It was getting harder and harder to keep the globe turning.
She could feel her footsteps start to falter, had been having trouble keeping the jerry can balanced. Arms as thin as bird bones. Eyes, half-shut. She was stumbling across the landscape now as much as she was walking, the last of her water sloshing back and forth.
I will die here, and who will mourn?
And at precisely the moment she was about to fall: the strangest of sights. A woolly ewe driving a motorcycle. The ewe passed by with a certain aplomb, chewing the air thoughtfully, looking rather regal. The girl almost laughed, would have, had she the strength—but then she realized the significance of this omen.
CHAPTER 43
They were reconstructing her father's downfall in the same methodical manner they had reconstructed the accident itself: walking the family through it, step by step—though
stage by stage
might be more accurate, Laura thought. The narrative the detectives from the Economic Crime Unit were laying out for them resembled nothing so much as the Kubler-Ross checklist of grieving, albeit one that started not with denial but hesitation, then elation, and ended not in acceptance but despair.
The sun had shifted. Winter light, a low blue. There were no more reflections on the window across from Laura, only a hallway beyond lit by fluorescent tubes. The ice in their glasses had melted into nubs.
They were going over the emails her father had received, laying each one to rest in turn.
"Complements of the season!"
That rankled her. It was a mistake that popped up several times, under various names:
"I complement you on your speedy response."
Laura had to resist the urge to correct the pages, to circle the error, change "e" to "i."
I complement you!
Maybe they did. Maybe whoever was sending her father these messages did complement him. Maybe they complemented each other.
"Do you see something?" It was Brisebois, zeroing in on the way Laura was studying one of the emails.
"No," she said. "Only errors in usage."
"Sometimes it's the widow of a dead general," said Detective Saul. "Sometimes it's a government official who's been secretly skimming money from the National Treasury or siphoning funds from Nigeria's National Petroleum Corporation. Or maybe it's a long-lost relative you've never heard of who deposited a fortune just before dying in a plane crash or a traffic accident. Sometimes it's a steamer trunk filled with hundred-dollar bills that have been dyed black in order to smuggle them out of the country—you just need a special chemical to clean them, and the millions are yours!
It's really just pieces of cut-up construction paper, of course, with a few real bills hidden among them. Simple trick, really. It's like street magic, but with a much higher yield."
"People fall for that?" Warren asked.
"All the time."
"But whatever the variation," said Detective Rhodes, "the basic idea is the same: We'll send you a huge amount of money. All you have to do is deposit it into a bank account for us, and you'll get to keep either a healthy commission or all of it, in the case of dead relatives and surprise lotteries. No risk, no cost, huge windfall.
It's a pickup line, basically. They just need to park their money in your account for a while. It's a hundred percent safe! No risk! Sure.
That's what they all say—in the beginning."
Rhodes gave Laura a wry smile of sisterly camaraderie. Was she talking about criminals? Or men?
And why would she think I was with her on that? Because were both women?
Was this an interview technique? A way of getting around a suspect's defences, to make you think you had some sort of connection? (It was.) Were they taught this in detective school? (They were.)
Am I a suspect?
(She wasn't.) Not anymore, that is. This was the part Laura didn't know: her father had tried to move his entire insurance payout into Laura's name just before he died, but it had been disallowed by the insurance company. Sergeant Brisebois knew this. The detectives knew this. Laura never would. "No one,"
Brisebois had said, "is going to be arrested." What Laura didn't realize was that this "no one" included her.
Warren was shaking his head. "How could Dad fall for this?"
"It's easier to get caught up in this sort of thing than you think," Saul said. "You're made to believe that you're dealing with people of high stature in important positions—bankers, oil executives, top government officials, ministers, lawyers. All those names you saw forged on these documents. The Office of Attorney General. Economic Adviser to the President. Executive Director of the National Petroleum Corporation. It gives a sense of weight to the offer."
"There's an overwhelming sense of urgency, " Rhodes explained.
"You're told you have to act immediately. It's a seduction technique.
They don't want you to make an informed decision. They want you to be rushed into it."
"They isolate their victims as well," Saul added. "Usually through some sort of sworn statement—often in the form of a legal-looking non-disclosure document. They always start by stressing the need for absolute confidentiality. They don't want the victim talking to family or friends or even spouses."
"They want to cut you off from the people around you,"
Rhodes continued. "It causes incredible strain on a person, carrying this enormous secret, this burden. As you can imagine."
"I suppose," said Laura.
"The victims I've interviewed?" said Saul. "They often say that's the worst part of what happened, more than the money they lost: feeling isolated from the people they loved. And when things fall apart, as they always do, it's like a sucker punch to the stomach."
No,
Laura thought.
Not the stomach. The heart.
"It's very easy to spiral into despair. So you have to reach the point where you accept what has happened, and can learn from it."
There it was. Stage Five in Kiibler-Ross. How very textbook of them. But—what if you don't want to accept what happened?
What if you want to hold someone accountable?
"The scammers shift the burden of trust onto the victims, making them feel as though they're the ones who need to prove they're trustworthy." Saul held out one of the emails her father had received. "You can see it here, where they're asking him,
'How do we know you won't abscond with the entire amount?'
It changes the power dynamics, makes the victims feel pressure to prove their integrity, puts the onus on them instead. It also deflects suspicion."
There was a pause. "It's brilliant psychology, actually."
"At the same time," said Rhodes, "they're feeling you out.
Assessing your worth, getting a sense of how much they can take you for. That's why one Anti-Terrorist Certificate will cost $700 and another will cost $7,000."
"It's whatever the market will bear," said the older detective.
Warren nodded; he could see the economics of it. He did the same thing with his own clients.
SUBJECT: Transfer of Funds from CBN RECEIVED: September 28, 9:47 PM
Mr. Curtis, we have hit a small snag. The Central Bank of Nigeria cannot transfer such a LARGE AMOUNT OF MONEY into any overseas account that has less than
$US 100,000.00 in reserve. Can you confirm that this amount can be covered by you? Understand, this is PURELY FOR SECURITY REASONS. None of your money will or can be accessed by a third party, but I'm afraid that the petty-minded R. Bola Soludo, Director of Operations at the CBN, is being most troublesome. He has demanded I give an exact figure on fear of being considered some common swindler! I tried to make a wild guess at your savings, but the bank manager mocked me and said,
"We have checked and know that is incorrect!"
Please help, as l a m i n a pickle.
With much sincerity,
Lawrence Atuche, Professor of Commerce, Lagos University
SUBJECT: Re: Transfer of Funds from CBN SENT: September 28, 9:52 PM
Hi, 100 is not a problem. We own our own home. Plus we have RRSPs.
"We," not "I". "Our," not "my."
Laura noticed her father's choice of possessive pronoun and felt better for it. Whatever that pink-faced boy-man at the bank had said, her father had known it was her mother's house too.
Not his home, theirs.
SUBJECT: Re: re: Transfer of Funds from CBN RECEIVED: September 28, 10:07 PM
Thank you, my friend. That is excellent news! I shall hurry down to the bank right now. You should have the money in your account by waking hours tomorrow a.m.
With great appreciation,
Lawrence Attuche, Professor of Commerce, Lagos University
Laura looked up from the printouts. "The professor spelled his own name wrong. First with one ‘t' and then here with two." She passed the message to Detective Saul. "See?"
He chuckled. "You're right. Juggling so many different names and identities, you probably forget who you are at times."
"You see how they build up anticipation as well," said Detective Rhodes. "The money's coming! It's coming! At any moment! Just a tease, of course. It starts off as sunshine and butterflies, but complications arise. They always do."
SUBJECT: One final matter RECEIVED: October 1, 9:37 PM
Dear Mr. Curtis,
Re: you're transfer of funds
I'm afraid there is one final, small problem...
It is a minor issue, fortunately, and one easily resolved, but without putting this trifling matter to rest, we cannot move forward. The Central Bank of Nigeria has indeed confirmed that the funds are being transferred.
Please see the link to the SECURE WEB PAGE (below) showing the account balance—in your name, to the full amount of $US 35,600,000. The transfer is done! It has only to be signed for and notarized and it will be complete.
You are, therefore, required to appear at the Main Office of the Central Bank in Lagos within two (2) business days to sign the required documentation. Miss Sandra thanks you for this in advance.
Toasting our good fortune,
Lawrence Atuche, Professor of Commerce
SUBJECT: Re: One final matter SENT: October 1, 9:46 PM
I can't go to Nigeria on such short notice! I don't even have a passport.
SUBJECT: Re: re: One final matter RECEIVED: October 1, 10:12 PM
Oh no! I was looking forward to meeting you in person and taking you for champagne and celebrations after the transfer went through. Fret not! I have just now spoken with the Bank and I am told that if you cannot appear in person, you may appoint an accredited barrister to act as your representative to sign the notarization process on your behalf.
The Central Bank usually goes through the Law Office of Bello & Usman. Mr. Usman is a fine and upstanding gentleman of whom I can personally vouchsafe as honest and efficient. There is a one-time fee of $US 900 for his services. I have asked Mr. Usman if he can't simply deduct his amount from the funds paid, but that is not possible as once the money is out of the country, he will have no guarantee of payment. I have told him you are a man of honest integrity, but lawyers are lawyers and they always play "by the book."
With many apologies,
Lawrence Atuche, Professor of Commerce
SUBJECT: Re: re: re: One final matter SENT: October 1, 10:U PM
Lawyers, eh? Same everywhere ha ha
"Your father signed a document granting power of attorney to the law office of Bello & Usman in Lagos."
"So why aren't you contacting them?" asked Warren.
"Because ‘they' don't exist," said Laura. "Jesus Christ, Warren, what part of this don't you understand?"
"Language," said their mother, roused from her indifference.
"What if someone took them up on their offer?" Laura asked.
"Flew to Lagos and confronted them face to face?"
Detective Saul looked at her. "People have tried that. They've gone over there and started poking about in the city's underbelly."
"And?"
"Like I said, they usually end up floating in Lagos Lagoon."
"But what if—what if you made them come to you, pretended to be an investor, say? Turned the tables."
"That's a dangerous game. You'd be on their turf."
"But couldn't you meet them on neutral ground? An embassy or something."
"Odds are, even if you made it out alive, you wouldn't get your money back," said Rhodes.
"What if," Laura asked, "it wasn't about the money?"
CHAPTER 44
An ewe riding a motorcycle.
Only after the motorbike had passed did the girl in indigo see the driver sitting behind the animal, keeping the sheep propped up on the handlebars, peering over its shoulder at the road ahead.
She almost laughed, would have if she'd had the strength. Then she realized,
He can't be going far, this driver on his sheep-straddled motorcycle.
So she pushed herself forward, over the next rise of sandy hill. And there, a more remarkable sight still: a shining city on the plains, glimmering with light even at midday.
She had reached the end of the Sahel, had reached Kaduna.
And she might yet survive, Insha Allah.
Lumbering freight trucks, loaded down like camels, rolled past.
Men in flowing white robes flew by on motorbikes, ewe-less. And in the distance: the squat cylinders and intestinal tubings of the city's oil refineries, a complex so sprawling she almost mistook it for a city in its own right. She followed the pipelines into Kaduna.
