‘Could it be Florentine?’ Ibrahim said. ‘Could she be alive?’
He checked the time. ‘It’s only two o’clock. She said three, abi?’
‘Yes,’ Amaka said.
‘And she said she would take a ferry to Fiki Marina. Or was it that she would take a Ferry from Fiki Marina?’
Amaka began to scroll through her messages. Her phone beeped as another came through. She read it out. ‘Are you close? I’m standing outside Fiki Marina.’
‘What should I say?’ she asked.
‘Let’s bring her in,’ Alex said.
Ibrahim pulled out his mobile phone. ‘Fatima, female subject just made contact in front of Roundhouse. We are doing plan B.’
‘I’m deploying the drone,’ Mshelia said.
Gboyega picked up the aircraft and its controller and headed above deck. Ibrahim spoke into his radio. ‘We are going with plan B. I repeat, plan B. We have a lone female subject in front of Roundhouse. Fat girl moving into position.’
‘And we are live,’ Mshelia said. He moved away from his monitor so Ibrahim and Amaka could see the aerial view on his screen. Alex joined them. The camera swept over the lagoon, the marina and the moored boats, the vessels within the muddy compound of Fiki Marina, and the cars parked along the wall. The drone steadied. It showed Fatima walking to Amaka’s Bora and getting into it. A girl was standing on the other side of the fence, a few metres away from Tango Four who was watching her through scratched dark glasses from where he pretended to beg for alms.
‘Is that her?’ Mshelia asked.
Amaka peered at the screen. Looking at the girl from above, all she could tell was that she had black hair, wore a purple top, and had a red bag.
‘I can’t see her face,’ she said.
‘Send her a message,’ said Ibrahim. ‘Say exactly this: Meet me inside the car park.’
Amaka sent the message. On Mshelia’s screen they all watched the girl reading the message on her phone. She looked about her for the gate, then began walking. On the other side of the fence they watched Fatima straightening the wheels of the Bora as she rolled towards the gate. Behind the car, the other undercover officers she had shared a table with were fanning out, their hands inside the rucksacks they carried.
The drone followed the girl.
She looked up, as if into the lens, and continued walking. Her hands flew up and she fell backwards. The image on the screen shook. Inside the boat, everyone ducked at the sound of machine-gun fire from outside.
The undercover officers inside Fiki Marina ran for cover behind cars and boats as shots pelted the ground around them. Amaka’s Bora stopped moving. The gunfire was concentrated on the car, punching holes through the bonnet, through the windshield, through the roof.
Mshelia screamed at the screen. ‘What the fuck is happening?’
The camera swept over large swaths of road and water before steadying on four figures standing on the bridge, firing automatic rifles. As they used up magazines, they reloaded and continued raining bullets upon the immobile Bora.