His face went into frown mode. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you are talking about.” He was a bad liar, especially for a lawyer.
I leaned forward, inches from his face. “He is not a nice fellow. He’s unfit to lead. It’ll be partly your fault if such a man becomes governor.”
“How dare you speak to me this way!”
“You don’t have much choice. You have to work with me. By now, he probably knows I am seeing you. If he doesn’t know, I’ll see to it he does. I bet you can guess how they treat a snitch. Help us nail him. I can guarantee your safety.”
“I do not need any guarantees for my safety. If you keep this up, it is you who will need protection.”
“Is that a threat?”
He backed off immediately. “You are trying to blackmail me, detective.”
“Sure I am. Call me. Don’t wait long. You may not have long to act.”
When I walked out of the building I looked up and down the road for our surveillance van. If Osamu was being watched, the van should be somewhere. I saw nothing-which probably meant good surveillance. If I were they, I would park a block or two up the road, out of obvious sight.
I got into my car and drove two blocks.
There it was, parked quietly on the street, windows dark. I imagined the boys sweating in the van, waiting and watching, taking pictures with a long telephoto lens, conducting audio surveillance, downloading it all automatically. Special Ops had resources I could only dream about.
If I could not have decent equipment or support, at least I had one advantage over the men locked in the van: for me, it was time for lunch. Let them stay glued to their telephoto lenses and wireless speakers. At least I got to be outside and enjoy good meals at nice restaurants around town. I started to drive to one as I replayed the drama in Osamu’s office in my mind.
Howell was not a bad guy. . maybe. He came across as controlled by forces he could not stop. Was he just a lawyer who had the usual guilty clients? Or was he more than a lawyer to the criminals who controlled parts of Nigeria?
My cell phone rang. I saw a number I had not seen before.
“Detective, it’s Howell Osamu.”
“And?”
“I’ll do it.”
He must have already known or guessed about the surveillance, and my visit pushed him over the edge. He had risen to the top ranks by knowing how to play the angles-so I had to be careful.
“You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.”
“I’m not doing it to make you happy, you son of a bitch.”
“You don’t have to call me names. How about we meet in the Pledge in an hour?”
“A public place?”
“Why not? They know we’ve met, and I was about to go for lunch.”
“Fine.” The line went dead.
Remarkably, everything was working according to plan. That did not happen often. I called Femi and filled him in.
“Sure he’s not jerking your chain?”
“No, but I am sure he is a jerk.”
“Ha ha.”
“Look, Femi, I think I know this type. He’s scared, scared enough to try and play me. You should have seen his expression when he saw the photographs. A few minutes later, he calls to meet.”
“He’s powerful.”
“In the end, he’s just a lawyer.”
“Okay, so he’s a weasel. But he’s a powerful weasel.”
“A weasel running for cover.”
“Weasels can run fast. Do you really think he’s been broken so easily? You might be walking into a trap.”
“I set it up for the Pledge. It’s a public place.”
“I could watch from an unmarked car.”
“Thanks. But I don’t think he’s moved too fast to set something up that would put me in any danger. It wouldn’t make sense to do anything to me, anyway. I’m just one more cop. I think he’s wanted to do this for a long time. Maybe he’s been disgusted with Puene but can’t help himself.”
“Now you’re back to his being a lawyer.”
I called Chief Olatunji next. He answered almost immediately, as if he’d been watching his phone. “Yes?” he asked quietly.
“Sir, I’ve just seen Osamu. He’s on board. I’m meeting him at the Pledge in an hour.”
“Good work, detective. I’ll have Okoro and his team in position before Osamu gets there. I’ll be here if you need me. Make sure you call after you meet with him.”
“Thanks, Chief. I’ll call as soon as I finish talking with him.”
“Fine. Get to work.”
I took a drink from one of the bottles of water in my car and started toward the restaurant, planning to get there first, before anyone else could set up a trap. Maybe I’d even get something to eat first, perhaps pounded yam and bitter leaf soup.
Pounded yam is prepared from yam tubers, a perennial root crop in Nigeria. You first peel and wash the yam, then cook it until it becomes soft, after which you pound it in a mortar carved from wood. You swallow it with soup made from bitter leaf vegetables, palm oil, smoked fish, and beef. It is a major meal around here, a delicacy enjoyed in Nigeria, especially southern Nigeria.
The restaurant was not busy yet. There were some free tables in the executive suite, the side of the restaurant with better airconditioning. It was more spacious, more exotic, more money. I took a table in the common area close to the bar, secluded but with a good view of the entrance and the other tables.
I ordered some food while I settled in. It was lunchtime. The restaurant was about half full, with mostly bank execs, businessmen, wealthy traders, one or two university boys. My order came: pounded yam and bitter leaf soup with smoked fish and beef. I still had almost half an hour before Osamu arrived. The waitress did not bring the liquid soap and paper napkins, so I asked for some. When it came, I washed my hands and then ate, using my hands.
A few minutes later, and earlier than I expected, Osamu showed up. He had not used his car, arriving instead in a taxi. He stepped out of it and turned around to pay the driver when a white truck stopped ten yards away. I could not see them clearly through the restaurant window, and certainly did not see their guns-but the gunshots I heard loud and clear. Four shots, two quick ones each from two guns. Bang bang, bang bang. Not very loud. Then they were speeding away, already gone amid the street traffic and pedestrians, no one stopping them.
By then I was running out of the restaurant, my pistol ready, but the assassins were gone. Osamu sat slumped on the ground, briefcase on the sidewalk next to him, clutching his chest and spitting blood, looking surprised. Very surprised. Two rounds had missed him, but he had not been so lucky about the other two.
The taxi driver came out of his car, shouting hysterically. I told him to call an ambulance while I knelt by Osamu. I opened his case and used some of his legal papers to stop the bleeding, not very well, but then there was not much to do for him. He was already pretty dead.
“You’ve got me killed, detective.”
“Hang on. The ambulance will be here in a minute.”
“I won’t make it. Tell my wife, tell her, oh the hell, don’t tell her anything.”
“You’re not going to die.”
He coughed up some blood.
The surveillance van screeched up and Akpan jumped out with two officers.
“Did you see the shooters?”
“We got some photos. We were on the other end of the street. Two cars are after them right now.”
Osamu gripped my right hand. I bent forward, leaning my ear close to his mouth. He whispered an address and said “Thompson.” After that, he had nothing left to say-forever.
Akpan removed his cap and wiped sweat off his face. “You hurt?”
“No. It’s not my blood.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Thompson’s address.” I gave it to him.
It took about ten minutes for the ambulance to arrive, which was about nine minutes too late.