Nearer to the road were food vendors and men pushing wheelbarrows loaded with fruit or flour bags, and every square foot of space in between was flooded with a visually impenetrable swarm of people in flashy, colorful clothes.
“Huh,” Reilly said to Tolu, “they’re all dressed as obnoxiously as you are. It’s like a gay pride parade out there.”
Whether the driver didn’t hear him or chose to ignore the observation, he proudly continued, “These my people, Yoruba people. We ain’t all lame like the stiffs in Abuja. In Lagos we do it right, have the best owambe—the best parties—in all of Africa. You want me to take you to one?”
Ian responded matter-of-factly, “Tolu, we’d definitely like to owambe. But we’ve got a lot to do tonight.”
“Yeah,” Reilly added, “you know, invade a port facility and probably get captured and tortured by former Spetsnaz mercenaries. Our schedule is packed.”
Then David said abruptly, “Shit, get ready—we’ve got cops coming up on our six.”
Reilly angled his view to take in the passenger mirror, seeing that traffic was indeed parting to allow a black SUV with a flashing red lightbar gleaming from its roof to pass.
“No cops,” Tolu said, pulling to the side of the road. “These are the rich in Lagos.”
The SUV was followed in short order by a Mercedes G-Wagon, Rolls-Royce, Porsche 911, and finally a black sedan equipped with a sparkling light bar that would pass for a police car in the States. After the procession passed, the vehicle and human traffic immediately reconverged on the road as if nothing had happened.
Ian asked incredulously, “They use sirens just to get through traffic?”
“Like Moses parting the Red Sea,” Tolu said with more admiration than judgment, then added, “probably rappers. Although the real real rich”—he craned his neck to look at the sky beyond the windshield—“use those.”
He pointed to a helicopter crossing overhead, its rotor blades forming a blurred disc against the sunlight as it vanished behind buildings on the far end of the street.
Tolu clearly loved his hometown, Reilly thought—and how could you not? Aside from the crawling traffic flow, widespread poverty, and financial elite treading across the poor while impersonating law enforcement, it was a veritable paradise.
Tolu nodded to himself. “And I cannot let you boys leave Nigeria without trying some palm wine—”
David asked, “Anyone here but Ian look like they drink wine?”
“I danno say wine, I say palm wine. Completely different, you will see.”
“Right,” Reilly said, lying back down to situate himself on the van floor. “I’m going back to sleep.”
27
Worthy hauled his gear bag down the hallway, following his team toward an open doorway. Then he came to a halt, taking in the view with the absurd sense that of all the places he’d hung his hat in global travels, this may have been the most ridiculous.
The central feature of the apartment’s living room was a comically oversized bar cart, brimming with bottles and a decanter set. It was positioned in a way that led Worthy to believe it was the first stop for the returning occupant, placed on a direct trajectory to a faux leather couch in front of an enormous flat-screen TV surrounded by speakers. He barely noticed the kitchen in the corner; his attention was distracted by the posters that covered the walls like something out of an inner-city high schooler’s fantasy: gaudy images of rappers and their album covers, the lone standout a movie poster for Scarface.
He said, “So this is the view that makes these poor Lagos girls turn and run the other way.”
Tolu laughed loudly, tossing his bag on the couch before turning to extend his arms up and out.
“To the contrary—your old friend Tolu does quite well with the ladies.”
Worthy slipped inside and set his gear bag next to the others, as Tolu continued, “My shit is your shit. Make yourselves at home, have a drink.”
David didn’t take much convincing, descending on the bar cart and examining the bottles with such eagerness that Worthy half-expected the team leader to knock back a cocktail on the spot. Instead he nodded with approval, replying without diverting his eyes from the liquor supply.
“When we get back, maybe.” Then he turned to face Tolu. “And thanks for letting us stay here.”
Cancer was less amicable, his gaze shifting across the rap posters with a look of disdain.
“I notice you forgot to include Biggie Smalls.”
Tolu folded his arms unapologetically. “No wall space left.”
Appearances aside, the next thing to strike Worthy was the noise—Tolu had said that Lagos was the New York City of the African continent, and that was true if the chief basis of comparison was constant racket from the street. The third-floor apartment may as well have been on ground level, with every car honk and siren piercing the thin walls. Worthy would have to sleep with earplugs here, if he slept at all.
For the team, these living accommodations were about as suboptimal as they could be.
It wasn’t that the Agency didn’t have safehouses in the coastal city—according to Duchess, three existed between Lagos and the surrounding area. But with the influx of American personnel sent to Nigeria to search for the remaining hostages, the safehouses were each filled to varying capacities with people from the intelligence community. And while the space technically remained to accommodate Worthy’s team at one safehouse or another, the problem with being part of a highly compartmentalized targeted killing program was that cohabitation was, more or less, completely forbidden. Since the sudden occupation of multiple hotel rooms by five white men would test their cover story as investigative journalists to the max, the team had settled for the most discreet option remaining: their local asset’s personal residence. And to Tolu’s credit, he’d been all too eager to host them.
Reilly moved to the kitchen as Ian set off to scout the apartment with a compass, searching for a window where he could establish an encrypted satellite link. Worthy had expected the intelligence operative to be more apprehensive about the coming mission than any of them; instead, Ian sounded almost giddy as he reappeared and pointed to a doorway.
“Found a perfect shot—I’ll set up in here.”
Tolu threw up his hands. “My bedroom? Any other room, no wahala. But you cannot take a man’s—”
“It’s the only good angle,” Ian said apologetically. “Nothing I can do.”
How Ian was so at ease with the current situation, Worthy wasn’t sure. Usually it was the team who circumvented official authorities. This time Duchess was fully complicit, not only supporting the effort but moving the team around Nigeria like pawns on a chessboard. That was fine by Worthy, of course—he hadn’t signed up for this outfit because he wanted the nine-to-five. But the possibility of himself or his teammates getting captured or killed was very real on every mission, and Worthy took issue with assuming those risks on an increasingly vague and half-formed chain of intelligence and assumptions. Which summed up the team’s experience in Nigeria thus far.