Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger Page 9

  “Do they live in an integrated neighborhood?” Smith asked.

  “Beats me. It was dark when I arrived. Looks nice, though, suburban, tract houses from what I could see.”

  “You say he works for a construction company in Virginia?”

  “Right. He has a degree in economics or finance, a bright guy. Anyway, Mac, what I came away with was a confirmation that Bright Horizons is involved in the sort of Nigerian money scam that your client’s father got suckered into.”

  “Dimka told you that?”

  “Right.” Brixton consulted his notes. “He says there’s a guy, a warlord in a town called Port Harcourt. His name is—let me get it right—Agu Gwantam. I think that’s the way it’s pronounced.”

  “What about him?”

  “Dimka says that this warlord controls how Bright Horizons distributes the money it raises. He claims that some of the money goes to a Nigerian Christian charity in the country, but most of it ends up in this Agu character’s pockets.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Catch this. He says that the security firm SureSafe provides protection for Agu Gwantam. And … Bright Horizons might be in the same arm-twisting business as SureSafe.”

  “SureSafe is the same security firm that David Portland worked for,” Smith said.

  “The same one that the Frenchman, who had David’s son’s bracelet, heads up in Nigeria.”

  “And lost it in a card game.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you hear from David?” Smith asked.

  “Nothing since he went back to London.”

  “From what you’ve told me David’s interest in Nigeria is confined to how his son died.”

  “And how this British kid died, too.”

  “But our interest is in Nigerian financial scams.”

  Brixton cocked his head. “And?” he said.

  “I was just wondering if there’s a link between the two.”

  Brixton pondered what Smith had said before replying, “David thinks that SureSafe was behind his son’s murder, and SureSafe provides protection for this Nigerian warlord. You may be right about there being a connection.”

  “Do you think that Mr. Dimka could be persuaded to come forward and testify about Bright Horizons and how it’s used as a conduit for illegal money?”

  “No way,” Brixton said, shaking his head for emphasis. “I’m surprised that he even agreed to talk to Will Sayers and me.”

  “Without an insider like him to testify there’s really nothing I can do to bring legal action against Bright Horizons.”

  “I’ll get back in touch with Dimka at some point and see whether he might consider breaking his silence,” Brixton said. “We got along pretty good.”

  “Keep me informed,” Smith said. “And since SureSafe is involved with this Nigerian warlord and his role in the scams, you might ring Portland in on it, see what he knows.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” said Brixton.

  CHAPTER

  22

  Cameron Chambers, former Washington, D.C., cop and head of investigations for the law firm of Cale, Watson and Warnowski, looked forward to the return from London of Elizabeth Sims. He was loath to admit that he’d developed a crush on the beautiful, recently minted partner. A “crush”? How sophomoric, he thought as he carefully trimmed the hair around his ears and examined his face in the bathroom mirror, turning left and right. He’d recently considered seeking the services of a plastic surgeon to see what could be done about his developing jowls, and a few brown spots on his right cheek. The thought of having plastic surgery was anathema to him, but that attitude was mitigated by the signs of aging that peered back from the mirror. He wondered if a procedure could be performed in such a way that no one would know that he’d had it done. Maybe he could do it while on vacation; two weeks were due him and he’d been pondering what use to make of them.

  Still thinking of Elizabeth—and uneasy about her spending time in London with XCAL’s UK chairman, Manford Penny, whom Chambers considered a predatory phony—he dressed and set off for another day that would begin meeting with the top partner at the law firm, Walter Cale, who’d left a message the previous evening that they needed to get together first thing in the morning. Chambers would have appreciated an indication of why Cale wanted to meet, but the attorney preferred to shroud meetings in mystery, a management style that Chambers found disconcerting.

  Cale, who prided himself on his trim figure and taste in clothes, as well as restaurants, musical genres, and artistic exhibitions, was waiting when Chambers arrived.

  “Come in, come in,” Cale said, leading Chambers into his spacious office with floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded him a view of the Mall.

  “So,” said Cale, “what’s new in your life?”

  “Not a lot, Walter,” Chambers said. “Things are under control. No emergencies on the burner.”

  Cale’s question mark expression said to Chambers that the senior partner didn’t necessarily agree with what he’d just said.

  “Have you heard any more from our British friends?” Cale asked.

  When Chambers didn’t reply Cale added, “Concerning Elizabeth Sims’s ex-husband.”

  “Oh, that. No. I spoke with Robert Brixton about it during Elizabeth’s party, alerted him to the potential trouble that her ex could cause. He assured me that he would report back to me if he learned anything.”

  “Brixton?”

  “One of two private investigators I have on retainer in the event I need their services. He’s a friend of Elizabeth’s former husband, David Portland.”

  “Don’t you think we should be more proactive than that?” Cale said.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I received a call from one of Manford Penny’s people in London. According to him, Elizabeth has been asking questions about the death of her stepson in Nigeria and whether XCAL might have been involved.”

  “That sounds far-fetched,” Chambers said.

  “Of course it is, but XCAL doesn’t need this sort of fanciful rumor circulating, not in the midst of sensitive negotiations that are under way with the Nigerian government. She’s raising the same question about the role SureSafe might have played in his death.”

  “Does Elizabeth—?”

  Cale’s raised eyebrows invited Chambers to continue.

  “Does Elizabeth realize that her questions are raising these concerns?” he asked.

  “I assume that the answer is no, and I’d like to keep it that way. But there’s more to this, Cameron. I assume that you’ve heard the rumor that this law firm, by virtue of its close relationship with Nigeria acting on XCAL’s behalf, might be involved in laundering money raised by certain unscrupulous types there.”

  “Yes, I have heard that rumor,” said Chambers. “It’s ludicrous.”

  “Of course it is, but rumors have a habit of gaining steam and developing legs, as they say. You’re also aware that we’ve lent our legal experience to a few Nigerian charities including Bright Horizons. It doesn’t bring in much money for us.” He guffawed. “That’s a gross understatement. We do it as a favor for our client XCAL, which is always looking for ways to cement its relationship with the Nigerian government. I’m telling you this because we need to ensure that nothing—that no person—do anything to cast aspersions on us, particularly with clients like XCAL.”

  Chambers told Cale that he certainly understood. At the same time he was becoming increasingly curious about where the senior partner was going. He didn’t have to ask.

  “It’s obvious that I and the other partners hold Elizabeth Sims in the highest regard. She’s a brilliant attorney, and those at XCAL with whom she interacts are quick to praise both her legal mind and her ability to forge productive relationships. However, there is this damnable complication with the death of her stepson and her ongoing relationship with her former husband, who, from what I hear, has become obsessed with creating a link out of thin air b
etween XCAL, our partners in Nigeria, and his son’s unfortunate death.”

  Cale waited for a response. When there wasn’t one, he continued. “Are you still in touch with your former colleague at the MPD, Marvin is it?”

  “Marvin? Oh, yes, Marvin Baxter. I occasionally run across him,” Chambers said.

  “He did good work for us last year in the Abbott matter.”

  Chambers squirmed in his chair and cast a glance out the window that provided a dramatic scrim behind Cale.

  “I’d like to engage his services again,” Cale said.

  “For what purpose?” Chambers asked, already knowing the answer.

  “To make use of his expertise, of course.”

  The mention of George Abbott brought back unpleasant memories for Chambers. Abbott, a young attorney with Cale, Watson and Warnowski, had raised suspicion with Cale and other partners that he was colluding with the attorneys from another law firm that was pitted against CW&W in a tangled legal case. Chambers had been ordered by Cale to arrange for taps to be put on Abbott’s work and home telephones, which Chambers had argued against, pointing out that tapping citizens’ phones without a court order was illegal. Cale dismissed Chambers’s concern out of hand, and hinted—no, it was more than a hint—that if he was to continue as the firm’s chief investigator he was expected to do what was necessary to ensure that bad apples were lopped from the firm’s tree as quickly as possible.

  Chambers reluctantly agreed. He contacted Marvin Baxter, a former MPD computer and technological expert who’d gone into business for himself, hiring out his services to a variety of security firms, including SureSafe, and arranged through him for taps to be placed on Abbott’s phones. The recordings of his calls proved the suspicions to be valid and Abbott was fired without ever knowing that his double-dealings had been immortalized on tape. Of course, when he was presented with myriad examples of what Cale and the others knew about his dealings it was obvious to him that conversations with his contact at the other firm had been intercepted. But he couldn’t prove it, and was summarily dismissed.

  That Cale’s suspicions about Abbott had proved to be correct salved Chambers’s conscience to a degree, and he’d put the episode behind him—until this day in Cale’s office.

  “What do you want Marvin to do?” he asked.

  “Nothing dramatic. As I’ve said—and elevating Liz Sims to partner status certainly testifies to the high esteem in which I and the other partners hold her—it’s my duty to make sure that no one in the firm do anything that might possibly taint our reputation. I simply want to monitor Liz’s conversations with her former husband regarding the death of his son and her stepson. Only conversations specifically regarding that issue are of interest to me. I’m sure that there’s nothing for us to be concerned about, but I have to be certain.”

  “You want Elizabeth’s phones tapped?”

  “And her former husband’s phone, too.”

  “As with the Abbott matter, Walter, I’m uncomfortable doing this, especially to someone like Elizabeth.”

  “I understand, Cameron, but sometimes we have to do things for the greater good.”

  Greater good? Chambers silently mused. Spouting that familiar, albeit debatable, phrase struck him as pompous, as though Cale were sending troops into battle on a suicide mission. Hitler had rationalized slaughtering millions for Germany’s “greater good.” But of course Chambers kept these thoughts to himself.

  “I’ll see if Marvin can do it,” he said.

  “Good man,” Cale said, coming around his desk and slapping Chambers on the shoulder. “It’ll be short-term, just until we can be sure that Elizabeth isn’t letting her personal feelings interfere in any way with our relationship with XCAL and the Nigerian government.”

  Chambers went to his office and pondered the order he’d been given. Tapping Elizabeth Sims’s phones struck him as misguided, even stupid. What if she was to find out that the firm’s top partner had ordered that her privacy be invaded? Had Cale become so paranoid that he suspected her of disloyalty? What would it matter if she and her ex-husband discussed the death of his son?

  He busied himself for the rest of the day with a report generated by the MPD on a client of the firm; he’d maintained his contacts with the MPD, which came in handy.

  At four he dialed Elizabeth’s extension.

  “Hello, Cameron,” she said.

  “Welcome back,” he said. “Good trip?”

  “Hectic.”

  “I was hoping we were still on for dinner.”

  “Oh, Cameron, I’m sorry, but I’m suffering from terminal jet lag and—”

  “No need to explain.”

  “Rain check?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You’re a doll for understanding. Oops, I have another call, someone from XCAL in Maryland. We’ll reschedule dinner, and it’ll be on me.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  He hung up and exhaled. He was glad that she’d begged off. He wasn’t sure that he could sit with her in a restaurant and not inform her that everything she said on her phones would now be heard by him and Walter Cale. He knew one thing. If he wanted to keep his job he’d forget about the taps on her phones and let things take their natural course.

  He just hated to see what that natural course would be.

  CHAPTER

  23

  LONDON

  Portland tried to nap when he returned to his flat after the meeting at SIS, but too many things kept ricocheting in his mind. He watched the latest news on the BBC. The Middle East was still a cauldron of hate and brutality fueled by the perversion of a major religion. The West Coast of the United States was on fire, literally. The Russians and Putin were pulling out all the stops to regain their position of influence in the world, and the two Koreas continued to toss provocations at each other. World business as usual.

  The BBC wrapped up its coverage of world current events by reporting on an attack on British oil interests in Nigeria by the group MEND, resulting in major damage to a petroleum refinery.

  Portland clicked off the set. He’d held the bracelet his mother had given Trevor in his hands throughout the newscast, turning and twisting it, watching the flickering light from the television dance off its gold and gems. Disgusted with what he’d seen on the tube, he went to his small kitchen, emptied a bag of Yorkshire tomato, basil, and mozzarella crisps into a bowl, popped the cap on a can of Old Speckled Hen beer, and returned to the living room, where he took the items that had been in the box Elizabeth’s mother had sent him, spread them out on his desk, and began reading Trevor’s handwritten entries, more slowly and carefully than his original cursory glance.

  Trevor’s anger at the treatment of the Niger Delta’s natives became more strident and fiery as Portland turned the pages. He stopped at one point and wondered whether Trevor had expressed those feelings to SealCom, his employer, or to executives at SealCom’s client XCAL. If he had, his views would not have been welcomed.

  Portland continued reading. He reached a page on which Trevor had commented about the security firm SureSafe. There was a single mention of the firm’s boss in Nigeria, the Frenchman Alain Fournier: “… he reminds me of a poisonous snake,” Trevor had written.

  Portland turned the page. The name Matthew Kelsey captured his attention. That was the same man that SIS’s Fred “Freddie” Tompkins had mentioned as having worked for SureSafe in Nigeria, and whom Tompkins had characterized as a sad, bitter man now living in the United Kingdom. Portland dug Kelsey’s phone number and address from his jacket and checked his watch. It was only a few minutes past nine, not too late to call. Kelsey lived in Barrow-in-Furness, a blue-collar working-class city close to the Lake District. It had been one of the UK’s most important shipbuilding centers during the war.

  Portland pulled out a map. Barrow-in-Furness was a five-hour drive from London, provided traffic kept moving on the A1 and M1. He’d sold his car when leaving London for his assignment with the embassy in Wa
shington and would have to rent one, assuming that Mr. Kelsey would invite him to visit. Somehow, from what Tompkins had said about the man, Portland considered it unlikely.

  He dialed Kelsey’s number. It rang numerous times and Portland waited for a machine to pick up. Instead, a man’s husky voice answered.

  “Mr. Kelsey? My name is David Portland.”

  “What do you want?”

  Kelsey’s abrupt response took Portland aback.

  “Mr. Kelsey,” Portland said, “I’ve worked for SureSafe in the past and—”

  “That was your mistake,” Kelsey said with what passed for a laugh.

  Portland matched it. “I know what you mean. Look, Mr. Kelsey, I’m calling because I had a son, Trevor Portland, who was killed in the Niger Delta. He worked for—”

  “Portland was your kid?”

  “Yes. You sound as if you knew him.”

  “Damn shame what happened to him and the others.”

  Portland sat up straighter. “You know what happened to Trevor? The others? What others?”

  Portland heard Kelsey belch loudly, and it sounded as though he’d dropped the phone. He waited until Kelsey came back on the line.

  “I don’t know nothing,” Kelsey said.

  “Mr. Kelsey, what I’m asking for is a chance to come and meet you, maybe share a beer and talk about what happened in the Niger Delta.”

  “What? Come here to this place?” It was another coarse laugh followed by a coughing spasm. Portland waited until it had abated. When he’d regained control Kelsey said, “You don’t want to come here. Nothing to see here. Overrun by foreigners, from every damn place on earth. Can’t find anybody who speaks English anymore.”

  Kelsey’s bigotry offended Portland, but he didn’t state it. “Mr. Kelsey, I might not speak the King’s English, but you’ll understand me. How about giving me an hour or two? We can meet any place you say.”

  “Hah! ‘Meet any place you say,’ huh? Where the hell do you think I can go sitting in this goddamn wheelchair? Huh? Where do you think I can go?”

  Portland hadn’t expected that Kelsey was crippled. He asked, “Did your injuries happen in Nigeria?”