PATRON OF TERROR Page 11

Fair enough.

  Sodienyie was not looking at me. He was not looking at anything. His eyes were glazing.

  I looked at the shelves I could reach, and grabbed a package of diapers. I tore it open and pressed one against his back.

  The other officers poured into the shop. Paramedics from the ambulance were right behind them. I stood back and let them take over, and walked outside helplessly.

  Outside two of the officers were talking with the shop keeper, calming him down. He did not have much to tell me. Sodienyie came in first and was picking out some routine items. The gunman came in a moment later and shot him twice in the back.

  Busy morning he had. Who was he, and why were Sodienyie and Henry his targets?

  Bodies were piling up. I never liked that type of construction work.

  To date I had been several steps behind everything. I felt a little incompetent. More than a little.

  Pepples the younger looked pretty bad as the ambulance guys took him off, siren blaring. I did not think he’d make it to the hospital, not with all the blood he’d lost. A police car pulled up, and Sergeant Eze stepped out.

  “Detective, I thought you should have this.” He handed me a cell phone. “It was Henry’s. We found it on the body.”

  “Excellent, Sergeant. Sodienyie Pepples was the victim here. He’s in that ambulance you saw. I think he was Henry’s source. And my only lead for now, if he lives.”

  He shook his head. “And the shooter?”

  I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. “Same guy who did the Puenes and Henry, probably. He’s on the floor inside. We never had the chance of taking him alive. Maybe you can find out who he was for me as soon as you can.”

  “Sure,” Eze tossed back. “It’s been a bad morning.”

  That was an understatement.

  27

  I was driving back to my office, going along old Aba, past G.R.A Phase 3, when Henry’s cell rang.

  I pulled over and took the cell from my pocket and flipped it open. The display read ‘Militant’.

  I pressed the talk button. “Hello.”

  Silence.

  “Where are you?” a male voice on the other end asked.

  “I’m at old Aba road. Near the military hospital.” I couldn’t think of anything better to say. Well, it was the truth.

  “You’re not Henry.”

  “No.” Best not to lie, who knew what they had already heard, “He was shot this morning.”

  “Why do you have his phone?”

  “I work with him. I was helping him arrange the meeting with you. The police gave me his phone.”

  A pause again, but shorter. “The arrangement goes ahead as planned. Stand in front of the School of Health gate by seven in the morning tomorrow. We will pick you up. Bring video equipment. And a flash drive. You’ll get a call in the morning.”

  “School of Health, seven tomorrow. Can you tell me—“

  Click.

  I went into the cell’s call log. The caller’s number was listed. I took out my own cell, called Ade and asked him to check the number.

  Stella was in her usual place at her desk, standing guard over the Chief’s office. As I came up she did not stop typing but glanced at me and said “He’s eating his meat raw today.”

  He was reading a file as I came in. He did not look up, but waved me to the chair in front of his desk. It was an uncomfortable chair, and it had been a long morning already. I walked across the room and took a nice cushioned chair by the wall instead.

  I might not be in the chosen chair but at least I was not parking in someone else’s space any more. He ignored me for a few more minutes. He did look engrossed with the report. The old Chief, Olatunji, used to keep people waiting while reading a file, but with him it was just a trick.

  He closed the file. He looked up at me.

  I waited.

  “Yes, Tammy?” He looked resigned.

  “You don’t look happy, my Chief.”

  “The baby keeps us up, then this. It’s slipping out of our hands. I liked being Chief, Tammy. I did.” His dream of becoming Chief of Police was instead becoming a nightmare.

  “You’ve heard the Pepples kid brother was shot? And Henry?”

  “Sergeant Eze phoned me. I’ve just read the first quick reports from the scenes. We’ve come to a dead end this morning, Tammy. Literally.”

  “It could be worse. I have a lead.”

  He leaned forward, resting his crossed elbows on the table.

  “I got a phone call twenty minutes ago. On Henry’s cell. They think I work with him. Anyway, that was what I told them. And I also told the caller that I was helping Henry arrange the meeting with the militant leader. He said the meeting goes ahead as planned and I’ve got an appointment for seven tomorrow morning. Sam Inome’s also arranged a meeting, but I didn’t get a call.”

  “Remember Sam wanted you to pretend you’re a journalist.”

  “And I told the caller I worked with Henry.”

  “Perfect. Though, of course it could be a trap. From the same people who had Henry and Sodienyie shot. Now they want whoever is getting close to them. Were you able to trace the caller on Henry’s phone?”

  “Ade did, as I drove in. It’s Sam Inome’s nephew.”

  “How does he figure into this?”

  “No idea. But she’s a Pepples. And, he lives in the Delta.”

  “Come over here, Tammy. You’re too far away.”

  I smiled, and went over to the much less comfortable chair opposite him.

  “You have a plan?”

  “Only that I’ll be there, posing as a journalist.”

  “Smells.”

  “Yes. But I’m ready to go along with it, and see what happens. But they might want to check you out first.”

  “Yes. I think they knew Henry was dead, but I’d like you to put a sock on the shootings as long as you can, at least for twenty-four hours until I’m on my way tomorrow.”

  “You want me to keep the bodies under wraps? Why?” Akpan asked me with disbelieve.

  “There was rioting yesterday, because of what Henry said on the radio. What will happen tomorrow morning, if everyone finds out he’s dead?”

  “We have his killer.”

  “But not who’s behind it.”

  “What you are asking is unlawful…”

  “And not by the books,” I said, completing his statement for him.

  “Yes,” he replied. “And when the press finds out, it’s my head on their plate. The last thing I need right now is a media circus. Even if it is for the right reasons.”

  “Exactly. Given the riot yesterday, we need to keep this quiet as long as possible. I’m sure Henry’s paper will understand if you talk to them. And when we break the case, your wonderfulness will be sung for generations.”

  “Very well. I can handle Henry’s paper, and I can work the rest. For at least a while.”

  “Great.”

  “And if it goes wrong, I can blame you.”

  “If I’m still alive.”

  “Yes.”

  “I expected nothing less. Do you need anything?”

  “A video camera and a flash drive.”

  “Go down to surveillance. Let’s keep this as quiet as possible. Get on with it, then. And don’t get killed. I’ll need a scapegoat if it goes wrong.”

  “I’m thinking of nothing else.”

  He picked up his phone and pressed a button. “Stella, I need your help. That reporter we talked about that has been shot. Yes. Call his paper, and tell them that the Police Commissioner wants them to put a blanket on it for twenty-four hours. That the public story is that we have not identified the two men yet. Same goes for the media houses. Tell them they’ll get an exclusive when we find something. When Tammy leaves, put a call through to the Commissioner. Thanks.”

  He had gotten where he had, through a long career, by knowing how to play the rules and the politics. He played them better than I did. But denying information to the Commission
er, to Fangbe and others, that could be damaging, to his career so I understood that he wants to speak to the Commissioner probably to bring him up to speed.

  He turned in his swivel chair and looked out at the yard, probably to find some stress relief by spotting a constable breaking a rule.

  I knew that meant I was dismissed. I saw myself out.

  Stella was on the phone when I walked past her. I took the stairs down again to the ground floor and went to surveillance. They had a nice digital camera that looked like something a news reporter would use, a flash drive, even a tripod and camera bag. Sometimes surveillance posed as a news crew.

  I went back to my office. Ade was plugging away at the computer.

  “What’s the bag and tripod for?” he asked, looking up.

  In a few minutes, he wished he’d gone home early.

  28

  Henry’s cell rang at exactly 7. I felt it vibrate in my palm. Ade had the camera bag and tripod, me a notepad. We stood in front of the School of Health, waiting. We had been there twenty minutes. In front of us people went about their everyday business, just as, in a sense, were Ade and I.

  The street was getting busy. It was not hot yet. I felt cool. But Ade was fidgeting. I didn’t like it. Maybe I should not have gotten him into this. He was an expectant father. I looked at him. He kept wiping sweat off his face with a white handkerchief. He looked at me and grinned.

  I flipped open Henry’s cell. Unknown.

  I pressed ‘talk’ and put the phone to my ear.

  A deep gruff voice: “I am Tari of the Niger Delta Movement for Self Determination.” The breakaway group from Wariboko’s Struggle for Survival of the Niger Delta. Supposedly his former aide, Ebiegberi, led the new group.

  “I’m here, with my assistant.”

  “He must be the one with the camera bag and tripod.”

  I did not bother to look around. They were where they could see me, not me them. “Go to the Total filling station along Mile 1. Be there in thirty minutes.

  Understood?”

  “Total filling station along Mile 1.”

  Click.

  Good way to ensure we did not have any backup. Any cars or helicopters would be seen a long way off.

  Ade and I got into my Peugeot and started off to Mile 1. We got to the filling station. And waited. We went through three bottles of water between us as we waited.

  They knew we were here already. Why not get on with it? Well, with militants you don’t question their manners.

  We still waited. We drank our last bottle of water. No call yet. Nothing. And I began to think if they were still going to call us again. The bottled water from the filling station convenience store was cold.

  The sky was clear, the sun burning. At least the car offered some shade.

  A few minutes before 11, a white Mitsubishi L300 minibus pulled up. A short young man stepped out. “I’m Tari. Get in.”

  I had never seen him before. The voice was familiar. From the phone.

  Ade grabbed his bag and tripod, I got my notepad and stuck it in my pocket, and we were out of my car. I locked it, tried to pretend along with Ade we were journalists off to get a good story, and climbed onto the bus.

  There was a driver. He watched us sit down. He had an uzi in his lap. Tari sat next to him. He had a large automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. There was no one else. Neither looked friendly.

  After what seemed like traveling an hour, we stopped at the sprawling mouth of the Niger Delta.

  We were at the entrance to the Delta. Only watercraft could continue. There were no land roads. From here, the river and its many channels were the roads.

  The river insinuates its way through thick forests of coconut palms, with the occasional heap of acrid smoldering garbage, byproducts of the oil industry. I had seen the area last when I was a child, before it was defiled. The last visit back had been at least ten years ago. Mom never wanted to go back, her relatives wanted to get out of there to visit us instead.

  Ade and I waited in the bus while Tari left to talk with some young men next to a speed boat. They all wore black clothes, they all were armed. I saw no one else. There was a building by the dock. No one came out.

  Tari signaled to us to get into the speed boat. It was basic. A fiberglass hull with a very large outboard motor strapped to its stern. It could easily carry six men and their equipment.

  The driver watched us get into the boat. A youth with a thin towel wrapped around his forehead, to keep the sweat from his eyes, started up the engine. Ade and I sat in the middle, Tari in front of us.

  “The interview will take place at the camp,” he said. “Until then, keep your camera off.”

  The kid at the motor put on sun glasses. “Okay,” he said and suddenly we were in a sports car on water.

  He took us out to the middle of the river, increasing his speed as we cleared the dock area. The banks were a mile apart here. He powered up and we held on.

  He took a channel to the right, then right again, then I lost track. The channels narrowed, then widened. He was in a hurry, slowing down when we approached fishermen, paddling in their wooden pirogues, giving them a wide berth, I learnt later was so they do not over turn the smaller hand paddled canoes with the splashing of our bigger and faster boat, that left in it’s trail small waves and ripples that spread out wide.

  Our destination was an hour ride on a speed boat, from what the one that called himself Tari said, depending on whether the speed limits meant anything and that we were more than half way there. Lots of rural roads and there were few landmarks to help remember where we were. I saw occasional pipelines, flow stations, pressure valves belonging to the oil companies. Few people, except farmers. No matter the channel, the salt water was brown, dotted with floating green clumps of water hyacinths. The banks were often lined with dense green mangrove forests. Occasionally a clearing revealed a small village of wooden huts, with canoes pulled up on the muddy banks. On the horizon I saw the periodic plume of orange flame, where a rural oil installation burned off natural gas.

  Every few kilometers, I saw someone watching us go by. A farmer, apparently, a fisherman, apparently, a kid with his toes in the water. As I watched them recede I saw them raising something to their ears. Out here, radios. There was no coverage for cells. I was impressed—Tari’s people were organized. And my guess is they had a lot of local support, at least from all the fishermen who waved at us as we sped past.

  After an hour and a half we approached a village of mud huts, skirted by a grimy beach covered with what looked like several inches of garbage. As our boat drew near, first we heard the children. They were already on the beach and along a large concrete jetty, pointing at the boat.

  We had arrived at the camp.

  As the boat powered down to a slow stop at the pier, about 25 men emerged from a house, armed with AK 47 rifles. They had rocket-propelled grenades wrapped around their waists, pistols. It was not just for kids any more.

  The militants didn’t bother to hide their identity. We were not blindfolded and they wore no masks. They felt safe here. Only locals knew how to reach the village through the maze of channels.

  We got out of the boat. Despite their militaristic look, the men around us—I saw few women—were polite and friendly.

  “Where are we?” I asked Tari.

  “Camp,” he replied.

  Talkative.

  29

  It was a pretty good camp, given it looked as if they’d had to scrounge everything. I saw fences and barriers taken from the international oil companies, each painted in the companies' signature colors and accompanied by rusted but still-menacing signs that warned against unauthorized entry. Local joke.

  It was a commercial area, obviously. There were other boats tied up at the jetty, and several shoppers at the nearby small wooden shacks, where young men sold large glass bottles of black-market fuel. Open bunkering. From the quantities, though, this was not for export, but small amounts for local use.
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  We followed Tari up from the beach. He took us up a dark staircase in an old concrete building, built who knew when. Surrounding us were the armed militants who welcomed us at our landing. Into a large room, where we were sat in some plastic chairs set in a ring.

  Tari told us to get our equipment out.

  Ade set up the video camera on a small tripod. He looked pretty much like he knew what he was doing. He gave us the thumbs up. I had my notepad ready.

  When we were obviously ready, Ebiegberi walked in.

  Immediately he commanded the room. Through respect. Nobody saluted. I liked that. I nodded to Ade, he started recording.

  He sat in a chair opposite me. He was a tall man in his early thirties. His face was broad, with a scar deep in his left cheek. His eyes were intense. He was almost charcoal black. Tough, intelligent, articulate, cordial. Relaxed. He probably had never killed anyone who did not deserve it.

  He looked at me, not the camera. “I’m a youth leader. I’m not a terrorist. I defend my people and our home.”

  He supposed to be a very dangerous man.

  “What about the allegations of terrorism? You took over that oil flow station.”

  "We held it. For a time. To make a point. The people of the Niger Delta have suffered horribly from living amid the source of Nigeria's wealth. Nearly five decades, what do you see? People dying of starvation, hunger, illness. The Community Liaison Officers sent by the oil companies and the managers steal our compensation. When there is a spill, we suffer most.”

  I could not argue with that.

  "There is not one person from this community working for the oil companies. There are people who came back here with degrees in the technology the companies need. They have not employed one person. Not one. They bring in their own workers. We are not their cronies."

  I glanced over at Ade. Sweat glistened on his cheeks. I kept prompting the militant, asking questions, writing down what he said. I was from the Niger Delta. The Government’s plan to develop the Delta had been a disaster. I understood very well what he was talking about. But his approach had solved nothing.