When Dan led me to the oil tanker and gestured for me to climb inside the huge cylinder that would typically house and transport gallons of oil, I did so without question.
When my feet landed on carpet and my gaze landed on Quinn’s straight back, standing in front of a series of screens mounted to the far wall, surrounded by what appeared to be the latest in espionage gadgetry, I barely blinked.
The floor? ceiling, and walls were carpeted—dark blue and granite grey—the extra padding had likely been added to absorb sound and ensure the interior remained at a constant temperature of sixty degrees Fahrenheit. Server racks stood beneath a long counter sitting at hip level, hence the chilly temperature. Computing servers are at peak functionality when they’re kept cool, the temperature of the space alerting me to the reality that this vehicle was capable of substantial computing power, a mobile data processing center.
“How much do you know?” Quinn asked, glancing over his shoulder. He then did a double take, his eyes moving over Dan’s face. “What happened to you?”
“Fiona Archer, if that is her real name.”
Quinn lifted his chin and nodded once. “He pissed you off?”
“Not precisely,” Dan volunteered, walking past us both toward the front of the vehicle. “I made the mistake of grabbing her from behind. She didn’t know it was me, so she defended herself.”
“I’m sorry, Dan. I never would have—” I shook my head, my fingers coming to my forehead. I had a pounding headache.
“Are you all right?”
I felt the weight of Quinn’s gaze, his cool, assessing inspection reminded me of a surveillance drone.
I ignored his question because I wasn’t all right. “Where’s Marie?”
“She’s here.”
“Here?” This was unexpected news. “You mean here here? In the tanker?”
“Yeah. We borrowed this thing from my colleague who is providing our security. He loaned me the driver and armed escort at the front, good guys, anxious to do right. I didn’t want to take a chance and leave Marie back at the hotel.”
“She’s our ace in the hole, our secret weapon,” Dan added, talking around his busted nose.
“Marie is back there, asleep. She was up for over twenty-four hours, working against a deadline for tomorrow’s paper.” Quinn tossed his thumb over his shoulder, indicating a narrow door which must’ve led to an additional room of some sort.
“This thing is like an RV, surveillance van, and bunker all rolled into one.” Dan straightened from where he’d been bent over, bringing a bag of ice to his nose. “And it’s perfect for this country. I’ve seen more oil tankers on the roads here in the last three days than I’ve seen over the course of my life in the States.”
Unable to stem my insatiable panic any longer, I blurted, “Who took Greg? And why? And where is he? And—”
“Okay, I’ll tell you everything.” Quinn held his hands up and crossed to me in three quick strides, likely sensing my impending hysteria. His steadying hands wrapped around my upper arms as I swayed, and he guided me to a seat. “Let me get you some water.”
“Start talking. Please.” My request sounded shaky, but I couldn’t help it. “Please. I need to know what’s going on.”
“Fine.” He took the chair next to mine; both were swivel chairs and had been bolted to the floor. “Greg called Alex early this morning while you were still asleep to check on the status of the hostages.”
“Alex hasn’t been able to locate them. He knows they’re in Lagos, someplace, but he can’t pinpoint where.” Dan settled on the counter behind him.
“Your buddy at the CIA, Banks?”
I stiffened. “Spenser Banks, yes. What about him?”
“He’s down here at the US consulate in Lagos. Did you hear about the articles Marie has been writing?”
“Alex filled us in yesterday, or was it the day before . . . ?” The days were blurring together.
“They’ve been effective, putting pressure on the right people to act. Marie has been interviewing the families of the other hostages as well, putting images of their children next to photographs of desolated villages here, ruined by Big Oil.”
“Nautical Oil doesn’t like the press,” Dan added, chuckling lightly. “Oil is money, and money makes all the difference.”
“So Buhari’s new government asked the UK and the US to step in and assist with the hostage situation. Nigeria’s relationship with Nautical Oil has been strained for years due to the government corruption and ecological damage done by the oil companies. Buhari is trying to change that, clean up their image, clean up Nigeria, forge a new partnership.”
“This all happened since we last spoke to Alex?” I asked, incredulous.
“Nautical Oil’s shares have dropped every day since Marie ran her first article.” Dan removed the ice and touched the bridge of his nose gingerly. “Loud, angry shareholders and bad press is a language they speak.”
This was all fascinating, but it still didn’t address my main question. “So, where is Greg?”