— I’m an avid reader of your column.
The man moved forward and offered Zaq his hand. Zaq looked at the hand as though unsure what to do with it, his eyes blinking in the strong light coming in through the open windows, then he stuck out his own pudgy hand and shook it. He was badly hung-over and his breath left his corpulent frame in a heaving, gasping motion. Beke Johnson hovered behind his desk, urging the visitors to please sit down, please sit down. His rumpled suit and tie, the wolfish smile on his fat face, added to Zaq’s headache and he felt like reaching out and covering the smile with his hand. The other visitor remained standing, looking out through the open window, as if to avoid a bad smell in the narrow room. Zaq took in the black nondescript suit, the blue shirt, the black-and-white-striped tie, the well-polished black shoes: diplomatic service, most likely security section. He must have been the handler, there to make sure the husband didn’t betray the famous stiff-upper-lip tradition.
— You want to see me?
Zaq stood with his hands clasped before him, trying not to scratch at his stubbled chin. His eyes were red and teary from gazing all day into the computer screen, his lips were parched.
— I am—
— I know who you are. You’re in the news. What can I do for you?
The husband sighed. His eyes went to the other man, who nodded and spoke directly to Zaq.
— Well, you already know about the kidnapping, so we won’t go into all that. James here is a great admirer of your writing, and it was his idea that we come to you and ask you to go with a few other journalists to confirm that his wife is still alive. We need to know that before commencing with the ransom negotiation.
Zaq turned to James, waiting for him to assent. James’s eyes were baggy and red, his white shirt rumpled; he had the look of a desperate man, ready to try anything in the hope of getting his wife back.
— What good will that do? There’s nothing I can bring back the other reporters can’t.
— I know, but I think you understand more than the others what’s at stake here. Please. Listen, I feel I can trust you, though we’ve never met before. I went to Leeds University, same as you. . I hope that means something to you. .
— I’m just a desk journalist. I haven’t done anything like this in a long time. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for your situation, but I can’t help. . I’m sure she’s safe. She’ll be returned safely to you. They won’t harm her, they never do. .
Black Suit gave James a look that urged him toward the door, indicating that their presence here had been a bad idea in the first place and that it was time to go. But James continued speaking, his eyes on Zaq. — I wish I could go myself, and I would, but my people think it’s a bad idea, I’d only end up providing them with a second hostage.
— Well, Zaq, what do you say?
Beke came and laid a fat hand on Zaq’s shoulder. Zaq was looking at the dirty carpet. It had patterns of green-and-red interlocking squares on it, but the squares were now faded, ground into loose ribbons and threads by countless washings, and footsteps, and something else, a kind of despair, a lack of the energy needed for holding on, for persevering. The chairs and tables and filing cabinets had the same look, as did the faces and shoulders of his fellow reporters as they came in off the crowded buses and the merciless streets early in the morning. He had seen it on faces coming off the buses in Lagos and Abuja and Kano and Ibadan: a drugged, let-me-just-get-through-the-day look. He continued to stare at the carpet, for what was the point in meeting the visitors’ eyes if he couldn’t be of help?
Now Black Suit and James were at the door. Black Suit pulled it open.
— Gentlemen, thanks for your time. This visit must remain between us. .
Zaq said it was the tone of the man’s voice that made him look up. The voice was dismissive, almost derisive. And he felt what he hadn’t felt in a long time: pride, vanity — two things he had always tried to avoid because they had no place in a reporter’s life.
— I’ll go. I’ll do it.
The men stopped at the door. James shook off his companion’s hand, turned back and took Zaq’s hand. He brought out a photograph from his pocket. She was a pretty woman, her hair a unique mixture of red and brunette, and in the picture she looked young, carefree, smiling confidently into the camera. Zaq guessed it must have been taken when she was younger, perhaps at university.
— How old is your wife?
— Thirty-nine. Her name is Isabel. She also went to Leeds.
Zaq nodded, staring at the picture. He saw no point in telling James that he had only gone to Leeds for a six-month journalism certificate course. He had never gone to university — he was an autodidact, everything he knew he had learned in the newsroom and on the streets and from books, but what he knew he knew well. He could quote from Aristotle and Plato and Tolstoy and Shakespeare and Soyinka and Fanon and Mandela and Gandhi and Dante in a conversation, casually, perfectly.
— So far we’ve had over a dozen ransom demands by different groups: the Black Belts of Justice, the Free Delta Army and the—
— The AK-47 Freedom Fighters.
— It’s all so confusing. This is a chance to make contact with the real kidnappers. We’ll negotiate, as long as she’s alive, we’ll pay. .
— How do you know which group is the real one? Do they have a name?
— No name. Here’s their letter: no signature. In the letter was some of her hair: I know her hair, it’s really distinctive. There’s a request for five million dollars. They want us to send five reporters to confirm she is alive and well.
— Very professional.
— There’s something more.
— Yes?
— Her driver, Salomon: we believe he’s had a hand in this. He hasn’t been to work since the day she disappeared.
— Did they go out together?
— No. But we can’t find him.
Black Suit, at last wiping the surprise off his ruddy face, stepped forward.
— Your job is simple. Just confirm she’s alive, take pictures and we’ll take it from there. It should be easy. You leave in two days, early, and by sundown you’re back. Of course, we’re willing to remunerate you quite decently for your trouble. And remember, make them understand that nothing must happen to her. She’s a British citizen—
Zaq interrupted him, not raising his gaze from the picture. — So, does that make her more important than if she were, say, Nepalese, or Guyanese, or Greek?
The man made to open his mouth, but the husband spoke first. — Simon, old chap, let me handle this.
After the men left, Beke went over to Zaq and shook his hand, patting him on the back at the same time.
— This is it, Zaq. Our big opportunity. Don’t forget to take our subscription form when next you meet them.
— Come on, Beke. The man’s wife has been kidnapped.
— But, still, an opportunity is an opportunity. How often does the oil company come knocking on your door, asking for a favor? We’re talking petrodollars here, and a major scoop! Come on. I can imagine the headlines already. This will be the making of us. Our circulation will hit the roof—
— But first I have to survive the little trip to the kidnappers’ den, wherever it may be.
— Well, yes. Everything will go well. God willing. They don’t harm reporters.
— What about those two reporters shot in the back on a similar assignment just weeks ago? You have a short memory. Or would you like to go in my place?