Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger Read online

  “I was flattered when they promoted me,” she said.

  “This calls for Champagne and the best that Mr. Ducasse has to offer.”

  They were escorted to the table at which they always sat when dining there; Penny was enough of a regular to command a prime one. After he ordered the Champagne, which Elizabeth wasn’t particularly fond of but would sip nonetheless, talk turned to the situation in Nigeria.

  “The new negotiations with the Nigerian government have become testy,” Penny said, introducing the topic. “Their leaders are flexing their muscles and threatening all sorts of stumbling blocks as the talks go forward.” He laughed. “Of course, we all know that our esteemed partners in the Niger Delta have their hands out. They always do. But they’ve become even greedier of late.”

  “I’ve just begun to dig into the background of those negotiations,” said Elizabeth.

  “Good for you. As you’ll discover, they’re complex, and often nasty.”

  “As the lead attorney on the account I need to get up to speed on every aspect of XCAL’s operations, including our presence in Nigeria.”

  “Expanding your horizons. I like that, Elizabeth.”

  They ordered from the menu. D’été, duck foie gras for him, Scottish langoustines for her. His compliment about how fresh she looked after a long flight didn’t represent how she felt. She was exhausted; his voice became a drone as he talked of recent setbacks that XCAL had experienced in the Niger Delta.

  “… and those bloody rebels from MEND have attacked another of our refining facilities, costing us a fortune in lost oil and revenue.”

  He was referring to the Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta that had been waging war on foreign oil companies in Nigeria for years, including sabotage, theft of goods and munitions, property destruction, guerrilla warfare, and the kidnapping of foreign oil workers.

  “They kidnapped two of our British workers just a few days ago,” he said.

  “Yes, I saw the report on that.”

  “They issued the usual statement that the Nigerian government can’t protect our workers or assets, and that we should leave while we still can—or die.” He guffawed. “How many times have they issued that empty warning?”

  “How big a force is MEND?” Elizabeth asked.

  “It gets bigger every day,” he replied, “and they become more sophisticated. XCAL’s not the only foreign oil company in their sights. The Dutch, Norwegians, Italians have all been victims of their wrath.” He shook his head. “It’s a shame that so much oil is in a place like Nigeria. It would make things a lot easier if XCAL could drill in a more civilized nation.”

  As he continued to express his dismay at the situation in Nigeria, Elizabeth had to struggle to remain alert and to express interest in what he said. Much of his rant about conditions in Nigeria was certainly not new to her. It was the subject of what seemed an unending flow of reports from the company’s operatives on the ground there.

  But there was also her more personal interest in that African nation of 191 million, Africa’s most populous country and seventh most populous in the world, Africa’s largest economy. It was where her beloved stepson had lost his young life under brutal circumstances, snuffed out either by rebels at war with the oil companies and their employees or, as David Portland conjured, by someone involved with those same oil companies, perhaps even her client XCAL. Try as she might—and she worked on it—she could not slam the door on his suspicions.

  They passed on dessert and finished off the evening with coffee, a splash of Cognac added to his.

  “This has been a lovely evening,” Elizabeth said.

  “It’s always a lovely evening when Elizabeth Sims is in town. You have a busy day lined up tomorrow.”

  “Which reminds me I’d better get some sleep. But before I do I have a question I promised someone I’d ask you.”

  His arched eyebrows invited her to continue.

  “You’re aware that Trevor Portland, my stepson, was killed in the Niger Delta.”

  “Yes. A very sad story.”

  “His father, David, my former husband, is now living in Washington. We had lunch before I flew here.”

  “I know.”

  Now it was Elizabeth’s eyebrows that went up.

  “How did you know?” she asked.

  “Oh,” he said pleasantly, “there aren’t any secrets in this day and age, Elizabeth. I trust it was a pleasant lunch.”

  Her mind raced. As far as she knew, the only person who knew that she and David were meeting—the only person with a connection to XCAL—was her firm’s security chief, Cameron Chambers. But why would he—?

  She decided to not pursue it. She said, “David, my ex, came into possession of an item that belonged to Trevor. It was given to him by a Nigerian who said he’d won it in a card game, and that the person who used it as collateral in the game was a Frenchman involved with security for XCAL in the Niger Delta. The question is—”

  “The question is, my dear, why your former husband would believe that something nefarious had taken place. When your stepson died I was given a complete report about the matter. Those who tendered the report were on the scene when it happened. Its essence was that your stepson was killed by members of MEND, that vile paramilitary group whose only goal is to drive us and every other oil company out of Nigeria. The young man happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. While that doesn’t ease the pain, it makes perfect sense.” When she didn’t respond he added, “Doesn’t it?”

  She felt helpless and vulnerable at that moment, like a schoolgirl being lectured by an older, wiser person.

  He continued. “I imagine that the so-called Frenchman your husband mentions is Alain Fournier, chief of security in the delta for SureSafe, the company charged with keeping our people safe. I know him personally. He’s a dedicated man who does his best to secure our citizens against murderers like those in MEND.”

  “Unsuccessfully in Trevor’s case.”

  “Unfortunately so. I should tell you that your ex-husband was recently in London and raised this ridiculous notion with one of my staff. I suppose that the loss of a son can do strange things to a father, which seems to have been the case with Mr. Portland. I’m sure that he’s a fine chap and all, but he’s obviously misinformed.”

  She said nothing.

  “This has been a wonderful evening,” he said, “a fitting celebration for your promotion into the lofty echelons of Cale, Watson and Warnowski. I suggest that we continue at my club, where the barman is an expert at—”

  “Oh, please, Manford,” she said, forcing a wide smile, “this new partner is about to fall on her nose.”

  “And what a shame it would be to mar that lovely nose. I understand, of course. See you tomorrow?”

  “Yes. We have a meeting scheduled at eleven.”

  “And you’ll be suitably rested to take charge at it.”

  He waited with her at the elevator, and kissed her cheek when the car arrived. “Sleep well,” he said. “Until tomorrow. Ta-ta.”

  As she prepared for bed she kept going over what David had said at lunch about having gotten possession of the bracelet. She’d phoned her mother before her flight and asked that she FedEx the box containing Trevor’s belongings to David at his Washington address, which her mother agreed to do.

  She climbed into the king-sized bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering whether all that was on her mind would keep her awake. It didn’t. Within minutes the mental turmoil of the past day was erased by the arrival of blessed sleep, and she didn’t awaken until her wake-up call was delivered the following morning by the ringing phone.

  CHAPTER

  12

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Brixton looked out his window and saw a swirl of snowflakes whipped into motion by a stiff wind. It didn’t snow often in Washington, D.C., but when it did even a modest snowfall could bring the nation’s capital to a halt.

  “It’s snowing,” he said to Flo,
who sat up in bed rubbing her eyes.

  “That’s nice,” she said.

  “No, it isn’t,” he said. “Everything will stop. Government offices will close—not that that would matter much—and packages won’t be delivered.”

  “Are you expecting a package?”

  “No, but that’s not the point. I hate snow.”

  “It’s not like you’re from Mississippi or Louisiana,” she said. “You’re from New York, where it snows a lot.”

  “But they know how to deal with snow in New York,” he said. “These clowns in D.C. haven’t a clue.”

  “Put the coffee on, Robert. The snow won’t keep the Keurig from working.”

  And so started another day in the Brixton-Combes household.

  Flo was the first to leave that morning. If the snow squalls continued it would cut down on traffic at her Georgetown dress shop, Flo’s Fashions, which would give her time to catch up on paperwork.

  “What’s on your agenda today?” she asked Brixton, who accompanied her to the door.

  “A meeting at ten with Mac Smith. Anthony Borilli, whose father got caught up in that Nigerian scam and shot himself, is coming in.”

  “Should be an interesting meeting,” she said, kissing him good-bye. “You’ll be home for dinner?”

  “That’s my plan. Have a good one, Flo. Sell lots of dresses.”

  Brixton went to his office, where his receptionist, Mrs. Warden, was in the process of rearranging files. Flo had worked with Brixton until she left to open Flo’s Fashions, and had personally hired the middle-aged Mrs. Warden as her replacement. Brixton had resisted at first, accusing Flo of having deliberately dismissed other applicants because they were too young and attractive. She denied it, of course. The gray-haired, germ-phobic, but efficient and aptly named Mrs. Warden replaced Flo in Brixton’s reception area and ran the office with an iron fist. She and Brixton had gotten off to a rocky start, but he’d eventually come to appreciate the woman and was glad he’d hired her. So was Flo.

  He settled behind his desk and was reading that day’s newspaper when Mac Smith poked his head through a connecting door.

  “Mr. Borilli’s here,” Smith said.

  Anthony Borilli was a chubby fellow with a bald spot from which a few tufts of hair grew. Brixton decided that he was probably younger than his appearance, a guy with bad genes when it came to externals. At the same time he was pleasant and forthcoming, shaking Brixton’s hand vigorously and saying what a pleasure it was to meet him. A likable guy.

  Smith’s secretary delivered a tray with coffee and the usual accompaniments, and a plate of homemade sugar cookies.

  “Does she bring you cookies every day?” Borilli asked.

  “Not every day but often,” Smith said.

  “I’m already overweight,” Borilli said, laughing. “If she worked for me I’d look like a sumo wrestler.”

  Smith pointed to an exercise bike in the corner. “Every time she brings cookies from home I hop on the bike. Have a cookie. She’s a good baker.”

  After everyone had tasted a sweet, Smith said, “Let’s get down to business. Losing your father the way you did is tragic.”

  Borilli nodded solemnly. “For a long time my mother and I couldn’t accept that dad had been hoodwinked so easily. If we’d known what was going on we might have been able to intervene, but he kept what he was doing from everyone. In going through his papers we learned that keeping the transactions secret was part of the deal. You know how it goes. They warn that if word gets out, the alleged millions of dollars at stake will be jeopardized.”

  “Your father wasn’t the only person who’s been caught up in such a scam,” Smith said. “There’s plenty of them, including a congressman a while back who fell for it, too. He even raided family members’ bank accounts to keep sending funds overseas. We can sit here and be smug about how anyone could be so stupid to fall for such a blatant fraud—especially after it’s been exposed countless times in the media—but people do strange things.”

  “My dad had become paranoid,” Borilli said, “probably due to his increasing dementia. He was convinced that he wouldn’t have anything to leave his family when he was gone and saw the Nigerian offer as an easy way to beef up his finances.” He slowly shook his head. “As bad as it was—and let’s face it, what he did was foolhardy and wrong—it wasn’t so shameful to justify taking his life.”

  Brixton directed a question to Smith: “Is there something in the law that Mr. Borilli can take advantage of to get back some of the money or at least punish those responsible?”

  Smith’s nonresponse said it all.

  “However,” Smith said, holding up a hand, “if a connection can be made between Nigeria and an entity connected with its government here in the U.S. there might be a basis for a suit against that entity. But that’s a long shot. I’ve been doing research into whether there might be a private offshoot of the Nigerian government here in D.C. that’s involved with the scams.”

  “Connected with the Nigerian Embassy?” Brixton asked.

  “Not in an official sense, I’m sure,” Smith replied, “but I did come across an organization in Washington called Bright Horizons.”

  “Fancy-sounding name,” Brixton muttered. “What’s their game?”

  “They claim to raise money for Nigerian orphanages and other humanitarian projects.”

  “They’re legit?” Brixton asked.

  Smith shrugged. “Hard to tell. I haven’t had a chance to delve deep enough into their operations.”

  As they talked, Borilli leafed through his briefcase. “Here,” he said, handing a sheet of paper to Smith. “I knew that name rang a bell.”

  “Interesting,” Smith said after scanning it and giving it to Brixton. It was a series of handwritten notes the elder Borilli had jotted down regarding Bright Horizons.

  “Maybe that’s the entity you’re looking for,” said Borilli.

  “Could be,” Smith said, “provided it was involved in some way with the scam your father fell victim to. We’ll have to learn more about this Bright Horizons agency. That’s why I asked Robert to join us this morning. He’s a skilled investigator.”

  “Will you be leaving the paperwork you’ve brought?” Brixton asked Borilli.

  “That’s my intention.”

  “I’ll do some checking into Bright Horizons,” Brixton said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Will Sayers knows something about them.”

  Borilli’s questioning expression prompted Brixton to add, “Will is a journalist here in D.C. He used to be the Washington editor of the Savannah Morning News, but now he’s freelancing and working on a book about private security firms and how they operate around the world. He’s done a lot of research into Nigeria and organizations involved with that country. I haven’t spoken with Will in a while. I owe him a call.”

  “Do you think your pal David Portland might be of use?” Smith asked Brixton.

  “I don’t know that name,” Borilli said.

  Brixton gave Borilli a capsule background on Portland, including that his son had been murdered in Nigeria, and that he was part of the security contingent at the British Embassy in Washington. “Hi ex-wife, Elizabeth, works for a law firm, Cale, Watson and Warnowski, that represents the oil company XCAL. XCAL is a major player in bringing up Nigeria’s oil and selling it around the world. Rumor has it that her law firm might be involved in the laundering of money that’s raised through Nigerian financial scams.”

  “That’s all it is, Robert, a rumor,” Smith cautioned, his index finger elevated for emphasis.

  “His former wife is an attorney?” Borilli asked.

  “That she is,” Brixton said, “and a damn good one from what I hear.”

  “If her law firm is involved in laundering money I—”

  Smith quickly interrupted. “Let’s not jump to conclusions based upon unsubstantiated rumors,” he said, giving Brixton a stern look.

  “I only meant that—”

  “He
re’s what I suggest,” Smith said. “Robert and I will see what we can find out about Bright Horizons. When and if we come up with something useful we’ll let you know and meet again. No promises. As I said when we first met, trying to use legal channels to recover any of your father’s money isn’t promising. Knowing that, do you still want to proceed?”

  Borilli smiled. “If you mean do I still want to pay the fee you’ve cited, the answer is yes. I assume it covers Mr. Brixton’s fee, too.”

  “Yes, it does,” said Smith.

  “Even if nothing tangible comes of it,” Borilli said, “I’ll take satisfaction in knowing that I’ve at least tried.”

  Borilli left the papers he’d brought with him with Smith. When he was gone, Brixton sat with Smith in the attorney’s office.

  “He’s a really nice guy,” Brixton commented.

  “I almost feel guilty taking his retainer when the possibility of achieving legal satisfaction is negligible.”

  “You’ve been straightforward with him about that,” Brixton said. “And who knows? Maybe something good will come from it. I’ll take a look at the papers he gave you, and get hold of Will Sayers to see if he’s aware of this Bright Horizons.”

  “I hope this pays off in something positive for Mr. Borilli.”

  “Let’s assume it will, Mac. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  When Brixton returned to his office adjacent to Smith’s Mrs. Warden had just finished wiping his telephone, doorknobs, and desktop with disinfectant wipes.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Warden,” Brixton said. “I’ve always been afraid of catching the bubonic plague.”

  She cast him a look that said she understood his humor and didn’t appreciate it. “You’ve had a call from Mr. Portland,” she announced over her shoulder as she left. “He said he’d be in his office at the embassy.”

  Brixton reached his British friend. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I’ve had an interesting meeting with my supervisor,” Portland said.

  “Don’t tell me he fired you.”

  “Very funny, Robert, and no, he didn’t dismiss me. But you’ll be eager to hear what came out of it.”