The Diplomat

Chapter Six

The surgeon came highly recommended by a close friend of Nailah. He had agreed to perform the surgery, no questions asked, for fifty thousand dollars. A very steep price, but still half what Justin was willing to pay to save the shooter’s life. Everyone understood they were paying mostly for the surgeon’s silence and discretion rather than just his skills in removing bullets and dressing wounds.

The surgeon’s light blue Volkswagen SUV was parked behind the safe house’s apartment complex, in the dark alley. The SUV was new, but not flashy. Enough for a second glance, but not a drooling stare. Justin liked the man’s common sense and his decision not to draw too much attention to himself and become a target of opportunity. The surgeon’s fee would probably be stashed away in an offshore bank account, in Switzerland or the Cayman Islands.

Justin waited until there was no one in the alley and sent Nailah inside the complex. She was to inform Justin when the halls were clear of all residents. Then he approached the SUV and introduced himself to the surgeon. He was a man in his fifties, with thick, black-framed glasses and a thin salt-and-pepper moustache. Then Justin’s cellphone vibrated with the arrival of a text message from Nailah: It’s safe to come up.

The surgeon’s driver — a heavyset man who Justin suspected doubled as the surgeon’s bodyguard — helped Justin carry the shooter up the flight of stairs. The surgeon followed right behind them with two large briefcases, which Justin assumed contained his surgical instruments.

Justin and the driver laid the shooter on the kitchen table and put a pillow under his head, while the surgeon put on a white lab coat and a procedure mask and began his work. The driver sat just outside the kitchen, blocking the entrance with his large body and keeping a watchful eye on Justin and Nailah.

She went to use the washroom and Justin retreated to his bedroom. He left the door open so he could see if the driver stood up from his chair. Justin checked his phone and found a couple of text messages from Kayo. The first one noted his meeting was going well and he hoped to get the location where the kidnappers were holding Duncan. The message time stamp showed it was sent over an hour ago.

He scrolled down to the next text message. It read: It’s in Makoko. I’ll soon have the exact shack. Justin frowned. Makoko was perhaps the toughest neighborhood in Lagos. A slum on stilts, Makoko was ever-growing and overcrowded, an almost impenetrable maze of makeshift shacks and huts. Any rescue attempt to free Duncan would be noticed before they could get close enough to engage the kidnappers. But perhaps knowing the exact shack location, and the cover of darkness, would provide Justin and his rescue team the small advantage they needed to slither unnoticed into the lion’s den.

Justin was deep in his thoughts when Nailah appeared at the doorway. Despite the exhausting night, she still looked beautiful. “How are things going?” she said.

She kicked off her high-heeled shoes and lay on the right side of his bed, exactly where Justin slept. She crossed her legs and readjusted her skirt.

Justin walked toward her and spoke in a voice just above a whisper, so the driver would not hear his words. “Not very good. We’re getting close to finding Duncan, but it seems he’s held somewhere in Makoko.”

Nailah bit her lip. “That’s a hell of a place.” Her hushed voice carried both her gloom and her anger.

“Yes. I’m not sure how our rescue would work, but we have to give it a shot.”

He sat on the bed next to Nailah.

She reached over and rubbed his arm. “I’ve called a good friend to come and pick me up. Someone I trust with my life.”

Justin nodded. It did not matter if Nailah had given the safe-house location to her friend. The surgeon and his driver were also aware of this apartment, so for all intents and purposes the CIS would have to find another safe house.

Nailah said, “Give me the file with the information on Duncan. I’ll make sure people start pulling up everything we have first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks, Nailah.”

She waved her hand. “Thank me if I find something useful.”

“I’ll be right back.”

He returned after a few moments with his briefcase and handed Nailah the file. She opened it and began to read the first page.

“Would you like some coffee?” Justin asked.

Nailah smiled. “At this hour? It will keep me up all night.”

“All right. I’ll make a pot just for me.”

Justin headed toward the kitchen. The driver stood up and escorted Justin inside. The surgeon was elbows-deep in the shooter’s chest and did not even acknowledge Justin’s presence. He had lined up his tools of the trade on the kitchen counter; he reached for a pair of surgical tweezers and scissors, then he mopped up some excess blood. In the absence of a nurse, the surgeon was forced to do that job as well as his own, which slowed him down.

Justin wanted to ask how the surgery was going and whether the shooter was going to survive, but he knew it would only waste the surgeon’s precious time. If he has something to tell me, he’ll do so.

Justin walked around the surgeon and filled the coffeemaker’s pot with water from the sink. Then he looked out the small window as the coffeemaker’s brewing gurgle filled the kitchen. He saw his own reflection: dark, tired eyes and lots of wrinkles on his frowning brow. He blinked to clear his vision and focused on the images outside the window. A group of young men were smoking and drinking at the corner of the intersection, their cheers and shouts muffled by the thick bulletproof windows of the safe house.

The strong aroma of the fresh coffee invited him but he waited until he heard the last wheeze of the coffeemaker. He filled a cup for himself and another one for the driver, then cast a fleeting glance at the surgeon, who was working with his scalpel. His brow was covered in sweat, but he was still completely absorbed in his operation.

Justin handed one of the cups to the driver — who thanked him with a nod — and returned to the bedroom. Nailah had closed her eyes and was resting against the headboard. She had put Justin’s pillow behind her back for comfort.

He tried to sneak in without making any noise, but one of his shoes squeaked as he took a step. Nailah opened her eyes and gave him a small smile. “Hey, there.” She stretched her neck and shoulders, then sank back into the pillow. “How’s the gunman?”

Justin shrugged. “No idea. Didn’t ask. The surgeon’s still operating.”

“I hope he gets well… at least long enough to tell you what he knows.”

“Yeah, so do I.”

Nailah’s cellphone rang with a classical tune. She answered the phone, said yes and okay, and hung up. “My friend’s downstairs.” She stood up and straightened her skirt. “Sorry, I can’t spend the night,” she added in a mischievous tone. “Perhaps another time?”

Justin shook his head, then smiled. “Good night, Nailah.”

“Good night, Justin. I’ll call you tomorrow as soon as I have something good.”

She came over and gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek. Then she put on her heels.

Justin walked her to the apartment’s door. He kept his eyes on her as she went downstairs and out into the alley. She got into the front passenger seat of a dark blue Jeep, then turned around and waved at Justin. He waved back and went back inside the apartment, locking the door behind him.

Justin wanted to call McClain for a debriefing, but it was going to be very tricky with the driver centering his complete attention on Justin’s every move. It was too risky to discuss sensitive intelligence with McClain even in a hushed voice and behind a closed door. Plus, Justin needed to keep an eye on the driver and avoid any unpleasant surprises. If only Kayo was here. Shouldn’t he be back by now?

Justin checked his phone again, but there were no new text messages. He unlocked the vault — hidden in the bottom drawer of his dresser, behind a fake bottom — and pulled out his laptop. He sat down on his bed and began to review Duncan’s schedule, double-checking to see if he had missed anything of importance in his first analysis. His first scan had focused on things that jumped out from the page; this second read aimed at finding anything that should have been in the schedule, but was not.

He found a Saturday in mid-October when no meetings had been scheduled for Duncan in the morning or the afternoon, but he had a business dinner at 8:00 p.m. in Paris. The name of the restaurant was not in the schedule. Duncan had returned to Zurich for a couple of meetings the next Monday. Whom did you meet in Paris, Duncan? And why isn’t the location in your schedule?

Justin jotted down a note on a yellow notepad of things to discuss with McClain and seek the support of the CIS tech team on. He continued to dig and discovered a similar business dinner two weeks before, then a week before that, then three weeks before. He found the pattern unusual, as if someone were trying to hide his tracks and make these meetings appear irregular. But the meetings always took place in Paris for business dinners, always at 8:00 p.m.; but the location was never posted, at least not in the schedule provided to Justin. And these meetings had ended two weeks before Duncan had arrived in Nigeria on the day of his disappearance.

Justin stood up to stretch his legs and mulled over the possibilities. The obvious one was that Duncan had a lover, someone he was regularly meeting for amorous weekend getaways in Paris under the guise of business meetings. Duncan was married and had three children, but to some men that did not mean much when it came to chasing after a pretty woman’s skirt. Is the woman working with the rebels that lover? Duncan was trying to break things off and she did not take it very well?

His blood was flowing through his brain and he felt he was getting closer to putting the pieces of this puzzle together, but he still felt there was something missing. He did not have all the information. I will have McClain e-mail me details of these Saturday “business meetings.” Someone in Duncan’s staff should know about them. Maybe the finance people, especially if Duncan expensed these trips to his government account.

Satisfied he had achieved a breakthrough, he checked his cellphone. No text messages from Kayo. Justin began to feel a slight eerie sensation that something had gone wrong with Kayo’s mission. I shouldn’t have let him go on his own. But he insisted. Maybe it’s nothing. He’s just trying to get all the intel that he can from his contacts. Yes, that’s it.

Justin returned to his laptop and began to draft a report on the evening’s events. He disliked paperwork, but understood its importance for people at senior levels in the agency. They had to be briefed about field operations, sometimes more than once or twice. And he realized the mistakes of memory, even a strong one like his. Forgetfulness set in and details blurred with the passing of time and the occurrence of new events.

He lost track of time as he became immersed in his report. At some point he began to feel a pulsating headache, which turned into a sharp pain just behind his eyes. He had to stop and take a break. He rubbed his eyes and massaged his forehead as he lay on his bed and stared into space.

“Excuse me.”

The surgeon stood at Justin’s bedroom door and called to him.

“Huh? Oh, yes. How… How did it go?” Justin said as he sprang to his feet.

“I have bad news and good news,” the surgeon said. He turned around and led Justin into the kitchen. The driver was standing to the side by the window, his eyes fixed on Justin.

“Start with the good news,” Justin said as he looked at the shooter. The man looked at peace. The surgeon had put a green hospital gown on him and had covered him with a white sheet. A tube was attached to the shooter’s right arm and an IV bag was placed high on the cupboard. His left arm was connected to a machine that looked like a portable heart monitor set on the counter.

“Bring me a blanket from the car,” the surgeon ordered his driver.

The driver looked at the surgeon and nodded, then glanced at Justin with a questioning look on his face.

“Eh, he’s okay. He’s not going to kill me,” the surgeon said with a smile, although his voice had a hint of nervousness.

Justin followed the driver into the hall and kept his gaze on him until he left the apartment.

“The good news?” he reminded the surgeon when he returned to the kitchen.

“Yes. The bullet spared his lung and his stomach, but it punctured his small intestine. He experienced profuse internal and external bleeding. I extracted the bullet.” The surgeon pointed at a small bowl on the counter. “He was a lucky man, since large-caliber bullets usually leave a huge exit wound, causing severe damage and instant death. In this case, the bullet ricocheted off some other object before striking him.”

Justin nodded, thinking of the gazebo’s wall where the restaurant guards had wounded the shooter.

“I repaired the intestine and the torn skin, cleared fragment of his clothes sucked inside him by the bullet, sutured him. He’s stable for the moment.”

The surgeon moved to the other side of the table and pointed at the shooter’s leg. “The bullet missed the femoral artery, but it destroyed a lot of tissue and fractured the femoral shaft. Another surgery would be necessary to repair the bone.”

Justin nodded. “And the bad news?”

“He could still die at any moment, and the next twelve hours are crucial. He’s lost a lot of blood and he’ll need a few units to replace the loss. Without X-rays, an ultrasound, or CT scan, I can’t tell for sure if there are other wounds or foreign material in him. If he develops an infection and doesn’t get the right treatment, he’ll die.”

“I’m back,” the driver said from the hall.

The surgeon took the blue blanket and threw it over the shooter. “He’ll need to go to a hospital as soon as possible.”

“I know,” Justin said dryly. “When are you coming back?”

The surgeon shrugged. “My understanding was that the operation was a one-time job. Constant care for the patient in these circumstances is difficult, and—”

“How much?” Justin cut him off.

The surgeon waved a dismissive hand at his driver. “I’m almost finished here. Wait for me in the car.”

Smart, Justin thought, no need for the driver to know the surgeon’s fee.

The surgeon waited until they heard the creak of the apartment’s door closing, before saying, “Ten thousand dollars for each visit. I will bring all supplies from the hospital to make sure he—”

“Five thousand.”

The surgeon shook his head. “This is extremely dangerous, you understand…”

“I do. Dangerous for both of us. Five thousand for an hour of your time is pretty good money.”

The surgeon opened his mouth, but thought better of it. He let out a deep sigh, then said, “Only because this is for a friend. Any other person and I would have asked for more.”

Justin nodded. I would have gone up to seven grand if you had only asked.

“Be here at 7:00 a.m. sharp.”

“Yes.”

He walked to the counter and showed Justin a couple of IV packs. “There shouldn’t be a need to replace the IV, but just in case, here you go.”

Justin nodded. “Where can I reach you?”

The surgeon looked around for a pen.

“I’ll bring you one,” Justin said.

A moment later, the surgeon scribbled his phone number on Justin’s yellow pad. “Call me only if there’s a real emergency.”

“Uh-huh, like if he’s dying, does that qualify as an emergency?” Justin asked.

The surgeon rolled his eyes. “I’ve had people wake me up for the most ridiculous reasons.”

“Well, it’s not going to happen this time. Have a good night’s sleep, Doctor.”

The surgeon packed his tools back into his suitcases. Justin offered to help him down the stairs, but the surgeon shrugged off his help. Justin saw him get into the backseat of the Volkswagen SUV, and then the SUV disappeared into the night.

Justin returned to his apartment and secured the door with the deadbolt and the slide bolt. He would have to wake up and let Kayo in, when Kayo returned to the safe house. I probably won’t sleep tonight, he thought as he returned to the kitchen. Not with everything that’s going on. He stared at the shooter for a long moment. The man’s breathing was almost undetectable, and Justin turned his head to the heart monitor.

“Yes, you’re alive, but I’m not sure for how long,” he said in a low voice, followed by a deep sigh. “And I hope all this was worth something.”

He returned to his bedroom and checked his cellphone. No new message. What’s going on, Kayo? Where are you? Justin checked his GPS tracking device. The green dot showed the static position of Kayo’s Mazda outside the address he had given Justin, a run-down house right off the neighborhood of Ebute-Metta in Lagos Mainland. The sedan had not moved since Kayo had arrived there earlier that evening.

Justin tapped a couple of buttons, switching to the view of the other GPS implanted inside Kayo’s cellphone. The location indicated on the screen was a couple of blocks away. Justin suspected it had to be a restaurant or some sort of a bar, where Kayo was entertaining and mining intelligence from his contacts.

Justin felt his eyelids droop, heavy with sleep. He suppressed a yawn and stared at his cellphone. I better call McClain and give him an update. Then, I should make another pot of coffee as I return to Duncan’s files. And I hope Kayo’s party ends soon and he brings back some good intel.