An African Affair Read Free Page B

because I was prepared by Jimmy Garner. Remember him?” Lindsay asked.
    “Remember him? Are you kidding? We talked about him at lunch for six months.”
    “I apologize. But he was the one who gave me the three rules of survival for entering Nigeria.” Lindsay held up a finger and enumerated each point. “Fight off the people swarming around like sand flies trying to do something for you. Don’t let anyone take your bag; you’ll never see it again. Bribe—or ‘dash’ as they say here—anyone who can get you a taxi into town. Unfortunately, there are no rules for how to survive after that.”
    They both laughed. Lindsay glanced down at her articles and said she’d secured the promise of an interview with Olumide himself.
    “That’s amazing. What have you found out about him so far?” Maureen asked.
    “That he is certainly one of Africa’s gangster heads of state, steadily bleeding the country while transfusing his own Swiss bank accounts. His control is so tight it’s hard to imagine the drug trade flourishing without him. The problem is, it’s very hard to prove this, or even get anyone to accuse him on the record,” she said. “Most people are afraid to talk openly. After the assassination even the dissidents seem to have gone to ground, at least for now. I’ve cultivated some sources who might talk off the record, but that’s about it.”
    “When is your interview with him?”
    “Tomorrow.”
    “I don’t have to tell you to be careful, do I?”
    “No, of course not. And don’t worry.” She paused a beat. “I’m not expecting him to be honest. But he wants something from me—a public forum to reach Washington—and I want to ask him if he’s serious about holding elections and ending military rule. Of course he’ll lie, but at least I’ll have him on the record.”
    Maureen nodded.
    Lindsay checked the clock—the 9 A.M. BBC broadcast was about to begin. She turned on the radio in time to catch the familiar opening strains of the Queen’s March. She listened, but the broadcast ended without mentioning Nigeria.
    Lindsay had tried to sound confident, but in actual fact she was struggling against frustration. She knew that even if she got a good story, she would have problems filing. With no reliable phone or electrical line, she couldn’t count on using her computer, and while some hotels had modems for the Internet, the connections were dicey. That left the public communications office with a single telex and long lines. Friends suggested she might be able to use the private telex of the Agence France-Presse man, who had paid a huge bribe to get it. But he was on home leave for a few more days.
    Lindsay decided to focus on small, obtainable goals. Today, she’d simply prepare for the interview with Olumide. She’d read the clips and talk to the American ambassador, Peter Bresson, an old friend. On the way to the embassy, she’d stop at the public communications office and send a message to the foreign desk alerting them to expect the interview.
    She looked up to see Maureen fiddling with the telephone.
    “It doesn’t work,” Lindsay said. “You know that, right?”
    “Yes. But you never can tell. Maybe a miracle happened while we slept.”
    “Yeah, right. Maybe you’ll have better luck at the AP office.”
    “Let’s hope so. I need to call Mark to tell him I arrived safely and I’ll have to contact the London bureau. In the meantime, I’m hungry. What’s for breakfast?”
    In the kitchen, Martin was setting the table.
    “What would madam like?” he asked.
    “The usual, please. And the same for my friend.”
    Maureen leaned over and whispered in Lindsay’s ear. “What would madam like?”
    “I know,” Lindsay said softly. “I’ve tried but I can’t get him to stop calling me that—let alone convince him to use my first name.” She smiled at Martin. “Can you explain to my friend why you insist on being so formal?”
    “Because you are my employer, madam,”