I looked at the floor and back at him again, trying to keep it together. “Sir, the man I’m chasing is a mass murderer. He may have government ties here. He’s definitely involved with the police in some mysterious way. If I could just have a chance to reach my CIA contact in Lagos—”
He cut me off. “What exactly do you think your authority is, Mr. Cross? You’re a visitor in this country, nothing more than that. You can take this up with the State Department if you wish. In Washington.”
“He needs to be stopped, sir. Yesterday he murdered a reporter for the Guardian named Adanne Tansi. I saw him kill her. He murdered her entire family. He’s responsible for at least eight deaths in Washington.”
Finally, Oweleen exploded. “Who the hell are you? I never even heard of you until three days ago, and now I’m taking time out for this? Do you have any idea what’s going on here?”
He waved his hand at the plasma TV on the wall. “Turn that up.”
One of the aides pushed a button on a remote—and then I watched the TV in shocked silence and with dread.
Chapter 118
THE TV WAS tuned to CNN. A British reporter was speaking over an image of an upscale housing complex—white two-story buildings in neat rows, shot from high above.
The overlay read “Breaking News—Summit Oil Residential Compound, Bonny Island, Nigeria.”
“Never before have families been taken,” the reporter was saying, “and certainly never this number of live hostages. In an e-mail to the international press, People for the Liberation of the Niger Delta now have claimed responsibility for the incident—with these shocking images attached to their message.”
The screen switched to grainy infrared video.
Dozens of people sat along the floor of a dark hallway. Their heads were covered and hands tied, but it was easy to tell there were men, women, and children on the film. Some of them were crying, others moaning piteously.
“Those are British and American citizens,” Ambassador Oweleen informed me. “Every one of them. Consider yourself lucky to get a flight out of here at all.”
“What flight? When?”
He held up a hand, looking back at the TV. “Look at this, will you? Do you see what’s happening?” Armed troops were streaming out of a truck single file.
The British reporter went on:
“Government forces have established a perimeter around the entire complex, while economic pressure mounts internationally.
“With more attacks promised, oil-production facilities are shutting down regionwide, approaching an unprecedented seventy percent slowdown, which is considered to be catastrophic.”
“Chinese, French, Dutch, and of course US interests in particular are at stake. Under normal trade conditions, Nigeria provides about twenty percent of American oil.”
A phone buzzed on the desk. Ambassador Oweleen picked it up. “Yes?” he said, and then, “Send them in.”
“Sir,” I tried again. “I’m not asking for much. I just need to make one phone call—”
“We’ll get you a shower and some fresh clothes right away. And we’ll take care of any immigration issues. We can get you a new passport right away. But then you’re gone. Forget about your manhunt. As of right now, it’s over.”
I finally snapped at him. “I don’t need a shower! Or fresh clothes. I need you to listen to me. I just witnessed a reporter named Adanne Tansi being murdered at the Kirikiri Prison. She was writing an important story that has relevance to the violence near the oil fields.”
The doors to the office opened, and Oweleen’s eyes shifted right past me. It was as though the moment I raised my voice, I’d lost him. He didn’t even respond to what I’d said.
He spoke directly to the double marine escort waiting there. “We’re all done here. Take Detective Cross downstairs and get him cleaned up for travel back to the US.”
Chapter 119
THE TWO MARINES were polite and respectful enough but very mission oriented as they escorted me to a subbasement locker room.
It had tall wooden lockers and a faded carpet, a tiled steam room and whirlpool, and a small area for showering. As promised, I was given a fresh towel.
One of the marines asked me my trouser, shirt, and shoe size and then left. The other marine told me I had about ten minutes to shower and dress, so I ought to get started. Both of the marines were black—probably no coincidence there.
There were four stalls, each with a curtained changing cubicle in front. I stood inside the last one, my mind racing while the clock ran down on my time in the country.