Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger Read online

  All the invited guests had arrived and the band started playing as the bartenders dispensed drinks. The three executives from XCAL and their wives tended to bunch together, as did some of the government officials, but guests eventually mixed more freely as the alcohol greased the conversational skids. The senior member of the government contingent at the party, Blyds Okafor, area commander of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission—and a frequent beneficiary of Agu Gwantam’s largesse—wore his lofty title with pride. Educated in London, he carried himself self-assuredly, half-glasses perched on the tip of his surprisingly aquiline nose, a seemingly permanent bemused grin on his lips. He beckoned for Agu to join him in a secluded portion of the expansive property.

  “I hesitate injecting something unpleasant into this festive day, Agu, but I’ve received a message from a colleague in Washington, D.C., that is troubling.”

  “Oh? This is not a day for troubles, Blyds.”

  “I would prefer that no day brings troubles, but that is wishful thinking.”

  “What is this trouble you mention?”

  “Bright Horizons.”

  Agu’s smile evaporated. “What about it?”

  “You know, of course, the trouble we have had with Ammon Dimka.”

  “Oh, yes, Dimka. But he is no longer involved with Bright Horizons. He is now—as I recall—he works for an American firm, some sort of construction company?”

  “Exactly. But that is not the issue. Dimka was encouraged to migrate to the United States to head up Bright Horizons, a move to get him out of our hair. You’re aware of that.”

  “Yes, of course. And he resigned from that post because he was unhappy with certain aspects of that most worthwhile charity.”

  Okafor adjusted the glasses on his nose as he ensured that they were not being overhead. He leaned closer. “It seems that Mr. Dimka has been telling tales out of school to not only an American journalist; he’s done the same with a private investigator.”

  “That is troubling,” Agu agreed. “How does your colleague in Washington know this?”

  Okafor looked across the yard to where Alain Fournier chatted with other guests. “SureSafe has recorded Dimka’s calls,” he said.

  Gwantam also looked to where Fournier stood.

  “Does Alain know this?” Okafor asked.

  Agu hunched large shoulders beneath his pale blue blazer. “We should ask him,” he said, “but later. I have things to attend to for my guests.”

  The band started playing, its infectious rhythms ramping up the party atmosphere. A few couples danced to the beat of the hybrid music. The actress danced by herself to admiring male glances, hips swaying, a sultry smile on her red lips.

  Waiters passed trays loaded with the evening’s pre-dinner treats while Agu and his wife mingled, making sure that each guest was having a good time. Alain Fournier did as he usually did at social gatherings. He stayed mostly to himself, a drink in his hand, his narrowed eyes taking in everyone as though searching for a missing person, or someone who shouldn’t be there. His date had left his side and engaged in raucous conversation with others, opening flirting with a young government official who’d already had too much to drink.

  Agu approached Fournier. “Are you enjoying yourself, Alain?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Fournier said, his accent reflecting his French origins. “You always provide the best parties.”

  “Thank you,” said Agu. “I need to speak with you—in private.”

  Fournier said nothing as he followed Agu into Agu’s private study, a large room at the rear of the home filled with trophies he’d garnered on frequent hunting trips. He closed the door, went to the window, and looked out at the revelers. Fournier took a chair upholstered in zebra skin next to the oversized desk. The mounted heads of wild beasts looked down on him.

  “What do you hear from your people in Washington, D.C., about Ammon Dimka?” Agu asked without turning from the window.

  “Nothing new that I am aware of.”

  “Blyds Okafor has told me that he received word that Mr. Dimka has been talking with people in Washington about Bright Horizons.”

  “What people?”

  “A journalist and a private investigator.”

  “I have not been told this,” said Fournier.

  Agu now faced Fournier. “I am surprised that I am the one who must inform you of such news,” he said sternly. “After all, security—my security—is in your hands, and you are paid handsomely for it.”

  Fournier started to respond, but Agu continued. “Yes, Alain, I not only pay you handsomely for your security services; I have generously cut you in on a percentage of the money that my enterprises generate.”

  “And I have expressed my gratitude on many occasions,” the slender Frenchman said.

  “Which I appreciate, of course, but I would also expect that you and your people stay abreast of matters that are of a direct concern to me.”

  Fournier twisted in his chair. He resented being lectured by the big Nigerian, and for a moment envisioned shooting him with the Beretta he carried. He’d often had such a vision. While his posting by SureSafe to the Niger Delta had reaped him substantial financial rewards—he was paid by SureSafe, was paid by Gwantam for personal security services, and received a cut of Gwantam’s income from his financial scams—he deeply disliked the black men for whom he worked, considered them lesser human beings, men who lacked the sophisticated European upbringing that he, Alain Fournier, had enjoyed. But he expressed those feelings only to a few select European friends with whom he worked in the delta and who shared his views. The executives at XCAL Oil, whose security and safety had been entrusted to him and SureSafe, were gentlemen. Agu Gwantam and others like him were thugs in Fournier’s estimation.

  Agu forced a smile and turned to the window again. “We’re missing the party, Alain,” he said pleasantly. “I know that you will take care of this matter in due haste. Come, have a drink. It is too good a day to be indoors.”

  Fournier stayed for as long as he felt it was politic. As guests prepared to sit down for their roasted goat dinner, he grabbed his date and told her they were leaving. She’d had a lot to drink and protested but knew better than to make a scene. After apologizing for having to leave—something to do with an emergency at SureSafe—he hustled her through the front door and into the car that had delivered them to the party, his armed guard falling in behind. Fournier instructed the driver to take them to his apartment, told him to wait, and herded Carla into the bedroom, where he threw her on the bed. “You’re drunk, you chienne! Sober up, take a shower, and be here when I return.” She started to say something, but he slapped her. “Don’t challenge me, Carla. Don’t ever challenge me!”

  He told the driver to take him to SureSafe’s headquarters, a concrete two-story building on the shore of one of the delta’s many swamps. He stormed into the first-floor offices where two Germans on duty that day watched a soccer game on a small TV set. They snapped to attention as he entered.

  “Have you heard anything from our people in Washington about that fool Ammon Dimka?” he snapped.

  One of the Germans rifled through a pile of communiqués on the desk and handed a sheet to Fournier. It was a report of SureSafe’s monitoring of Dimka’s telephone. Fournier seethed as he read it. He threw it at the German and snarled, “Why wasn’t I informed of this the minute it arrived?”

  One of the men mumbled an excuse in German about Fournier having been at a party, but Fournier brought his fist down on the desk, sending papers flying. He delivered a scathing diatribe laced with French four-letter words, turned, and left the building, his words trailing behind. His driver returned him to his apartment, where Carla, showered and wearing Fournier’s bathrobe, pouted on the couch. His anger at the Germans hadn’t abated, and his lovemaking reflected it. She was left with a bruised cheek and breast, and a bloody lip where her teeth had bitten into it. Fournier fell asleep when they were through, his handgun on the table next
to the bed, and Carla considered picking it up and blowing the nasty Frenchman’s brains out.

  But good sense prevailed. She quietly left the bed, splashed her face with cold water in the bathroom, dressed, and left, rationalizing that she was at least paid, something she couldn’t always count on with Alain Fournier.

  CHAPTER

  26

  WASHINGTON—LONDON

  Elizabeth Sims prided herself on her physical condition, not only because of the way exercise made her look but also because it cleared her mind to tackle the complex legal issues she was called upon to sort through each day. She’d been a runner since her teen years, and had joined her husband, David Portland, for daily jogs whenever he was in London after returning from his many trips. She enjoyed those romps in the British countryside, and her stepson, Trevor, sometimes joined them.

  Following their divorce and her return to the States with Trevor, she continued a daily workout regime, and on this early morning she went to Rock Creek Park, a favorite jogging place, where she logged an easy five miles according to the small device worn on the waist of her shorts. She’d started her run just as the sun appeared over the horizon, which provided a modicum of light. While she wasn’t paranoid about jogging alone, she was wary enough to not venture into strange areas at night; a canister of Mace that accompanied the odometer provided a sense of security.

  Back in her apartment, she discarded her running clothes and stood under a hot shower, enjoying the tingle the rush of water provided. Wrapped in an oversized pale blue towel, and with a smaller one on her head, she settled in her kitchen with a bowl of oatmeal, glass of orange juice, and black coffee and read that day’s newspaper, which she’d grabbed from a pile in the lobby, a perk of being a resident in the expensive high-rise apartment building, high at least by Washington, D.C., standards. One article after another testified to the mayhem taking place around the globe, and she pushed the paper aside. The news was too distressing, not the way to start another demanding day at Cale, Watson and Warnowski.

  But there also was unpleasant news closer to home. Her father hadn’t been feeling well for months and had finally succumbed to his wife’s urging to see a doctor. After a battery of tests, the diagnosis was a particularly aggressive form of lymphoma. He was to begin six courses of a potent chemotherapy recipe, followed by multiple sessions of radiation. Elizabeth had spoken with him the night before and he’d sounded upbeat, although she sensed that his positive tone was forced. How could it not be? He was facing treatments that would undoubtedly leave him drained, physically and mentally, including the loss of his full head of steely gray hair in which he took pride. She’d have to get to Boston to spend time with him whenever she found a break in her busy schedule.

  She chose a new navy pants suit to wear that day, and spent the requisite time adjusting her makeup and hair. Satisfied at how she looked, she gathered up papers she’d been going over the night before and was about to leave for the office when the phone rang. It startled her. Ever since she had learned of her father’s illness she was convinced a ringing phone could herald bad news. Silly, she knew, but understandable. It went with the territory of having aging parents.

  “Liz, it’s David,” Portland said.

  She checked her watch. Seven forty-five. Early afternoon in the UK.

  “Hello, David. You’re still in London?”

  “I’ll be coming back in a few days. Liz, we have to talk.”

  “All right,” she said, not eager to prolong the conversation. “When you get back we can—”

  “It’s about Trevor.”

  What else could it be about? she thought.

  “Why don’t you call me when you get back?” she again suggested.

  “Yeah, I’ll do that. But look, I’ve come across information while in London that shouts loud and clear that Trevor wasn’t killed by members of MEND. He was killed by Alain Fournier, the Frenchman in charge of security for XCAL in Nigeria.”

  “That’s a serious charge, David.”

  “Yeah, it sure is. He shot him after talking on the phone with someone, and I’ll bet that someone was with XCAL.”

  Elizabeth started to debate it with him but caught herself. “Call me when you’re back in Washington,” she repeated. “I have to run now.”

  “XCAL,” Portland muttered into the phone. “Your precious client.”

  She hung up without saying more.

  “Damn you!” she said to the empty room. He was at it again, flinging accusations around based upon God only knew where he’d gotten his latest “information.” Had he been drinking again? Why couldn’t he let go of it? His son, her stepson, was dead and buried. He’d put himself in harm’s way by taking a job in volatile Nigeria, and while that didn’t mitigate the pain of his murder and the brutality of it, it tended to create a filter through which it became more understandable.

  Those thoughts stayed with her as she drove to the office and settled in for a hard day of analyzing two new contracts initiated by her client XCAL Oil. She practiced what she’d learned about compartmentalizing, which helped to some extent, but David’s call, and her father’s health issues, kept getting in the way.

  CHAPTER

  27

  The phone call to Elizabeth, and the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions Portland had suffered since meeting with the pathetic Matthew Kelsey, also made concentrating difficult for him. He paced his London flat, Kelsey’s words on a loop, gripping the bracelet that the big Nigerian had claimed had been anted up by Fournier in a card game, turning it over and over in his hands, picturing it on Trevor’s wrist and envisioning his murder, a bullet to the head, his body left to rot in the Nigerian sun until someone did the right thing and arranged to have it shipped home.

  Mostly he was frustrated. He now had the information he needed to back up his suspicion that Trevor had been killed not by MEND members, but by the man in charge of security for XCAL in the Niger Delta, Alain Fournier. Of course, he realized that the information had come from a disgruntled former SureSafe employee, a hard drinker and cynical man. Could he believe Kelsey? He had no reason to doubt what Kelsey had told him, but he wanted more, something tangible to back up the drunk’s claim.

  But where would he find it?

  His initial call to XCAL’s London office had achieved nothing. He’d been shunted off to a young man who said that he was Manford Penny’s executive assistant, whatever that meant.

  He called XCAL’s number and reached the same young man who’d taken his earlier call. After explaining why he was calling again, he was put on hold until the man with the title of executive assistant reappeared. “Yes, Mr. Portland,” he said. “I have the report right here. Trevor Portland, aged twenty-three, employed by the geological survey company SealCom, hometown Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America, the victim of native forces associated with the Nigerian rebel organization MEND—”

  “Yes, I know all that,” Portland said, unable to mask his annoyance. “What I’m looking for is someone who might have been there, someone who knows more than is in the official report you’re reading to me.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but that is all that is known here at headquarters. The report is official and—”

  “Who wrote that report?” Portland snapped.

  “It was sent to us from SureSafe in Nigeria—that is the security firm under contract to XCAL—and it represents the official report on what happened to Trevor Portland, age twenty-three, who—”

  “Thanks for nothing,” Portland growled. “Have a good day!” He slammed down the phone.

  Elizabeth had mentioned during their lunch that among many things she’d be doing in London was meeting with XCAL UK’s chairman, Manford Penny. Portland didn’t know him, but Elizabeth spoke highly of him, which didn’t mean much. What was she supposed to say about the British chairman of the firm’s most lucrative client—that she detested him?

  He pulled from a file the notes he’d taken when first informed of Trevor’s de
mise by a phone call from SureSafe’s London-based office. The news had been sufficiently impactful to cause Portland to simply thank the caller and hang up, no questions, no probing the facts behind his son’s brutal death, just a burst of exhaled breath—and tears, a torrent of tears that he hadn’t experienced for as long as he could remember. He’d accepted the news as fact: Trevor had been murdered by members of MEND, the native organization dedicated to ridding the Niger Delta of foreign oil companies and the havoc they’d inflicted on the land and its people.

  Now, thanks to Matthew Kelsey, he knew better.

  He dialed SureSafe’s London number and reached a woman, who asked what his call was in reference to.

  Portland mentioned the CEO and explained that he’d been the one who’d called to inform him of his son’s death in Nigeria. “I’d like to speak with him again,” Portland added.

  He was put on hold for a few minutes. Finally, the CEO came on the line.

  “Yes, Mr. Portland,” he said cheerily, “I recall having the unpleasant duty of informing you of what happened to your son.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you,” Portland said, not caring whether it had been or not. “Look,” he said, “I’ve recently learned something that contradicts the official line that Trevor, my son, was killed by members of MEND.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve spoken with a man who was working for SureSafe in the Niger Delta when Trevor was killed. According to him, MEND wasn’t behind his murder. He was shot in the head by your top guy there, Alain Fournier.”

  If the silence on the other end could be translated, it said to Portland that his accusation had hit home.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Portland,” the CEO said, “but whoever told you that is very mistaken.”

  “I don’t think so,” Portland said. “Look, I’ve been in touch with XCAL here in London. I’m not looking to cause trouble, but I intend to get to the truth about my son’s death. I’d like to sit down with you and talk about it.”