Chapter One

 

 

Lagos, Nigeria

March 20, 2:10 p.m.

 

Justin Hall examined the ever-changing faces of the crowd around the square, searching for the man expected to approach him and collect the ransom for the hostage. The metallic briefcase stuffed with untraceable bills totaling the sum of one million dollars lay next to his feet, underneath the plastic coffee table. His SIG P228 pistol rested inside his concealed waistband holster.

The man kidnapped four months ago was a senior Canadian diplomat working for the Department of Foreign Affairs, Trade and Development, in the Trade Promotion Programs branch. He had arrived in Nigeria for a high-level conference of the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime, and his vehicles had been attacked by masked gunmen on the outskirts of Lagos. The diplomat’s four bodyguards and his assistant had been killed in the firefight. The convoy’s two Land Rovers, hijacked by the gunmen, were found burned two days later about ten miles north of Lagos. But there had been no news about Martin Duncan until a week ago. A local rebel group—Free Niger Delta, who had been waging war against the Nigerian government over the last ten years for control of the Niger Delta’s vast oil riches—had placed a call claiming they had Duncan, and had provided unquestionable proof of life.

The Canadian Intelligence Service had dispatched one of its best field operatives to arrange for the exchange. Justin had made possible the rescue of two aid workers kidnapped in Port Harcourt in Nigeria—about four hundred miles southeast of Lagos—and had spent over a decade hunting and killing terrorists all over the world. He was the right man for the job of prying Duncan from the terrorists’ claws in case the exchange went sideways.

Justin glanced at his wristwatch. The man picking up the ransom was ten minutes late, and he had not called to inform Justin of any delays or change of plans. The exchange initially had been scheduled for two days ago, but the rebels had switched the time and the location. Instead of a small coffeehouse in Victoria Island, an upscale and expensive area of the business district of Lagos, the rebels had chosen an open public square in the northern part of the city, a rough neighborhood with little security and a number of escape routes.

A situation of a ransom drop and the expected release of the kidnapped victim carried extreme dangers. The people showing up to retrieve the money could kill or kidnap the one delivering the ransom, in this case Justin. Even if the kidnappers received the entire amount of money and all their conditions were satisfied to the fullest extent, there was no guarantee Duncan would be released as promised. Another ransom demand could follow, for the same or a higher price, and the negotiation would have to go back to the starting point.

Justin pulled on the handle of his porcelain coffee cup with his right-hand index finger as if it were a trigger. He was the live bait, sitting on the patio outside a coffeehouse in the scorching African sun. A small umbrella provided some shade, but no protection from the humidity. Justin was wearing a concealable lightweight bulletproof vest underneath his loose-fitting brown polo shirt. The vest caused him constant sweating, but it was a small price to pay since it offered protection from .38 special and 9mm rounds. Any weapon of a larger caliber, like the ubiquitous AK assault rifle, would pierce right through the vest and his body.

Justin sighed and leaned back in his chair. His eyes continued to scan the crowds going about their business in the busy square. Some were haggling with shoppers in the market, which sold everything from fresh fruits and vegetables to Chinese-imported knickknacks and cheap clothes. Others were just wandering around, ignoring the boiling sunrays. And many more were smoking and sipping coffees, teas, and other drinks on the sidewalk and outdoor patios of the restaurants and coffeehouses surrounding the square. Taxis, small vehicles, and the occasional truck drove by on a small, narrow road that circled the square.

He thought about checking with his team members: the sniper at the rooftop of the highest building overlooking the square, a three-story apartment building; the driver sitting in his Land Rover off-road vehicle, parked on the curb about fifty yards away; and Justin’s partner in the CIS station in Abuja—Nigeria’s capital—Kayo, who was pretending to talk on a cellphone at the edge of the market, by a stand where two women were selling cassava flour. Justin was in constant contact with them through the throat mike stitched inside the collar of his shirt and the small earpiece in his left ear.

But he resisted the temptation. He was not sure if they were being watched; but since the kidnappers had picked this location, and Justin and his team had arrived only fifteen minutes ago, barely in time to make the deadline, he expected there was at least one pair of hostile eyes on him, following his every move.

An African woman in a black abaya, the long robe that covered her entire body, and a matching hijab and black sunglasses, stepped out of the crowd and onto the sidewalk, about twenty or so feet away from Justin. She was holding a folded map in her hands. She glanced in the other direction, then toward Justin, but her eyes moved over his shoulders. The woman stopped by two men who were talking over a couple of beers a few tables away. They looked at her map, then around the square, shrugged, and shook their heads.

The woman looked at Justin and began to walk in his direction. Justin focused his entire attention on her. She was tall and slim and a silver bracelet hung around her left wrist. Her skin color was light, and Justin wondered if the woman had been using bleaching cream, a booming beauty trend among Nigerian women. She had a small, narrow nose and thick red lips.

“Excuse me,” the woman said when she was two feet away from Justin’s table, “could you help me, please?” Her soft, attractive voice rang with a light British accent.

“Eh . . . I’m not sure. What do you need?” Justin said as he looked around. He did not want to be seen in the company of the woman in case the man sent to pick up the ransom showed up at that exact moment. The kidnappers’ instructions had been for Justin to come alone and unarmed, and he had ignored both conditions. But he hoped his team members would be invisible, and that he would not have to use his weapon.

“I’m looking for an address. It should be somewhere around here.” The woman sat down in the chair across from Justin before he could object, and she spread her map over the table, almost knocking over Justin’s cup. She tapped the map with her left-hand index finger at a certain point.

“What is this place?”

“Oh, it’s a hotel, a famous hotel, the preferred place for, hmmm, foreigners . . . and Canadian diplomats.”

Justin’s right hand went for his pistol, but the woman was faster. She slid a small pistol over the table and pointed it sideways at Justin’s head. Then she quickly folded the map over the pistol, to avoid being spotted by any curious glances from the other tables or passersby.

She said in a firm voice, “Don’t do it!”

Justin stared at the pistol. He could try to wrestle the pistol away from her hand, but the woman was holding it close to her chest. She could squeeze off a round before Justin even reached it. So he decided to play it safe, and listened to her words. He put both hands on the table, with their palms down and fingers spread out.

“No need to make a scene, as I have the money.” Justin tapped the briefcase with his shoe. “Put that gun away before someone gets hurt.”

The woman smiled. “Not yet. You’re not very good at following orders, are you, Mr. Burns?”

“Why is that?” Justin said, his mouth going dry at the mention of his cover name for this operation.

“The orders were for you, just you, to come here for the exchange, and not to bring a weapon. You’ve broken the rules, so you need to pay the price.”

Justin’s eyes narrowed as he fixed the woman with a harsh gaze. Her sunglasses provided a thick, smooth cover, and he could see his reflection, his black hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. He sighed. He wanted to tell the woman there was no one else with him, but he did not want to insult her intelligence.

“If you know I’m not alone, you also know there’s a sniper who has you in his crosshairs. I just need to give the order,” Justin said in a low voice lacking any emotion.

“Please do.” The woman motioned with her gun. “In that case, I’ll have three more hostages, your team members, for whom you’ll have to pay double the amount demanded for Duncan.”

Justin’s face remained calm. She’s bluffing.

The woman produced a BlackBerry from her robe’s left pocket and placed it on the table. She tapped a couple of keys, while keeping her gaze on Justin’s face at all times, then fired off a few quick words in a language Justin assumed was a Nigerian dialect. He could make out only the name of his local partner, Kayo.

“Talk to him.” The woman gestured with her head toward the BlackBerry.

Justin frowned and swallowed hard. His found his throat parched, so he licked his lips, and coughed a couple of times. “Kayo, how are you?” he said in a calm tone.

“Okay. I’m sorry, man; they snuck up on me so—”

A scraping noise cut off his words, then a thick voice spoke again in a language that sounded like the one the woman had spoken.

“Would you like to check with your sniper or your driver?” the woman asked.

Justin shook his head. He clenched his teeth and balled his hands into tight fists. He was sure the woman could see the rage pouring out of his eyes. “You’ve made your point,” he growled in a low voice. “Take the money and give me Duncan.”

The woman retrieved her BlackBerry. “I will take the money, yes, but we’re not yet ready to say goodbye to Marty. The price has gone up since our last chat.”

Justin leaned forward, but the woman tapped the table with her gun. “Stay back, Mr. Burns. I’d hate to waste you now that we’re coming to an understanding.”

Justin fell back with a shrug. He arched his eyebrows, then asked, “What understanding?”

“Five million; the new price for Duncan’s head is five million. And before you start complaining it’s too high, remember it’s a drop in the bucket for the oil thieves pulling Duncan’s strings. Even if we asked for a billion dollars, still it wouldn’t come even close to the six hundred billion that have been robbed from our land since the sixties.”

Justin let out a big sigh. He wanted to open his mouth and tell this woman Duncan was not responsible for all the corruption plaguing the Nigerian government and for the pillaging of most of the oil revenues of the country year after year. But he wanted Duncan back, and he had no other option but to endure the lecture of this gun-toting terrorist. The more the woman opened her mouth, the more details Justin was learning, details which would help him track her down and find the kidnapped diplomat.

“We’ve had a couple of other offers for your dear friend,” the woman said as a grimace spread across her small face. “One, a very serious one, comes from a group affiliated with the Islamic Fighting Alliance. Are you familiar with them?”

Justin nodded. The Alliance, and especially a breakaway faction, had been very active in Algeria, Mali, Libya, and Egypt. Its leaders had masterminded a number of terrorist attacks against banks, hotels, and police stations all over northern Africa. If Duncan ended up in the hands of the Alliance, his beheading would be broadcasted live on many Jihadist websites, chat rooms, and Islamic Internet groups.

“Their offer is three million,” the woman continued. “I’m sure the Canadian government can do better than a bunch of terrorists, right?”

“When?” Justin asked with a piercing gaze.

“In two days. I have your number, and I’ll call with a location for the drop.”

Justin paused for a moment, then asked, “And this time no games, right? No more upping the price just because you feel like it.”

The woman laughed. “Oh, I wish I could promise you that, but it’s not up to me. See, I think you and your oil-stealing friends should be paying much, much more.”

“Yes, I’ve heard your views.” Justin put up his right hand to spare himself another tongue-lashing.

“Push the briefcase toward me.” The woman sat and slid back in her chair. “We’ll call it a down payment.”

“One more question: you said you’ve had two offers on Duncan. One is the Alliance. Who’s the other?”

The woman cocked her head to the left, pondering whether she should answer Justin’s question. She hesitated for a moment, then said, “It’s from the government. It seems Mr. Duncan has powerful friends in very high places. The briefcase.”

Justin pushed it toward the woman with the tip of his shoe. She groped for it with her left hand, her right hand still pointing her pistol at Justin’s head. Her eyes never left his face.

“Great doing business with you, Mr. Burns.” She got ready to get up.

“I didn’t quite catch your name,” Justin said hurriedly.

“Nice try.” The woman smiled. “That’s because I didn’t give it to you. But my name is not important. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

Justin placed his hands back on the table.

The woman slid her gun, along with the map, toward her. “We’ll take your Rover. I hope you don’t mind.”

Justin closed his eyes. The woman was adding insult to injury. It took a great deal of self-control not to jump to his feet and lurch toward her, hoping his hands around her neck would be faster than her finger on her trigger.

“Be safe, Mr. Burns. Lagos is a rough place for foreigners, especially Canadians.” The woman grinned as she got up, and stepped backwards, holding her pistol, covered by the map, still aimed at Justin’s head.

The two men she had approached earlier at a nearby table stood and flanked her. They were her accomplices, and they were both armed, the handles of their pistols visible over their waistbands. They were ready to shoot at the first sign of Justin going for his weapon.

Justin remained in his seat, but his mind was in overdrive. The trio was still within the reach of his pistol, but before he could fire his double-taps, he needed to make sure his team was out of harm.

“Kayo, come in,” he said, and looked at Kayo’s position.

No one answered, not even static.

“Kayo, where are you?” Justin said in a louder voice.

Again, no answer.

He tried the sniper and the driver one after the other but his calls were met with silence. Whoever had moved in with stealth on his team members had disabled their communication gear.

The trio moved with a quick pace, walking half backwards and half sideways, the woman still holding her pistol toward Justin, wrapped in her map. Their actions attracted some attention from people around them, but they did not seem to care.

Justin stood up and took a few steps forward, rushing in their direction. The trio was now close to the Land Rover, which began to move toward them. The front passenger door opened and Justin’s driver jumped out. His face was red and he looked miserable.

The woman threatened Justin’s driver, while one of the men gave him a humiliating smack across his face. The trio climbed into the Land Rover and it slowly began to turn around the curve. Justin pulled out his pistol and aimed it at the new driver. He could empty the nine-round magazine and stop the vehicle. But he still did not know about Kayo and the sniper, and an attack against the trio would seal Duncan’s fate. He wanted the diplomat alive and well, not in a body bag or his body never to be found.

So Justin swallowed his pride and muzzled his anger as the Land Rover disappeared around the corner. He lowered his pistol to his side, swore in a loud voice, and made himself a silent promise to rescue Duncan even if it meant starting a war.