Ethan Jones
The Diplomat
This work would have not been possible without the great support of my wife and son. I would like to thank Ty Hutchinson, Kenneth Teicher and Claude Dancourt for their helpful suggestions.
To my family
Chapter One
Justin Hall examined the ever-changing faces of the crowd around the square, searching for the man expected to approach him and collect the ransom for the hostage. The metallic briefcase stuffed with untraceable bills totaling the sum of one million dollars lay next to his feet, underneath the plastic coffee table. His SIG P228 pistol rested inside his concealed waistband holster.
The man kidnapped four months ago was a senior Canadian diplomat working for the Department of Foreign Affairs, Trade and Development, in the Trade Promotion Programs branch. He had arrived in Nigeria for a high-level conference of the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime, and his vehicles had been attacked by masked gunmen on the outskirts of Lagos. The diplomat’s four bodyguards and his assistant had been killed in the firefight. The convoy’s two Land Rovers, hijacked by the gunmen, were found burned two days later about ten miles north of Lagos. But there had been no news about Martin Duncan until a week ago. A local rebel group — Free Niger Delta, who had been waging war against the Nigerian government over the last ten years for control of the Niger Delta’s vast oil riches — had placed a call claiming they had Duncan, and had provided unquestionable proof of life.
The Canadian Intelligence Service had dispatched one of its best field operatives to arrange for the exchange. Justin had made possible the rescue of two aid workers kidnapped in Port Harcourt in Nigeria — about four hundred miles southeast of Lagos — and had spent over a decade hunting and killing terrorists all over the world. He was the right man for the job of prying Duncan from the terrorists’ claws in case the exchange went sideways.
Justin glanced at his wristwatch. The man picking up the ransom was ten minutes late, and he had not called to inform Justin of any delays or change of plans. The exchange initially had been scheduled for two days ago, but the rebels had switched the time and the location. Instead of a small coffeehouse in Victoria Island, an upscale and expensive area of the business district of Lagos, the rebels had chosen an open public square in the northern part of the city, a rough neighborhood with little security and a number of escape routes.
A situation of a ransom drop and the expected release of the kidnapped victim carried extreme dangers. The people showing up to retrieve the money could kill or kidnap the one delivering the ransom, in this case Justin. Even if the kidnappers received the entire amount of money and all their conditions were satisfied to the fullest extent, there was no guarantee Duncan would be released as promised. Another ransom demand could follow, for the same or a higher price, and the negotiation would have to go back to the starting point.
Justin pulled on the handle of his porcelain coffee cup with his right-hand index finger as if it were a trigger. He was the live bait, sitting on the patio outside a coffeehouse in the scorching African sun. A small umbrella provided some shade, but no protection from the humidity. Justin was wearing a concealable lightweight bulletproof vest underneath his loose-fitting brown polo shirt. The vest caused him constant sweating, but it was a small price to pay since it offered protection from .38 special and 9mm rounds. Any weapon of a larger caliber, like the ubiquitous AK assault rifle, would pierce right through the vest and his body.
Justin sighed and leaned back in his chair. His eyes continued to scan the crowds going about their business in the busy square. Some were haggling with shoppers in the market, which sold everything from fresh fruits and vegetables to Chinese-imported knickknacks and cheap clothes. Others were just wandering around, ignoring the boiling sunrays. And many more were smoking and sipping coffees, teas, and other drinks on the sidewalk and outdoor patios of the restaurants and coffeehouses surrounding the square. Taxis, small vehicles, and the occasional truck drove by on a small, narrow road that circled the square.
He thought about checking with his team members: the sniper at the rooftop of the highest building overlooking the square, a three-story apartment building; the driver sitting in his Land Rover off-road vehicle, parked on the curb about fifty yards away; and Justin’s partner in the CIS station in Abuja — Nigeria’s capital — Kayo, who was pretending to talk on a cellphone at the edge of the market, by a stand where two women were selling cassava flour. Justin was in constant contact with them through the throat mike stitched inside the collar of his shirt and the small earpiece in his left ear.
But he resisted the temptation. He was not sure if they were being watched; but since the kidnappers had picked this location, and Justin and his team had arrived only fifteen minutes ago, barely in time to make the deadline, he expected there was at least one pair of hostile eyes on him, following his every move.
An African woman in a black abaya, the long robe that covered her entire body, and a matching hijab and black sunglasses, stepped out of the crowd and onto the sidewalk, about twenty or so feet away from Justin. She was holding a folded map in her hands. She glanced in the other direction, then toward Justin, but her eyes moved over his shoulders. The woman stopped by two men who were talking over a couple of beers a few tables away. They looked at her map, then around the square, shrugged, and shook their heads.
The woman looked at Justin and began to walk in his direction. Justin focused his entire attention on her. She was tall and slim and a silver bracelet hung around her left wrist. Her skin color was light, and Justin wondered if the woman had been using bleaching cream, a booming beauty trend among Nigerian women. She had a small, narrow nose and thick red lips.
“Excuse me,” the woman said when she was two feet away from Justin’s table, “could you help me, please?” Her soft, attractive voice rang with a light British accent.
“Eh… I’m not sure. What do you need?” Justin said as he looked around. He did not want to be seen in the company of the woman in case the man sent to pick up the ransom showed up at that exact moment. The kidnappers’ instructions had been for Justin to come alone and unarmed, and he had ignored both conditions. But he hoped his team members would be invisible, and that he would not have to use his weapon.
“I’m looking for an address. It should be somewhere around here.” The woman sat down in the chair across from Justin before he could object, and she spread her map over the table, almost knocking over Justin’s cup. She tapped the map with her left-hand index finger at a certain point.
“What is this place?”
“Oh, it’s a hotel, a famous hotel, the preferred place for, hmmm, foreigners… and Canadian diplomats.”
Justin’s right hand went for his pistol, but the woman was faster. She slid a small pistol over the table and pointed it sideways at Justin’s head. Then she quickly folded the map over the pistol, to avoid being spotted by any curious glances from the other tables or passersby.
She said in a firm voice, “Don’t do it!”
Justin stared at the pistol. He could try to wrestle the pistol away from her hand, but the woman was holding it close to her chest. She could squeeze off a round before Justin even reached it. So he decided to play it safe, and listened to her words. He put both hands on the table, with their palms down and fingers spread out.
“No need to make a scene, as I have the money.” Justin tapped the briefcase with his shoe. “Put that gun away before someone gets hurt.”