African Affairs Director fall in love with her thirty-three years ago during the course of a single dinner party in Abuja, and marry her within three months. A year later, Adeola had been born. Her name meant ‘loved by all’.
Her father was white, so Adeola’s skin was paler than her mother’s, but she had her mother’s full breasts, and her hips flared out in just the same way, although her legs were much longer, like her father’s.
When she was growing up, Adeola had been repeatedly asked if she had considered a career in modelling, or acting, but she was too intense for that, too serious, too political. She wanted to do some good in the world. That was why she had eventually joined DOVE, which was now the most influential privately-financed aid agency in the world.
‘Your juice, m’lady,’ said Rick, as she came out of the bathroom, her hair wrapped up in a towel turban. He was already dressed in a white linen shirt and sand-coloured chinos. He had strapped on his shoulder holster but his black SIG-Sauer P225 semi-automatic pistol was lying on the table next to the bowl of papayas and oranges.
‘Did you talk to Captain Madoowbe about security?’ Adeola asked him, picking up her juice.
‘I did, but he’s more excited by firepower than he is by good intelligence. Personally I don’t give a flying fig how many rocket-propelled grenade launchers he and his goons are toting around. If somebody’s sneaked in and placed a bomb under the conference table, it’s goodnight Vienna.’
‘Or goodbye Dubai, in this case,’ said Adeola. She went to the window and looked out. Her suite was on the forty-eighth floor of the Emirates Towers Hotel, with a view of the royal stable buildings and the desert beyond, which was a bright pink colour this morning – almost the same colour as her cranberry juice. She could never look at the desert without having the strangest of feelings. It was like seeing her own death, waiting for her.
She went through to the bedroom and opened the closet. Most of the clothes that she had brought to Dubai were very plain and sober. Today she took out a pale lemon suit she had bought on her last trip to New York. It was a little too Hilary Clinton for her taste, but the men with whom she had to negotiate in Africa and the Middle East expected women to be modest and respectable. Even talking to a woman on equal terms made them tetchy.
‘We’re taking all three SUVs,’ called Rick, as Adeola sat in front of the dressing table, struggling to pin up her hair. ‘You’ll be in the third one, for a change. We’ll drive straight up to the entrance of the Taj Hotel, Jimmy and Miko will get out and make sure that the scenery looks tight before they give you the signal. Then and only then will you disembark.
‘If anything looks at all screwy, your vehicle will back up at high speed, execute a one-eighty, and head south-east on Al Rigga Road, foot to the floor.’
Adeola had the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she fastened an Igbo buckle into her hair.
‘You hearing this?’ said Rick.
‘I’m hearing it. I’m just having so much trouble with my freaking hair. What did I do last night?’
‘You mean you can’t remember?’
Jimmy, Miko, Charles and Nesta were all waiting for them down in the hotel lobby. They were all discreetly dressed, just like Rick, in white shirts, navy-blue sport coats and chinos, except for Nesta, who was wearing a blue blouse and a knee-length black linen skirt. They could have been mistaken for travel-company staff, rather than bodyguards.
Charles checked his huge stainless-steel watch. ‘We’re three minutes ahead of schedule,’ he said. ‘Do you want to wait or do you want to go now?’
‘We’ll wait,’ said Rick. ‘Safer to stay here than hang around at the Taj. Miko – any radio chatter?’
‘Nothing that related to us.’
‘OK . . . I haven’t received any cautions from Al Ameen, either. All the same, this is a highly
Her father was white, so Adeola’s skin was paler than her mother’s, but she had her mother’s full breasts, and her hips flared out in just the same way, although her legs were much longer, like her father’s.
When she was growing up, Adeola had been repeatedly asked if she had considered a career in modelling, or acting, but she was too intense for that, too serious, too political. She wanted to do some good in the world. That was why she had eventually joined DOVE, which was now the most influential privately-financed aid agency in the world.
‘Your juice, m’lady,’ said Rick, as she came out of the bathroom, her hair wrapped up in a towel turban. He was already dressed in a white linen shirt and sand-coloured chinos. He had strapped on his shoulder holster but his black SIG-Sauer P225 semi-automatic pistol was lying on the table next to the bowl of papayas and oranges.
‘Did you talk to Captain Madoowbe about security?’ Adeola asked him, picking up her juice.
‘I did, but he’s more excited by firepower than he is by good intelligence. Personally I don’t give a flying fig how many rocket-propelled grenade launchers he and his goons are toting around. If somebody’s sneaked in and placed a bomb under the conference table, it’s goodnight Vienna.’
‘Or goodbye Dubai, in this case,’ said Adeola. She went to the window and looked out. Her suite was on the forty-eighth floor of the Emirates Towers Hotel, with a view of the royal stable buildings and the desert beyond, which was a bright pink colour this morning – almost the same colour as her cranberry juice. She could never look at the desert without having the strangest of feelings. It was like seeing her own death, waiting for her.
She went through to the bedroom and opened the closet. Most of the clothes that she had brought to Dubai were very plain and sober. Today she took out a pale lemon suit she had bought on her last trip to New York. It was a little too Hilary Clinton for her taste, but the men with whom she had to negotiate in Africa and the Middle East expected women to be modest and respectable. Even talking to a woman on equal terms made them tetchy.
‘We’re taking all three SUVs,’ called Rick, as Adeola sat in front of the dressing table, struggling to pin up her hair. ‘You’ll be in the third one, for a change. We’ll drive straight up to the entrance of the Taj Hotel, Jimmy and Miko will get out and make sure that the scenery looks tight before they give you the signal. Then and only then will you disembark.
‘If anything looks at all screwy, your vehicle will back up at high speed, execute a one-eighty, and head south-east on Al Rigga Road, foot to the floor.’
Adeola had the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she fastened an Igbo buckle into her hair.
‘You hearing this?’ said Rick.
‘I’m hearing it. I’m just having so much trouble with my freaking hair. What did I do last night?’
‘You mean you can’t remember?’
Jimmy, Miko, Charles and Nesta were all waiting for them down in the hotel lobby. They were all discreetly dressed, just like Rick, in white shirts, navy-blue sport coats and chinos, except for Nesta, who was wearing a blue blouse and a knee-length black linen skirt. They could have been mistaken for travel-company staff, rather than bodyguards.
Charles checked his huge stainless-steel watch. ‘We’re three minutes ahead of schedule,’ he said. ‘Do you want to wait or do you want to go now?’
‘We’ll wait,’ said Rick. ‘Safer to stay here than hang around at the Taj. Miko – any radio chatter?’
‘Nothing that related to us.’
‘OK . . . I haven’t received any cautions from Al Ameen, either. All the same, this is a highly
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