The Diplomat

Chapter Seven

Justin opened his right eye and glanced at the alarm clock on his nightstand. Its digits showed 05:05. He must have dozed off for about ten minutes. He jumped from his bed and rushed to the kitchen. The shooter was lying in exactly the same place and in the same position as when he had last checked on him fifteen minutes ago.

He heaved a sigh of relief. He was expecting the shooter to make a gradual and slow recovery, not be able to get up and sneak up on him in less than eight hours from the complicated surgery. I’m getting to be quite paranoid, he thought. I guess better paranoid than dead.

Justin yawned and stretched his arms and his neck. He wanted to go out for a long run, perhaps seven or ten miles. But it was not a good idea in Lagos at this time of day and especially in his particular situation, with the wounded shooter in the kitchen and Kayo still not back from his mission. Justin sighed and returned to his bedroom. He would have to be satisfied with just a home workout.

He took his pull-up bar from underneath his bed and installed it quickly over the bathroom’s doorframe. He stretched for a few minutes and began his workout with classic chin-ups, then switched to front grabs. Then he pushed the bed to the side and got down on the floor for a few sets of push-ups. He returned to the pull-up bar for another set, then back to the floor for more push-ups.

He repeated the routines until his gray t-shirt was soaking wet. His muscles were screaming at him to take a break, but he decided to go for another five minutes. He set the pull-up bar on the ground. He began a set of sit-ups, paused for a few moments in between, repeated the same routine a few more times, and slowly ended his workout with static stretches until his breathing returned to normal.

Justin put away his pull-up bar and removed his shirt. Then he walked to the kitchen. The shooter was lying still, with no visible signs of improvement. Justin found a water bottle in the refrigerator and took a few slow sips. I don’t think you’ll go anywhere while I take a shower.

He used as little water as possible in order to minimize his shower noises, as the old pipes screeched if he turned the water to full pressure. He also left the bathroom door wide open so he could hear the footsteps if the shooter somehow miraculously made his way down the hall.

Justin was almost finished with his rinse when the doorbell rang. One long ring, followed by two short rings, and another long ring. Carrie’s signal.

He stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around himself. His feet left water marks on the gray tiled floor of the hall.

“Who’s there?” he asked in a low voice as he neared the door.

“It’s me,” Carrie replied. “You forgot our signal?”

Justin opened the door. “No, just double-checking.”

“Wow, quite the welcome.” Carrie pointed at his bare chest and dripping-wet hair as she stepped inside. Her auburn hair was tied in a ponytail and she was in a cream-colored shirt and khaki pants. She carried a large tan knapsack in her left hand.

“Caught me as I was getting out.” Justin closed the door behind her. “How’re you doing?”

“All right.”

“Hey, what’s that?”

He noticed the end of a bandage peeking out of the top of Carrie’s shirt. “You’re wounded. What happened?”

Carrie gave him a tired look. Sadness was clear in her gray-blue eyes. “CAR is a hellhole, Justin. Lynching, cannibalism, mob violence, and the greatest brutalities that come to your mind. People claiming to be Christians and Muslims are at each other’s throats worse than barbarians in the Middle Ages. The peacekeepers still don’t have a handle on the situation and innocent lives are lost day after day.”

She sighed before continuing. “I was trying to save a young girl from a violent mob as people attacked her just under our eyes, outside our car. Three men grabbed me and made the mistake of thinking they could rape me. I took one of their machetes and made sure they’ll never touch another human being with their hands.”

“I’m sorry,” Justin said. “Should have killed the bastards.”

He wished he had been there for her and with her. He would never have let something like that happen on his watch.

Carrie shrugged. “It will heal in a few days. Go finish up while I make myself at home. You have anything for breakfast?”

“Eggs, milk, and cheese in the fridge. And there’s someone on the table,” Justin said as he returned to the bathroom.

“Oh, yeah. McClain told me about him. Has he woken up yet?”

“No.”

“We’ll wake him up after breakfast. Have you eaten yet?”

“No, I haven’t,” Justin said.

“Okay, I’ll make us French toast.”

Justin brought Carrie up to speed on the situation on the ground over breakfast. Then they signed onto the CIS server to check for any updates. McClain had found new intelligence about Duncan’s weekends in Paris. According to his expense claims, his business dinners had taken place at La Tour d’Argent, an extravagant restaurant in the Latin Quarter with spectacular views of the Seine. Duncan had wined and dined like a king, with foie gras and “Marco Polo” duckling. No alcohol receipts were submitted with his claims, since alcohol was not reimbursable, but Duncan’s dinner receipt was for two.

“Are you convinced Duncan’s mysterious guest is our woman?” Justin said as he reached for his coffee cup on the nightstand.

“It looks that way,” Carrie said. “Duncan’s hotel is on the other side of town. Paris is full of restaurants, and he didn’t have to drive twenty minutes to find a place serving foie gras.”

Justin smiled. “I’m sure the chef at La Tour d’Argent would disagree with your assessment, but you’re right: Duncan didn’t go to this place for the food. He went there to entertain.”

“Someone at Duncan’s hotel would be able to tell us if they saw him bring a woman into his room, but he’s probably too smart for that. He must have stayed at the woman’s hotel, which I’m willing to bet is a short walking distance from La Tour.”

“I’m not taking that bet.”

A quiet knock came from the door, then a man’s voice said, “Good morning. It’s me.”

“The surgeon,” Justin said. “He’s early,” he added after checking his wristwatch.

Justin opened the door. The surgeon was dressed in a suit and a tie despite the warm, humid weather that was promising it was going to be a sizzling hot day. Behind him, the driver fixed Justin with a distrustful glare.

“Do you need him inside?” Justin asked the surgeon and gestured toward the driver.

“Hmmm, no. Stay here,” the surgeon ordered his driver.

The driver frowned but obeyed his order without a word.

Justin locked the door after the surgeon entered the apartment.

“How is he?” the surgeon asked while they were still in the hall.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?” Justin replied.

The surgeon shook his head. “I mean, did he have any complications during the night? Did he wake up?”

“No and no. I hope you’ll be able to wake him up.”

The surgeon nodded. “We’ll see.”

They stepped inside the kitchen. Carrie was standing by the window, looking at the shooter. The surgeon exchanged a quick glance with Carrie, then began to check on his patient.

“He needs to get well enough to answer my questions,” Justin said to the surgeon. “Make it happen.”

The surgeon looked up at Justin. “I’m not a miracle worker.”

“Right. Nailah said you are the best, and I know you’re doing all you can. Thank you, Doctor.”

The surgeon’s face warmed up. He nodded and returned his attention to the patient.

“Carrot and stick approach, Justin?” Carrie whispered with a smile after they closed Justin’s bedroom door.

Justin shrugged. “Better than good cop, bad cop. I don’t like having him drag his feet. He has five thousand reasons for another visit and one more after that — oh, and perhaps one or two more sessions the next day.”

Carrie sat on the bed and rested her head against the wall. “When are we updating McClain?”

“After we talk to the shooter. And Kayo. Who should have been back by now.”

Justin reached for his cellphone. “No new messages from Kayo,” he said with a frown after studying the screen.

“Is he still at his friends’ house?”

“That’s what the GPS tracker is telling me, but that only shows the location of his phone. If Kayo left his phone behind, he could be anywhere in Lagos or in the world.”

“But he wouldn’t do that — well, unless someone forced him.”

Justin shrugged. “He said he was meeting friends, but we know they were not the trusting type. Kayo said their lives ‘took different turns,’ without specifying what they were, but he left no doubt they were up to no good.”

His cellphone vibrated, then began to ring. Justin glanced at the screen, but did not recognize the local number starting with 0806. “Yes, who is this?” he answered. He listened for a moment, then said, “Oh, yes, Commissioner, yes, that’s me. How are you doing, sir?”

Justin glanced at Carrie, who was paying close attention to his side of the conversation. He said, “Things are okay, thanks for asking. No, I haven’t.” Another short pause as he paced around the bedroom. Then his forehead wrinkled and he felt his face darkening with anger and grief. “He’s dead. Where did they find him?”

Carrie jumped to her feet and came near him. Justin mouthed the word “Kayo” and Carrie nodded, offering him a warm look full of sympathy. She had probably already figured out it was about Kayo even before Justin said the name.

“Thanks for letting me know, Commissioner. Yes, you too,” he said, and held the cellphone in his hand, feeling its weight. “Someone found Kayo’s body behind a garbage can earlier this morning. It seems he was killed late last night. Four blocks away from the house of his friends.” He stressed the word “friends” more than necessary, his wrath evident in his angry tone.

Carrie placed her hands on Justin’s arms and patted him softly. Her eyes met his and she gave him a little shrug. “Justin, try not to blame yourself. This was not your fault.”

“I know, and I’m not blaming anyone,” he said in a low voice. “Kayo knew what he was getting into. Talking to those killers was his idea, and he outright refused my help. I didn’t want him to go alone.”

Carrie cocked her head to the left. “Oh, I get it now. You’re upset because—”

“Because I didn’t trust him and I planted those trackers to see if he was telling the truth. And now… now we find out the man died for this mission.”

He sighed and shook his head.

Carrie reached over and embraced him, holding him tight for a few moments. She whispered, “We’re gonna get them, Justin, and make them pay for what they did to Kayo.”

“Yes, they’ll pay for that.”

“Do you think this place is still safe?” Carrie said.

“Yes. If Kayo had given up this location, whoever killed him would have already come with guns blazing. But we shouldn’t stay here a moment longer than necessary.”

A knock on their bedroom door compelled them to break their embrace.

“Yes,” Justin said, and opened the door. “How is he?”

“He’s awake,” the surgeon said.

“Good, now he can talk.” Justin stormed out of the bedroom.

“I’m not really finished with him.” The surgeon rushed behind Justin.

“Well, you’ll have to wait. If he tells me what I want to know, this will only take a minute. If he refuses, he’ll need a lot more of your services,” Justin replied.

The shooter’s eyes were open and his breathing seemed to be normal. Justin stood to the right side of the table, next to the shooter’s face. He asked the surgeon, “Can he talk?”

The surgeon nodded. “Yes, but he’s still under a lot of—”

“Where’s the hostage?” Justin asked the shooter.

The shooter gave Justin a look overflowing with hate and disgust. He opened his mouth but no words came out. He tried again, this time lifting his head from the pillow. “I will… I will never tell you.” He mumbled the words with a groan.

“Wrong answer.” Justin grabbed the shooter’s neck with his left hand and rested his thumb over the shooter’s throat. “Think again before you are in a lot of pain.”

The surgeon said, “Hey, what are you—”

“Stay the hell out of this,” Justin shouted at him and kept his gaze glued to the shooter’s face. “Let’s try this again,” he said to the shooter. “Talk!”

The shooter winced as he tried to inch his head away, but Justin’s grasp held his neck in place. The shooter started to wheeze and rasp as Justin began to press down hard with his thumb. The shooter’s rasp turned to a cough, and saliva began to drip from the corners of his mouth. He tried to take a breath, but Justin’s hand had blocked his windpipe.

“You’re going to choke him,” cried the surgeon.

“Then he better talk. Talk, you bastard!”

The shooter closed his eyes and struggled with his breathing. His head twitched almost involuntarily.

“Justin,” Carrie said in a soft but warning tone.

Justin eased his fingers and drew back his hand. The shooter coughed again, harder and louder, and opened his eyes. They were dull and almost lifeless, but he still drew breath.

“You’re doing it wrong, Justin,” Carrie said. “How can he talk if you’re grabbing him by the throat?” She gave him a small smile, the left side of her lip curling up.

Justin realized Carrie had a plan, so he let her run with it. “Fine,” he said. He took a step away from the shooter, then said in low voice, “I’m sorry. I lost my temper.”

“Yes, you can’t be objective. And this interrogation requires more finesse. You can’t go at it barehanded.”

She nodded toward the surgeon’s suitcase on the kitchen counter. “You need the right tool. Something small, but sharp. Like a scalpel.”

The surgeon shook his head and tried to stop her, but Justin grabbed his arm. Carrie crossed the short distance between her and the suitcase. She said, “You see, it doesn’t take a lot of strength to get a man to do what you want. It just takes a bit of skill and a little persistence.”

She picked up a surgical blade, still in its package and ripped it open. Then she attached the blade to the top of a surgical knife handle, forming a scalpel. She walked around the table and stood over the shooter’s head, across from Justin.

“You will answer my questions, with or without pain. I’ll let you make the choice.”

The shooter still was breathing with difficulty. Drops of saliva had trickled down his neck. He stared at Carrie and his eyes showed no fear, but pure rage.

“I will… not be defeated by a woman, an oyinbo.” The shooter gasped out his words.

Carrie remained calm. “That’s what three men called me in the Central African Republic before they tried to assault me. They called me white person, oyinbo, in the same insulting tone. I think they were Nigerians too. I took one of their machetes and chopped off their hands. Just like that.”

She waved her scalpel in the air in a swift upward movement, very close to the shooter’s face.

He recoiled instinctively but there was nowhere to hide. He tried to turn his head to the side, but stopped as Carrie dropped her scalpel a hair’s breadth away from his nose.

“That machete was rusty and the blade very dull. Cutting flesh and bones is harder than most people imagine it to be. But this blade is brand new and so very sharp.” Carrie pressed the unsharpened back edge of the blade hard into the shooter’s left cheek, right under his blinking eye.

The shooter turned his head as far left as he could. He tried to raise his shoulders and his arms but he was still very weak. His attempt did not push Carrie away.

“No, no, don’t move or you’re going to cut yourself,” Carrie said slowly, her voice feigning concern.

She turned the scalpel without warning and cut down hard and fast. The curved edge of the blade sliced the shooter’s cheek, leaving a two-inch gash. Blood began to ooze out of the fresh wound.

The shooter screamed.

“I can’t… I can’t watch this,” the surgeon said.

“Then look away,” Justin said over the shooter’s agony.

“See what happened?” Carrie said, moving her scalpel to the shooter’s other cheek. “You don’t listen and bad things happen. Now reconsider your reply.”

The shooter screamed again.

Carrie shook her head. “Wrong answer.”

She ran the edge of the blade along the shooter’s other cheek, making another small surface slash. More blood trickled down the shooter’s face and more screams filled the kitchen.

“Make her stop it,” the surgeon said. “Someone will hear him.”

“Nobody will,” Justin said.

He did not have to explain the other two apartments were vacant. Even if someone heard the screams they would not necessarily call the police.

“You and your friends have stolen something that belongs to us.” Carrie pointed to herself and then to Justin. “What is the punishment for theft in your law?”

The shooter shut his eyes, then opened them again. Fear had slowly started to creep in as he understood the severity of his situation.

“It’s amputation of your hand. So, tell me, which hand should I cut: the left or the right?”

She paused, looked at Justin, then at the shooter, and said, “Maybe I’ll cut them both. I’ll start with the right.”

She held the shooter’s hand at his wrist.

“No… ah, please, no,” the shooter pleaded.

“She’s not serious, is she?” the surgeon asked.

“Justin, get him out of here,” Carrie said.

“Let’s go,” Justin said.

“No, please, don’t…” the shooter shouted.

“Tell me where he is and you can put an end to all of your misery.”

Justin ushered the surgeon into the hall and pulled the kitchen door shut behind him. A series of muffled screams came from the shooter.

“She will kill him. This is murder. I want no part of this.” The surgeon blurted out his words in a stressed tone. His face was distorted and his forehead was covered in sweat. His hands were trembling.

“Relax. She’s a trained investigator, and he’s of no use to us if he dies. She’s just scaring him into giving up the intel. Putting him under a lot of pressure until her reaches the breaking point.”

“But she’s carving him up like a lamb. This is not intimidation. This is torture.”

“Far from it. He already admitted to knowing where the hostage is but claimed he’s never going to tell us. She’s just proving him wrong. And what would you do if he had kidnapped your daughter?”

He let his words hang in the tense air.

The surgeon flinched as if Justin’s question was a slap across his face. He sighed and nodded. “I would do anything to get her back,” he said in a hesitant voice.

“And she’s making you extra money. You’ll have to come again and patch him up. One, maybe two more visits.”

The surgeon shook his head and clamped his jaw shut. He was probably cursing the moment he decided to accept Nailah’s proposal. But fifty thousand dollars had been an irresistible temptation.

Justin’s phone ringtone echoed from his bedroom. “Stay here,” he told the surgeon.

The surgeon shrugged and placed his back against one of the walls.

Justin picked up his phone. Nailah’s phone number appeared on the screen. “Nailah, how are you?”

“Well, very well. How are things going, Justin?”

A bone-chilling cry rang out from the kitchen. He sighed and covered the cellphone with his hand, trying to muffle the sound. A moment later, after the scream died, he said, “Not very good. The gunman isn’t talking and one of my partners was killed last night.”

“Oh, very sorry to hear that, Justin.”

He sighed, then said, “Did you find anything?”

“Yes, that’s why I called. I have the reports of those meetings where NNPC representatives met with Duncan. What is your e-mail?”

Justin gave it to her.

“Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks, Nailah.”

“It’s the least I can do. You saved my life.”

They said their goodbyes and Justin sat down by his laptop. He clicked the refresh button on his Internet browser, but the files had not yet arrived in his inbox. He tried another time, but still nothing.

Out in the hall, the surgeon looked very nervous but did not speak a word to Justin. No screaming came from the kitchen but low, inaudible words as Carrie talked in a low voice to the shooter.

“See, he’s already giving up his secrets,” Justin said.

“Yes, and I wonder how many cuts she made.”

“That’s why you’re here, to stitch him up, Doctor.”

The surgeon began to voice his objection but at the same moment Carrie opened the kitchen door. Drops of blood had spattered her arms. She was still holding the scalpel in her right hand. “We’ve got the location,” she said, “and he gave us the identity of the woman.”