Making Wolf (23 page)

Diane was showing interest in my investigation. I figured she wanted me to talk as part of my recovery, or she was just curious, or she just wanted to talk about anything.

“How do you know him?”

“He used to build villages.”

“Excuse me?”

“He used to build villages. He even caused an international incident once. That is when the government asked—ordered him to desist.”

“How does one go about building a village?”

“In the mid to late nineties the northeast of Alcacia had semi-nomadic tribes scattered all over the place, living in ramshackle tents like cut-price Mongols in the Gobi. They had poor education, zero infrastructure, and absolutely no representation in central government. Abayomi went evangelistic, speaking to the tribal heads and chieftains, getting drunk with them, explaining how taking root would be a good idea, a thing of the future. They staked land, and he designed simple, grid pattern villages for them, made petitions for local government, attracted teachers for schools, initiated work programs, earned himself oodles of respect.”

“And the incident?”

“The last village he built inadvertently crossed the Nigerian border. It was an honest mistake, picked up by the drones in Town Planning when he submitted plans. He would have adjusted his plans and resubmitted, but there was a leak in the office and by the next day Nigerian troops bore down on the nascent village, which was really only a few tents at the time. Our troops had to respond to the “impending invasion” by our neighbors. Big hoo-hah. Big pow wow. Big intervention by interdips.”

“‘Interdips?’”

“International diplomats. They love to fly in from western nations and make their portfolios fat by brokering peace among the savage tribes of the Dark Continent. I know the type well. I married one, after all.”

“So how’d he get from philanthropy to rebel mouthpiece?”

“Who knows? The episode with the Nigerians soured him. He disappeared. Next time he emerged it was to voice the martyrdom videos of PFC suicide bombers in the Red Summer of 2002 when that sort of thing was fashionable.”

I massaged her neck while lying on her. My soft penis nestled between her bum cheeks. “You still haven’t told me how you know him.”

She turned her neck to look at me meaningfully from under insanely full eyelashes.

“I see.” I was jealous. I stopped kneading her muscles.

“He dug trenches personally sometimes. He was hands-on that way. I mean, it was an obvious publicity stunt, but still…. The first time I saw him he was stripped to the waist, muscular, sweating, digging. He was talked about everywhere, just back from university in Oxford or Cambridge. I do not know which.”

It occurred to me that her husband must have still been alive at that time.

“When did you last see him?”

She made a brushing gesture, dismissive, creasing the bed linen. “I only saw him a few times. Long time ago.”

“How were things between you and your husband when he died?”

“Pretty shitty.”

It was the first time I had ever heard her swear. I resumed the massage, but my heart accelerated.

She said, “This happens in any marriage, though. We just happened to be in mid-quarrel when he died.”

“How were you relating on the day he died?”

“We were not speaking. I just chatted with his bodyguards. I did not say goodbye to him.”

“What did you fight about?”

“I cannot remember.”

I didn’t push.

“I’ve been to see one of the guards, the survivor. In Arodan.”

“I had forgotten about him,” she said. “I was closer to the other one. What was his name? Wale?”

“Wallace,” I said. “Special Agent Idris Wallace.”

“Do you love me?” asked Diane.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I love Nana.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“Hmm.”

“You frighten me, Weston.”

“How so?”

“You can say all this with a straight face. You can talk about loving Nana while making love to me, while your sweat is dripping on to my back.”

“…”

“Your blankness is worrying. No, blankness is not the word…”

“I am worried about her.”

“Yet you are here with me.”

“Yes.”

“…”

“…”

“Faster.”

The People’s Christian Army looked worse for wear.

There were more ruins than my first visit, but in addition the buildings smoldered, and there were craters everywhere. The place had been shelled recently—and repeatedly. There was a profusion of wild dogs roaming about. The children were still there, but they did not chase after the car like before. They looked haunted and even dirtier than before. Many were injured and bore filthy dressings. The tank in the square was so much twisted metal.

My escorts had to drive a long way to get to a building in front of which we parked. Men wearing fatigues cradled rocket launchers and smoked weed. My escorts took my gun and mobile phone, then led me down a suspect stairwell. There were no railings and a drop into darkness on both sides. At the bottom there was a large chamber, like a garage. An overhead light lit an area where Abayomi Abayomi stood waiting.

“You look like Mike Tyson tried to bite off your ear,” he said.

“And you were supposed to take care of the Men in Black, remember?”

“This is true, this is true,” he said, shaking my hand. “It’s hard to keep track of things when I have American-made Chinook helicopters firing missiles at my office block. It makes one lose concentration. Things slip the mind.” He had none of his mirth and there was an edge to his voice.

“You want an update on my investigation?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“I have new orders from His Excellency.”

A church bell rang somewhere above us. I wondered who would be left to worship.

“Am I to stop investigating the murder?”

“No, by all means, continue that. The new orders involve you delivering a package.” He snapped his fingers. A man appeared out of the darkness and handed Abayomi a briefcase. He gave it to me. “Open it.”

I went down on one knee and placed the case on the other. Then I popped the catches open. Rows and rows of crisp American dollar bills. I closed it and stood.

“How much?”

“A quarter of a million.”

“Where does it go?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s not the package. That’s the payment. The money is for you.” A different man from the shadows stepped forward and handed him a shiny, polished steel cylinder. Abayomi held it up for me to see. “This is the package. You are to go to the Front’s headquarters and give this message to their leader.”

“For which you propose to pay me $250,000.00 in cash, in advance.”

“Yes.”

“What’s in the cylinder?”

“Don’t open it.”

“I won’t. What’s in the cylinder, Abayomi?”

“It is a weaponized version of a haemorrhagic fever virus similar to Ebola or Lassa fever, but with a more controlled spread capability. It’s called Epoch. I think because, after deployment, so many people are dead that everything needs to start afresh. But, yeah. Epoch.”

I swallowed. “I need a minute.”

“Take your time,” he said, but his body language contradicted this. He still stood legs apart, staring right into my eyes, waiting for a response. The church bell kept ringing.

“Who goes to worship at this time on a week day?” I asked. My voice sounded hoarse.

“That’s not a call to prayer. That’s the air raid signal. But don’t fret; this place is safe as long as the Feds are not intent on exterminating us, which they aren’t.”

“I may have some questions.”

“What are they?”

“Do you not think the delivery of a biological weapon into the heart of the Front will escalate hostilities between you?”

“I know it will. I want it to happen.”

“Why?”

“Because, by destroying the largest and most popular market in West Africa, the Front has provoked the government and is responsible for the shelling that we are now experiencing, Weston. They’ve also scored a major point with the people. By carrying out a hit like that, they’re announcing that they still run shit. His Excellency does not agree that the Liberation Front runs shit, and he does not like his bunker being bombed. It frightens his concubines and interrupts his relentless search for the G-spot. We need to ensure that after the bombing the inevitable political negotiation takes place with us, not the Front.”

“Is that what you believe?”

“It’s what the PCA is doing now.”

“Then why not take the fight to them with conventional weapons? There’s really no need to open the Seven Seals on them.”

“No time. They are stoked from burning the market. We are demoralized by the same thing and depleted in numbers from this infernal bombing. This virus will be the great equalizer.” His voice echoed in the chamber. There was no way of telling how many soldiers he had, but it was irrelevant. I would not leave the camp alive if they did not will it. If he did not will it.

“I am not a mass murderer,” I said.

“Maybe not, but you did have a large part to play in the disappearance of one Mr. Taiwo. That information could find the way into the hands of the authorities. You think the secret police were harsh on you. The regular police are just as brutal, but without the brain power that drives the other agencies.”

“How did you—”

“Know? Weston, we have people watching you as much as the Front does. I can tell you how many times you pissed on Wednesday night and how many dabs of aftershave you used this morning.”

Fuck.

“A lot of money in the briefcase, Weston. Nothing causes amnesia like American dollars.”

Fuck.

“And on completion I’ll tell you where to find your Nana Hastruup.”

“You know where Nana is?” I asked.

“That’s correct,” said Abayomi.

“You have her?”

“No, but we do know where she is. I know you’re looking for her. We’ll let you know when the job is done.”

“Is she safe?”

“It wouldn’t be much of a bonus if I gave that away, would it?”

“And Pa Busi’s murder?”

“I think the Front has taken things two steps beyond that. I don’t think the cosmetic investigation is at all necessary in the current climate. Do you?”

“Are you officially taking me off the case? Off the payroll for that?”

He took time to consider this. “Not officially. Until the front does the same our official position is for you to continue to search for truth. In actuality, I want you to discontinue whatever it is you are doing to search for his killers. It is academic at this point.”

“But what you’re doing is asking me to take sides. In a most horrific way, I might add. You know I am as Switzerland in this thing.”

“How, now, Weston. I’m not asking you to take sides. I’m asking you to make a delivery for a fee. What do you say?” said Abayomi with finality.

There was really no choice in the matter.

The canister was a ten centimeter long cylinder. Thin. Shiny. It came in a carry case like the kind used for spectacles. Light, weighed practically nothing. Epoch. It would maintain hermetic seal for three weeks after which nothing could guarantee Epoch particles wouldn’t start leaking out. Particles is what you call individual viruses, I’m told. The cylinder had a mauve button on one end. Press the button and in fifteen minutes Epoch would be released.

Not a lot of time.

Plus, there was no going back once the button was depressed.

On TV, four women in Ankara wrappers performed synchronized dancing with bowls of fruit balanced on their heads.

I strongly considered running away. I could just go to the British Embassy and tell them to get me the fuck out of Alcacia.

I typed up a highly edited account of the mess, altered to remove any serious personal culpability, and then attempted to email it to Lynn in London. It kept bouncing back. I sent myself a blank email, and it arrived safely. I tried to send a single paragraph about the fiasco, and it bounced. I sent a single line saying “Hi, Lynn,” and it went though. In desperation I opened several bogus email accounts with Hotmail, Googlemail, and Yahoo, but they would not send the information either.

I switched off Nana’s computer and picked up the canister case.

On the side, there was some text in relief:

STORE IN A COOL DRY PLACE.