LAGOS, NIGERIA
THURSDAY, 10:05 A.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (5:05 A.M. EST )
The driver from the U.S. Consulate Lagos weaved the Nissan Patrol expertly through the chaos of the city’s traffic.
In the backseat, Judd and Isabella sat in silence watching the bustle go by. Swarms of yellow minibuses honked and belched gray smoke. The roadside was packed tight with makeshift shops, the brightly dressed women selling everything from chili peppers to flat-screen high-definition televisions. Rickety pushcarts were piled impossibly high with bottled water, greasy diesel fuel jugs, and mounds of rotting trash. And the crowds, a buzzing river of people just making their way through Africa’s biggest metropolis.
But Judd wasn’t really seeing the life of the city. His mind was churning with questions about what he had just witnessed. The Coyote had shown them his operation. He’d explained how they worked, how the advance fee scams had evolved from crude letters into sophisticated online campaigns using the latest in technology and marketing. The bait—the pleas, the promises, even the typos—were all deliberately designed to lure just the right targets among all those masses. The art of the scam in the age of free email, the Coyote had explained, was shaping the pitch to catch your perfect marks. The most gullible, the most susceptible, the most corrupt, who would take the bait and run. That’s when the scammers knew the hook was set.
There was no shortage of people falling for it, he’d told them. A response rate of 0.01 percent provided plenty of opportunities. The Coyote even tracked hit rates by each of his team members and ran sophisticated data analytics giving him real-time feedback on the productivity of all his operations.
And, despite a crackdown by Nigerian investigators, by the FBI, by British police, by Interpol, the Coyote’s team was getting better every day. Better at targeting, better at deceiving, better at avoiding the authorities. Criminal creativity was, as it has always been through the history of civilization, at least one step ahead of law enforcement.
Judd was surprised by how unguarded the Coyote had been about his business secrets. He hadn’t seemed the least hesitant to share the inner workings of his operation with American government officials. Judd guessed it was Bola’s introduction that had made such candor possible. But that, too, raised new uncomfortable questions.
The Coyote was cagey about one question: Who did he work for?
“Wall Street is mine. I built it,” he said.
“You don’t have a boss, a big boss?” Judd asked.
“Of course I work for the Oga, the big Oga,” he replied.
But when Judd pressed and the Coyote seemed suddenly nervous, Isabella waved him off.
Sitting in the back of the SUV, thinking through everything he had seen that morning, Judd was, he had to admit, more than a little impressed. The Coyote’s operation was run like a real business: inventive, resourceful, efficient. Unsettlingly professional.
Yet it was all exactly as Isabella had told him back in Washington three days earlier. So what had he really learned?
Isabella was the first to break the silence. “What are you thinking, partner?”
“Why would the Coyote share so much about his operation? Why would he let us in?” Judd asked.
“Judge Akinola carries a lot of weight. Even among criminals,” she said.
“It’s awfully suspicious, don’t you think? Doesn’t that make you nervous about Bola, too?”
“This is Nigeria,” Isabella said. “Bola’s the man. Everything is connected. Isn’t that what Mariana told you?”
“More or less.”
“Then what did you expect, Judd?”
“I don’t know.”
“The world is full of surprises.”
“That Coyote is running quite a little business,” Judd said.
She shrugged and gave him a look of friendly annoyance.
“I know,” Judd admitted. “It’s just like you told me.”
“Imagine if these guys applied their talents to something honest. Something more productive. Imagine what the Coyote and his team could do in the real New York. Or in Silicon Valley.”
“Wall Street.” Judd flashed his teeth. “They’ve got a sense of humor, too. You have to give them that.”
“Trading Places.” She smiled back. “I haven’t thought of that movie in years.”
“What bothers me is that we didn’t get anywhere. We’re still no closer to finding Jason Saunders.”
“What did you expect, Judd? That seeing how one scam operation works in Nigeria would give you a magical clue to your missing person in London?”
“Maybe the Coyote knew more than he was saying,” Judd offered.
“That would be one hell of a coincidence, Judd.”
“What if his big boss knows something? It’s not impossible. Maybe we should have pressed him harder on this Oga character?”
“Judd, I know criminal investigation isn’t your expertise—”
“But he had the letterhead,” Judd said. “The Bank of England letterhead. The very same stationery from the letter sent to Jason Saunders before he disappeared.”
“So?”
“Isn’t that enough to—oh, I don’t know, Isabella . . . ask more questions?”
“I think he made it pretty clear he wasn’t going to tell us anything about his boss. And he seems smart enough not to incriminate himself. I didn’t want you scaring him off.”
“So let’s raid his office. Come back with an FBI tactical team or one of Bola’s task force units and kick some doors in. Squeeze him. Threaten him. Maybe you can use the letterhead connection as leverage. Maybe he knows something and would bargain. Maybe you can get him to give up the Oga.”
“You’re watching too many cop shows on TV, Judd,” she said, turning her face to the window again.
Judd lowered his voice. “Why are you so hesitant, Isabella? That’s not like you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied.
“Come on, Special Agent Espinosa. Where is the fighter I know? Where is the pit bull criminal hunter I brought with me to Nigeria?”
She spun and looked him straight in the eyes. “I didn’t want to come to Nigeria.”
“I know, I know,” he said. “But you’re here now. You just called me partner. We’re in this together. So what’s the problem?”
“What do you want me to do, Judd?” she hissed.
“We’ve just been inside an underground criminal operation. We know it goes higher. We have some evidence. Okay, it’s not much, but the letterhead is something, linking their activities to a missing American. An American citizen that I’m trying to find. And you don’t want to do anything? Doesn’t add up.”
Isabella’s face gave nothing away.
“What aren’t you telling me?” Judd demanded.
She didn’t reply. But Judd could see the wheels turning in her head.
As the Nissan swerved away from a heavy fuel truck and up onto a bridge overpass, Judd narrowed his eyes. “Isabella, what is going on?”
“Stop the car,” Isabella ordered.
“Not here, ma’am,” the driver apologized.
She scanned the highway ahead. “At the end of the bridge, stop on the side of the road. Do it!”
The vehicle came to a halt and Isabella threw open her door. “Come on,” she said.
“What?”
“Move it, Judd!” Isabella grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the car. She led him down a gulley to a spot underneath the bridge.
“What are we doing?”
“We don’t have much time.” She checked over both shoulders. “You want to know what’s going on?”
“Yes. But here?”
“I can’t take the risk in an embassy vehicle. Not with a driver.”
“Can’t take what risk?”
“Shut up and listen.”
A crowd of onlookers noticed the huddled foreigners.
“We can’t hunt for the Oga,” she whispered.
“Why not? That could be the key to finding Saunders.”
“We can’t hunt for the Oga,” she explained. “Because the Oga . . . is me.”
“What?”
Isabella blinked.
“What?”
“I’m the Coyote’s boss,” Isabella said.
“What are you talking about?”
“The Coyote is mine,” she said.
“What do you mean ‘yours’?”
“He’s my guy. He doesn’t know it, but his team is my team. I’ve been working with Bola Akinola on a highly classified operation for months.”
“Your team? Months? What operation? What are you talking about?”
The crowd was gathering, people chattering and pointing at the two odd Americans arguing under the bridge.
“You’re right about the shadow list. You were right about the letterhead. The letter to Jason Saunders came from the Coyote. It’s no scam. It’s part of a major international sting operation. The operation that you pulled me off to bring me here. To Nigeria.”
“You kidnapped Jason Saunders?”
“Saunders is fine. He was never kidnapped. He’s at an undisclosed location in England. He’s being held there for his own safety. Until he can testify in court.”
“Testify? Against who?”
“I’ve already told you too much. You can see why I was so pissed off you dragged me here.”
“Wait a minute.” Judd’s head was spinning. “If you’re running a scam team as part of a classified sting, your mark has to be a pretty big fish.”
“I just said it was a major international operation.”
“Then who’s your target?”
“We have to go,” she said, taking his hand again and pulling him back up the slope, away from the swelling crowd.
“A Nigerian politician?”
Isabella placed a finger over her lips and shook her head.
“Was Saunders’ firm laundering money for a Nigerian politician? The President?”
“I can’t say. But that’s why I’ve got to get back to Washington as soon as possible.”
“Washington? Is it an ambassador? Is that why you can’t tell the State Department?”
“I’m not saying another word, Judd.”
“An international mob boss? Is that it?”
“I’ve said all I’m going to tell you, Judd. For your own safety, stop asking questions.”
“My own safety? Isabella, I’m dead in the middle of this.”