ELEGUSHI BEACH, LAGOS, NIGERIA
FRIDAY, 7:08 A.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (2:08 A.M. EST)
The hot pink sun had peeked over the horizon only twenty minutes earlier, but it was already heating up the humid West African air. The waves rolled in, crashing onto the beach at steady six-second intervals, like a slow-motion timekeeper. Judd Ryker stood stiffly in the sand, Isabella Espinosa on one side of him and Judge Bola Akinola on the other. The three had their eyes focused on the empty approach road to the east. That was the deal.
“They’re late,” Judd said, checking his watch again.
“Relax, my friend,” Bola said.
The beach was mostly deserted at this early hour. It was a rare open space in the thick density of urban Lagos. A safe neutral place for just such a special delivery. A few homeless early risers had scurried away when the entourage from the U.S. consulate had rolled in before dawn. Judd, Isabella, and Bola had arrived with a small team of armed officers from Diplomatic Security, along with the embassy doctor. Bola had received a phone call earlier that morning with instructions to go to this exact spot at Elegushi Beach, exit their vehicles, and wait for the drop at 7:00 a.m. sharp.
An unexpected twist was the arrival of a fleet of Nigerian federal police military-style trucks, which unloaded a platoon of heavily armed and helmeted officers. They fanned out in a menacing arc formation behind the Americans.
“Maybe the police scared them away?” Judd offered.
“Don’t worry, my friend. This”—Bola swept his arm toward the police line—“is just for show. It’s not for the militants. It’s for you.”
“Me?”
“The government wants to show its American friends that they are using the counterterrorism equipment you sent us. That we are taking this business seriously. The militants, they know the deal, too. They aren’t afraid. This won’t scare them off.”
“Wasn’t this supposed to be a secret? How did the police even know about the handover?”
“There are few secrets in Nigeria,” Bola said.
“Who could have told them?”
Bola didn’t say a word.
“The entire deal could be compromised. They could kill him,” Judd said, imagining the newspaper headlines. And the phone call with Landon Parker.
“Don’t worry, my friend.”
“Isabella, help me out here,” Judd pleaded. “Does this seem right to you?”
Isabella didn’t answer, either. Instead she scanned the approach road with binoculars.
“Well, how long do we wait?”
Bola took Judd’s hand in silence and interlocked his fingers. Judd fought the urge to withdraw his hand, knowing that in some West African cultures men holding hands was a normal gesture, a sign of friendship. Bola was trying to calm Judd’s nerves. “They will come,” Bola said confidently.
Sure enough, several moments later a battered yellow minivan emerged from the side street about two hundred meters away.
“Here we go,” Isabella announced, holding the binoculars with one hand and with the other pulling a gun from a concealed holster at her lower back.
“You’re armed?” Judd was surprised.
“You think I’m coming to a hostage drop without my Glock?” she said. “I see the driver plus three—no, four—males inside.”
“What are they doing? Can you see Babatunde?” Judd asked.
“Here they come,” she said, tightening her grip on the handgun. The taxi’s side door opened with a rusty creak. Like a giant crane, an enormous man unfolded himself from the van and stood at attention. His head was covered in a hood, his hands bound behind his back.
“Is that him?” Judd demanded.
“I can’t tell,” Isabella said, her binoculars fixed on the target.
“It’s him,” Bola said calmly.
“I’m going to get him.” Judd started to move, but Isabella swung her arm in front of him.
“Not yet,” she said.
A few seconds later the van’s engine roared and the vehicle peeled away.
“Go!” Isabella tucked the gun back into the holster in the small of her back.
Judd Ryker, followed by the embassy security team, raced forward and surrounded the big man. Tunde Babatunde was exhausted from his ordeal but otherwise in fine shape. He seemed embarrassed by all the attention.
Judd explained that they’d take him back to the consulate, do a full medical exam, give him a hot meal, and debrief him. He promised that, unless something unexpected happened, he’d be on Harvey Holden’s plane back to New York before lunchtime.
Judd snapped a quick photo of Babatunde with his phone and then excused himself to make a call.
“Got him,” Judd said excitedly into the phone.
“What?” Landon Parker sounded confused.
“Sir, sorry to wake you,” he whispered. “But I wanted you to know right away that we got him. Tunde Babatunde is safe and in U.S. custody.”
“You didn’t wake me.”
“We’re taking him back to the consulate and then we’ll have him wheels-up in a few hours. I’m sending through a photo now, sir.”
“That’s the problem, Ryker.”
“Problem? No, no. We’ve got him. That’s why I’m calling you. So you can let Congressman Truman know it’s all okay.”
“The photo is the problem,” Parker said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Ryker, I’m looking at another photo of Tunde Babatunde right now. He’s surrounded by militants.”
Judd’s heart sank. “I still don’t understand, sir.”
“There wasn’t supposed to be any exchange of money. The United States doesn’t pay ransom for hostages. I told you that’s our policy.”
“I didn’t pay any ransom.”
“That’s not the story that’s going to appear in the press tomorrow. The photo I’m looking at right goddamn now is what the militants say they’re selling to the newspapers. They’re auctioning it off. This was supposed to be quiet. No press. No money. That’s why I sent you, dammit.”
“I . . .” Judd paused, unsure what to say.
“Ryker, how did you let this happen?”