An Honourable Fake, Page 2

CHAPTER 2

  "Mr Mark Dobson."

  It was a statement not a question.

  "Yes," the man himself replied. He was definitely Mark Dobson, travelling on a British passport, although he'd wondered before leaving London whether a passport in a different name might be safer this time.

  The Nigerian Immigration Officer sitting solemnly behind the screen looked at him as if she recognised him. Sod's law. Dobson certainly recognised her. It was the same one who'd dealt with him a month ago - the same beige uniform and beret, the same badge and the same ill-fitting spectacles. The only additions were the blue latex gloves and matching face mask as if she thought Dobson might be bringing Ebola or Yellow Fever into the country.

  His passport was opened and the pages flipped through until the last Nigerian stamp appeared.

  "Mr Mark Dobson, you come again." It was the same voice as well.

  "Yes." Dobson raked a hand through his unruly mop of short, sandy hair. Explaining why he'd returned so soon would only cause a delay.

  "Business again?"

  "Yes."

  And saying he'd abandoned his last visit because he'd been assaulted and robbed by a taxi driver within minutes of his arrival would have delayed things even further.

  "What business?"

  "I'm a business consultant."

  "Mmm......but what do you do?"

  Dobson almost smiled. It was such a good question. "I advise businesses." He replied vaguely. He could have elaborated by saying he specialised in commercial fraud, corruption and associated demeanours like money laundering, but offering the short version was always best at points of entry into a country, especially one where such demeanours were commonplace.

  Black eyes beneath thick black eyebrows peered over the spectacles. "Nigerian businesses need your advice, Mr Dobson?"

  Dobson nodded and smiled in case it was a Nigerian Immigration officer's idea of a sarcastic joke. Perhaps also it was because he wasn't wearing a proper businessman's suit and tie but a pair of creased grey chinos and a black Polo shirt like someone starting their holiday - not that many people took vacations in Lagos.

  "What is the name of the company you are advising, Mr Dobson?" the husky voice with the Lagos accent continued.

  He'd hoped he wouldn't be asked this. "A company called Solomon Trading."

  There was a shrug suggesting she'd never heard of Solomon Trading and an ink stamp like all others was selected from a small pile, his passport was stamped with a flourish, a signature added and his passport held aloft but out of reaching distance. Was there one last issue?

  "So.......Mr Dobson. You like Nigeria?"

  "Love it," Dobson smiled. "I can hardly wait to find a taxi and be on my way."

  "Have a nice stay."

  And so, Dobson took his passport and walked off with his laptop bag slung across his shoulder to retrieve his new black case on wheels, a replacement that contained a change of underwear, a crumpled suit to enhance his status if the need arose, a few shirts that mostly matched his grey chinos and a shaving kit. If this bag was stolen, then they'd be sorely disappointed with the contents.

  But he wasn't robbed this time. He made it, unscathed, in the back seat of a Toyota driven by a middle-aged Nigerian from Enugu who called himself Edwin and who talked all the way. "Airport Hotel, Ikeja sah? Why not better hotel? Smart man like you deserve five stah, up-makkit. Where you come from, sah?"

  "London."

  "Arsenal, sah." Edwin said triumphantly, showing his enthusiasm for English football but pronouncing Arsenal like arsehole.

  Dobson, slumped in the back seat and listened but found himself holding tightly onto his laptop just in case Edwin turned out to be another, albeit older, con merchant with a nice way with words.

  For someone who spent half his time travelling Dobson was not unused to African airports. His mistake last time had been to trust an ordinary looking youth with a pleasant smile and wearing a bright blue Chelsea FC tee shirt. He remembered it all to well.

  "Where to, sah?..... Ikeja sah?........Good price sah......I carry case sah."

  That's how it had started and Dobson, far too relaxed for his own good, had followed the blue Chelsea tee shirt and his own case through the teeming crowds, friends and families of travellers, past all shades of shyster looking for quick ways to fleece the tired and culture-shocked and out into the chaos, the smell and the sticky, humid air of early evening Lagos. He'd been led towards an ageing Peugeot. that may once have been a uniform yellow but now offered glimpses of many shades of yellow and orange mottled with red rust and mud. It was ideally suited for abductions and robbery and Dobson should have known better.

  The journey had begun with an unusual detour around some ramshackle back streets of Ikeja and Dobson, wedged into the sagging and painful springs of the back seat, had seen his hope that this might be just a clever short cut fade when the car ground to a halt in the rubble strewn remains of an old, roofless building. A second wreck of a car then appeared and from it sprang two more youths wielding long sticks. Shouts, waving of the sticks and a lot of pushing and pulling had followed but, overpowered by numbers, Dobson had yielded and his case and belongings were tipped and sorted amongst a pile of smashed concrete and corrugated roofing. It had been admiringly efficient - short, sharp and over and done with in less than three minutes.

  But it had been an odd sort of assault and robbery in that Dobson had been handed back his passport and wallet - short perhaps of five hundred dollars or so in cash. They had taken his laptop, but that was empty of anything confidential because everything of any use was, as always, on a memory stick stuffed into the elastic waist band of Dobson's boxer shorts. Mark Dobson, international private investigator of commercial fraud and corruption was slightly battered and bruised but his client's data was still intact.

  And it was what the smiling wearer of the Chelsea FC tee shirt had called out as he drove off that Dobson still remembered. Amidst the cloud of choking blue smoke as the Peugeot rattled away, he heard: "Sorry, Mr Dobson, sah."

  Mr Dobson? Yes, that was easy to read from his passport. But 'sorry'?

  This wasn't the hallmark of a career robber. Chelsea tee shirt had showed a decent side that could only have come from upbringing. Someone, somewhere, Dobson had concluded, was warning him off, trying to stop him doing his job, encouraging him to go back home and never return. And there was only one possible reason for that. Someone somewhere had a problem of sorts with Dobson's clients, Pastor Gabriel Joshua, his partner Solomon and their jointly owned company, Solomon Trading.

  "Can you pick me up in the morning?" Mark Dobson asked Edwin from Enugu when they arrived at the Airport Hotel and Dobson was settling the fare.

  "Where to, sah?"

  "Back to the airport."

  "Yessah."

  "Early," said Dobson. "Five o'clock."

  "Yessah."