He could still see the same car in his rear-view mirror. And he could feel Baïna still kicking the back of his seat, swinging her short legs, reminding him that he still had children and that school had just finished. He must force himself to listen to all the names of her new school friends, and try to remember them; he must buy such and such a satchel, and a special kind of pencil – she wanted to have the same things as the others… He had to put out of his mind, just for a moment, the thought of Lira lying on her hospital bed refusing to go home to her country, suspicious that her husband was secretly organizing her return, afraid, desperate to carry on with her work. He must forget Helen – she could probably do something for Lira, but she no longer answered his calls.

Baïna was still talking. Nwankwo smiled, agreeing to all her demands. He looked again at the car behind them and then, still in the mirror, at his eight-year-old daughter with her bright and cheerful little face and her African braids, specially done for her first day at school. She hadn’t asked him why he was no longer sleeping at home. On the first evening she had just said: “It’s because of Uche, isn’t it?” Her big brother had just sighed, now as silent as the grown-ups, and the little one hadn’t reacted at all. Nwankwo hadn’t denied it. He knew that when he arrived at the house he would kiss the children, spend a few moments alone in the kitchen with Ezima – they were neither together nor apart, they were just nowhere – and then leave. He was living with his colleague Julian Bolton. He had asked him to suggest a hotel the day after the interrogation in Helen’s office. Bolton had said that he had a spare room with a bathroom, that he was divorced and diabetic and would appreciate the company and didn’t mind the risk. Nwankwo had refused at first and had spent two nights in a hotel; then he relented, bowing to friendship despite the possible danger. He had even thought that perhaps Lira could come and stay there for a while.

He was becoming fed up with this car on his heels – it was beginning to scare him. He saw a service station and turned in. He didn’t need petrol but it would be a way of finding out if he were really being followed. The other car carried on past. It had been a false alarm. They set off again ten minutes later, Baïna armed now with a noisy packet of sweets.

They hadn’t gone more than a quarter of a mile when Nwankwo recognized the same car, now coming towards them. A man on the back seat was pulling out a gun. Nwankwo swerved onto the verge, off the crowded road; he hooted and accelerated, shouting: “Get down, Baïna! Get onto the floor!”

The first shot shattered the back window. “Baïna!” Nwankwo screamed, but the little girl didn’t answer. The second shot hit the bodywork. “Baïna, speak to me! Don’t move, just say something!” Nwankwo begged, still driving. If he stopped the others would too, and they would then be shot down like rabbits. Nwankwo had no gun.

“Say something, baby, speak to me!” he shouted, putting his right hand back between the seats. He looked around quickly. Baïna was like a little rigid ball, not moving. He stroked her hair – “Say something, Baïna” – and eventually he heard a few stifled moans. She was alive!

He turned left and drove on, still stroking his daughter, dreading seeing blood on his fingers. When he thought he had gone far enough he drew up. He rushed around to the back, taking Baïna’s face between his hands. Her eyes were open, her lips trembling. She had pieces of glass in her curly hair. She had clearly not been hit. He pulled her out and lifted her up, wrapping her legs around him; he put her head on his shoulder with his large hand over it and went back to sit with her on the driver’s seat.

He sat there for several minutes without moving, Baïna huddled against him, saying it was OK for her to cry, that it was normal – she had been scared and so had he and he loved her so much. In the end he was the one who cried, his streaming eyes reflected in the mirror in which he was still looking out for his assassins.

 

US EMBASSY, COPENHAGEN

 

CONFIDENTIAL

 

SECTION 01.081657

 

SEPTEMBER 10

 

SUBJECT: FAILURE OF GRIND BANK. MEETING BETWEEN AMBASSADOR AND SUNLEIF STEPHENSEN.

 

MEETING BETWEEN AMBASSADOR, COMMERCIAL ATTACHÉ AND BANKER SUNLEIF STEPHENSEN, RECENTLY DECLARED BANKRUPT. HE WAS ASKED TO CLARIFY HIS CONNECTION WITH SERGEI LOUCHSKY. HE WAS UNWILLING TO SPEAK BUT DID NOT DENY ANYTHING WHEN IT WAS SUGGESTED THAT GRIND BANK HAD BEEN USED TO LAUNDER RUSSIAN MONEY. HE CLAIMED NOT TO HAVE ORIGINALLY UNDERSTOOD THE FRAUDULENT NATURE OF CERTAIN TRANSACTIONS.

 

STEPHENSEN IS A ROUGH TYPE, SHARP BUT EXTREMELY IMPRESSIONABLE. HE IS NOT A MARKET SPECIALIST AND HE DOES NOT SPEAK LIKE A TYPICAL BANKER. HE SAYS THAT HE FEARS FOR HIS LIFE. HIS WIFE DIED IN SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES IN FRANCE. THE BODY OF HIS PERSONAL ASSISTANT HAS BEEN FOUND, BADLY MUTILATED, A SHORT DISTANCE OUTSIDE LONDON. ACCORDING TO THE DANISH PRESS ALL THE BANK’S RECORDS WERE DESTROYED JUST BEFORE THE RECEIVERS WERE CALLED IN. ONLY A CONFESSION AND DETAILED EXPLANATIONS FROM SUNLEIF STEPHENSEN CAN BACK UP OUR SUSPICIONS AND JUSTIFY A REVOCATION OF SERGEI LOUCHSKY’ S US VISA.

 

AS AGREED WE HAVE OFFERED HIM PROTECTION IN EXCHANGE FOR INFORMATION. HE SAID THAT HE NEEDED TO THINK ABOUT IT BUT HE SEEMED INTERESTED IN THE IDEA. HE AGREED TO MEET AGAIN HERE IN A FEW DAYS’ TIME.