standing at the edge of their little group. “James loves to impart information. Should have been a teacher, really.”

  Lindsay smiled. She’d have been happy to listen to him. She liked the way he looked directly at her when he spoke, as though no one else was in the room.

  “I see you are old friends too,” she said. “Am I the only one here who doesn’t know you?”

  “Luckily that’s a loss that can be remedied very easily,” James replied with a smile.

  “I did a piece on art fraud a few years ago and James was one of my expert sources,” Mike chimed in. “He really knows his field, so actually, you could do worse than listen to him lecture.”

  James gave a half smile and turned toward Mike. “How was D.C.?” he asked.

  “The same.”

  Ed Courvet, the Guardian correspondent, ambled over. This was it—an assemblage of most of the local hacks. Much as James was distracting her, Lindsay couldn’t squander the opportunity to find out if they knew anything new about Olumide and Fakai.

  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.”