An African Affair (19 page)

Oh my God—Maureen.

She leaped out of the car and ran toward the house. The explosion must have just occurred, because no police were on the scene and she was able to move through the crowds of onlookers into the shell of what had been the hallway.

Smoke and dust were everywhere, making it hard to breathe, let alone see. She heard a low moan and tried to follow the sound. As she searched, the moaning stopped, and she couldn’t locate where it had come from. The smoke burned her eyes and she nearly stumbled over a body splayed on the ground, arms akimbo, chest crushed. She bent down and then quickly averted her gaze to keep from being sick. It was a man. His clothes were burned and torn and his body charred. Next to him, she saw a severed leg, its scuffed black shoe still laced on its foot.

She had to find Maureen. She carefully edged her way further inside, holding a handkerchief to her mouth. Suddenly, someone grabbed her arm from behind. The police had arrived.

“Step outside.”

Lindsay turned around.

“Please. My friend is in there. I have to find her.”

The policeman released her arm and spoke with surprising kindness.

“We’ll find her, madam.” He put his hand on her elbow to lead her away. “But you can’t be in the building. It isn’t safe.”

“She’s the AP reporter. She was here for the Fakai press conference.”

“We’ll look,” he said, ushering her onto the street.

Now there were dozens of people in front of the house. An ambulance pulled up as the police were forcing the crowd back. Lindsay stood there, the only reporter on the scene.

Olumide, she thought. He knew Fakai and most of his top people would be here. He planned this bomb to eliminate Fakai and his party. What was it to him that he killed all the foreign correspondents? He would just claim it was the work of a terrorist group. She felt a rising panic, thinking of her other friends and colleagues. Could anyone have survived this blast? Maybe Maureen hadn’t been inside. Maybe she had saved the seats and then waited outside for Lindsay. Please, please God, let Maureen be alive.

Maybe the bomb had gone off early. If that had happened, Maureen wouldn’t have waited for Lindsay to arrive—she would already be back at the AP office filing her story.

Automatically, she pulled out her notebook and began recording the scene: “bomb blast shattered building; bricks, mortar everywhere. Bodies litter blown-out hallway. Severed leg.”

She stopped, unable to continue. She approached one of the policemen, her notebook out, and asked if the room had been full and if Fakai had begun to speak. But he didn’t seem to know anything.

Dazed, she decided to leave, and asked John to drive her to the AP office. After a minute she saw that all the roads were blocked by army tanks. It looked as if everyone in Lagos was on the street. The road to Reuters was clearer, and she told him to turn in there. She arrived at the same time as Mike Vale. Thank God he was all right.

They fell into each other’s arms.

“Did you see Maureen?” she asked.

“No. But I think she’s okay. The bomb went off early. Most of us hadn’t arrived, but Fakai was there with his team.”

Lindsay found the Reuters phone was working and tried calling the AP office, but the line was busy. She tried the American embassy. When she finally reached Dave Goren, she knew more than he did. She got back in her car and once again tried to get to the AP office.

She inched along, stuck in the infernal traffic, but the tanks no longer blocked the streets. The heat baked the car and perspiration dripped down her face. She turned on the car radio; there was nothing but static. All Lindsay could think of was getting there and finding Maureen.

The AP office was in chaos. Lindsay looked around desperately. At the back of the room was Maureen’s young assistant, a Yoruba woman who had studied in London. She was weeping inconsolably. Lindsay rushed over.

“There was just a news bulletin,” the girl gasped between sobs. “They said there were four dead . . . Maureen was one of them.”

Afterward, when Lindsay tried to remember what had happened in the hours after she learned of Maureen’s death, it was a jumble of chaotic images. She must have gotten home somehow because she remembered lying in her bed and weeping. James must have come over because she could call up a picture of him holding her. He had seemed as upset as she was. Who was responsible? he kept asking. Who could have done this?

Eventually, Lindsay had to stop crying and make plans. First, she braced herself and called Maureen’s husband, Mark, who had already been notified by AP and whose voice sounded hoarse and barely audible. He didn’t mention the pregnancy—maybe he couldn’t bear to deal with both losses at the same time—and Lindsay didn’t bring it up. James sat next to her, his hand on her back to steady her. He took the phone from her when she couldn’t go on, adding a few useless words of comfort of his own and asking about the funeral. Mark said it depended on how long it would take for them to transport Maureen’s remains. Then he broke down, said he would get back to them. Lindsay knew she should call Maureen’s parents next.

First, she poured herself a stiff drink. A neighbor answered and said apologetically that Maureen’s parents were too distraught to come to the phone. Relieved, Lindsay left a message of condolence, saying she would try again. She hoped that they didn’t know about the pregnancy, that they wouldn’t have to mourn the loss of their grandchild as well as their daughter.

The phone rang as soon as she hung up. Joe Rainey sounded harried and upset. The story was already on the wires, and he expressed his sympathy for Maureen’s death. After a pause, he asked, “I know this is hard, kid, but when do you think you’ll file?”

Lindsay closed her eyes.

“Soon,” she said. “I was on the scene minutes after the bomb went off. Give me an hour.”

“Good girl.”

She hung up and turned to James.

“Should I go?” he asked.

“I don’t want you to, but maybe you should. I have to file.”

“I know.”

“Maybe you could come back later.”

“Of course.” He reached out to embrace her. She folded herself into his arms, resting there a moment. Then she pulled away and began to write.

By the time she finished and dictated it to the recording room, the power had gone out. She sat in the growing darkness as Martin walked around silently lighting candles. He looked like he too had been crying.

“I am so sorry, madam,” he said gently. “Please, can you eat something? Maybe some soup?”

“No, thank you, Martin. I’m not hungry.”

“I know. But it will help you to have something. Maybe some tea and a biscuit? Please?”

She sighed and accepted, more for him than for herself. After he served her, she sat alone in the flickering candlelight thinking about Maureen, leaving the tea and biscuit untouched. When James returned later, he insisted she lie down, and he lay beside her. She couldn’t sleep and finally took a sleeping pill, falling into a deep, dreamless slumber.

She awoke late and groggy. Lying in bed, she struggled to consciousness. For a minute, she didn’t remember what had happened. Then the dreadful memory swept over her. She turned toward James, but he had gone. When she went downstairs, Martin was already in the kitchen and he poured her a cup of coffee.

“Mr. James say he will be back later,” Martin said. “Please, madam, this morning you must eat.” She wanted to hear the BBC broadcast to see how they treated the bombing, but when she looked at the clock she was shocked to discover it was already 9:30—too late for the early broadcast and too early for the next one. She was pouring herself a second cup of coffee when she heard a knock at the door. She motioned to Martin that she didn’t want to see anyone. Martin opened the door and there was a small commotion before Vickie pushed her way past him and barged into the kitchen.

“Lindsay, I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to see anyone right now, but we’ve got to talk.”

Lindsay was actually glad to see her. Vickie’s straightforward personality was just the distraction she needed.

“Sit down, Vickie. Have a cup of coffee.”

Instead, Vickie pulled Lindsay out of her chair and hugged her.

“First things first,” she said. Then she released her, looked around for a clean cup and poured herself some coffee.

“Have you eaten?”

“No. I’m not hungry.”

Vickie turned to Martin.

“What does she usually eat for breakfast?”

“She eats eggs and toast.”

“Well, bring her some toast and jam, please.”

Relieved, Martin moved quickly to prepare it.

It felt good to be taken care of, and when the toast was ready, Lindsay nibbled it obediently.

“The government is moving faster than I’ve ever seen it. They’re sending Maureen’s body back today. The funeral will probably be in a few days in London.”

“Thanks for telling me,” Lindsay said. “Of course, I’ll be there.”

“Actually, you can’t go,” Vickie said.

Lindsay looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Lindsay, if you leave the country, they’ll never let you back in. They don’t want the bad publicity of throwing you out, but they’ll never renew your visa. Not now.”

“Then I guess this country will just have to self-destruct without me. I have to be at Maureen’s funeral. My priorities aren’t so screwed up that I don’t know that.”

Vickie paused.

“We need your help. What’s more important, going to Maureen’s funeral or helping us discover who killed her? Sympathy isn’t enough. This is a time for revenge.”

That stopped Lindsay short. “What could I do that you couldn’t do without me?”

“You are the one person with contacts both in the journalistic community and in The Next Step.”

Lindsay considered this. “Do you have any idea who was behind the blast?”

“I need to know if you will stay and work with us before I can fill you in.”

“I’m still a journalist, Vickie.”

“I know, but you’d have to agree that anything I tell you is off the record until I give you the go-ahead.”

Lindsay shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

“Maybe this is the moment to decide whether or not your priorities are screwed up. You have a chance to help us find and punish the people who killed your best friend.”

“It’s against every principle of my profession.”

Vickie’s voice softened. “What would Maureen want you to do?”

“Maureen would want me to throw you out. She’d want me to cover the hell out of this story without you. But I’m not Maureen. I want revenge. I need to have time to think.”

“How much time?”

“I don’t know. My impulse is to refuse. How can I miss Maureen’s funeral? What would I say to Mark or to her parents?”

“We could work all that out.”

“It’s not that easy. And you’re asking me to trust you, but you haven’t shown that you trust me. Tell me, off the record, what you know. I’ll tell you my decision later.” She pulled out her notebook. “Do you believe this was engineered by Olumide?”

Vickie seemed to consider her answer. Then she got up and closed the kitchen door.

“Some of us did think that—especially the ambassador and Dave Goren . . . but most of us disagree. Killing Fakai isn’t in Olumide’s interest; it creates a martyr. We think it was someone who wants to provoke a movement against Olumide. They’d expect Olumide will be brutal putting down protests. He certainly stopped the riots after Bayo’s death. To tell you the truth, we’re puzzled about who the instigator is. We’ve been poring over diagrams of the bomb site and the early lab reports on the materials used and they all point to Solutions, Incorporated. But we don’t know who hired them or who their point man is here.”

“But why kill Maureen? Why target the press?”

“Exactly. That doesn’t make sense. They would want the press to cover the event. We think the bomb went off early. They probably just wanted to kill Fakai and his people and timed the bomb to go off just as the press was arriving. That way, they would all write about the blast. Maureen was collateral damage.”

Lindsay blanched. If only she had persuaded Maureen to wait for her, Maureen would still be alive.

“Come back in an hour, Vickie. I’ll have an answer for you.”

After a while, she picked up the phone and called Mark. His voice was still shaky, but he sounded glad to hear from her. They talked for a few minutes before Lindsay broached the reason for her call.

“Mark, I need to ask you something. I can’t say too much because you never know who might be listening, but I’m told that if I leave Lagos, I won’t get back in, and I want to find the people responsible for Maureen’s death. But if I stay, I won’t be able to get to the funeral.”

“Are you asking me what you should do?”

“Yes. This time I am.”

Mark didn’t speak for what felt like a long time.

“Stay there, Lindsay. Nail the bastards. And then get the hell out of there and come see me.”

As soon as he said it, she knew it was the answer she wanted.

“Will you explain to Maureen’s parents?”

“Yes. Don’t worry. But be careful.”

“I will. Thanks. I’ll be in touch soon.”

By the time Vickie returned, Lindsay had worked out a compromise on her role as a journalist with ties to the CIA.

“I’ll do this much,” she announced. “I’ll promise to hold back on writing anything you tell me for the time being. I’m not filing from here anyway, and I don’t expect to write anything until I leave the country. But then, I’ll write what I want. I’m not one of your agents, and I won’t follow orders. But I will share what I find on my own with you. You’ll have to trust me.”

“What about Mark, and Maureen’s family?”

“I’ve taken care of that.”

“So we have an understanding. And I don’t need to tell you that this arrangement has to be entirely secret, do I? You can’t confide in anyone.”