An Honourable Fake, Page 4

CHAPTER 4

  Mark Dobson's decision to make a second trip to Lagos in six weeks had begun at an early morning meeting in a cemetery in south London. West Norwood Cemetery and Crematorium had been Gabriel's suggestion.

  Dobson already knew a good deal about Solomon Trading. Solomon was its 'managing director', Pastor Gabriel Joshua its 'chairman'. Solomon was a tall, lanky figure but Gabriel was even taller - a six feet, straight backed, handsome Nigerian who had, since he was about fourteen, styled himself on Mohamed Ali, the old boxer Cassius Clay. That Ali had become a Moslem and Gabriel a Christian of sorts made no difference to Gabriel.

  "Beliefs are a man's free choice," he'd often said, a phrase that seemed at odds with the Christian-sounding 'Household of God's Miracles Church' Gabriel had also founded thirty years before.

  Gabriel and Solomon had both been born somewhere inside the thousands of rotting timber shacks that stood on stilts above the dark, polluted waters of the Makoko slum in Lagos lagoon. Surrounded by the stench of smoke rising from rotting waste, they had been area boys, agberos, street boys, who mostly lived off petty crime - extortion from passers-by, theft, small scale protection rackets and drugs. But that phase hadn't lasted long because at around twelve years old they'd progressed from street crime to doing jobs - honest ones like cleaning cars, sweeping and painting walls.

  By then Solomon had become Gabriel's fetcher and doer while Gabriel went out, talking, selling, reading old discarded newspapers and all the time looking for opportunities.

  It was Solomon who'd told Dobson how, one rainy day, he had followed Gabriel into the back of a Presbyterian church to escape the flooded streets to sit and listen to a sermon by the local preacher, Matthew Joshua, and how Gabriel announced he would now be known as Pastor Gabriel Joshua instead of Femi Akindele. Until then, Solomon had always called him Femi - he still did. That same night thirteen-year old Tunde Oyedepo became Solomon.

  A week later, Gabriel had, with a bible 'borrowed' from another church, run his own service in the back of a car parking lot near Makoko so that if anyone hadn't liked what Gabriel was shouting about they could disband their 'service' and run off back into the slum.

  But people had liked what that fifteen-year old boy with his way with words and remarkable vocabulary was saying. And he hadn't just been talking about religion and Christianity. Gabriel had already started to get political.

  Gabriel was now known to many thousands, perhaps it was millions. He had girlfriends scattered here and there. Solomon, too, had one special one, but Solomon still preferred his backroom, supporting role whether it was driver, secretary, head of security or travel agent. The partnership that had started in the Makoko slum was still going strong.

  In short, Pastor Gabriel Joshua had become one of Nigeria's notorious fake preachers and self-made millionaires. But none of the others were quite like Gabriel.

  "There are trees by the chimney," he'd told Dobson when they'd arranged the cemetery meeting. "You'll find me, unless there's a funeral taking place."

  And so, Dobson had arrived at the cemetery gates and aimed for the concrete building in the distance, the chimney rising over a clump of trees. It was five minutes to nine.

  A sign post: 'Parking.' An arrow: 'Crematorium'. A notice board: 'Borough of Lambeth'. This was south London, an area Dobson know well - residential, densely populated, bordering on lively, multi-cultural suburbs like Brixton. He'd parked the car near Lambeth Household Waste Disposal and Recycling Centre but assumed its proximity to the cemetery was mere co-incidence.

  And there was Gabriel Joshua, strolling around under the trees talking on a mobile phone. It was the usual, animated, Gabriel and the usual baritone voice that carried on the still morning air, in a conference hall or an auditorium. It was the usual dark suit, no tie today but pristine for all that. The neat moustache and the shiny studs in both ears that looked like diamonds but that Dobson knew weren't. A Gabriel joke: "Cut glass is a man's best friend."

  Gabriel was a smart man, so smart he'd become a household name in Nigeria up to and beyond its northern borders with Niger, Cameroon and elsewhere. It was his preaching or, as he preferred to call them, his inspirational speeches and motivational lectures. He was known by politicians in the UK and the USA especially those with interests in African affairs although they were probably more envious of his ability to rouse an audience to cheering and fist raising. Gabriel had become an unelected politician more than a fake preacher. He could get as mad as hell with elected politicians, about what they did to become elected, about corruption, the growing gulf between rich and poor, especially in Africa with its poverty and ever growing population.

  Dobson knew all this. He also knew that Gabriel and Solomon ran their business honestly, corruption free. but had increasingly found themselves on the wrong side of big time fraudsters, the mega corrupt and those who used wielded the political clout.

  Eventually Gabriel stuffed the phone in his pocket, turned, nodded, offered a faint smile and walked over. "Mark, how de body, mon. You looking good. Fine and dandy. Nice suit. Off the peg? Still making good in your line."

  They bantered for a while

  "Got a woman yet, Mark? Feeling lonesome?"

  "Too busy. You?"

  "A few tucked away. I just can't be fucked with them, mon. Women is too much like trouble. Talk too much. Hanging around. Criticising. Spending money. They all alike, you know? Anyway, like you, I'm too busy. I just got back from the USA, Mark. But no-one listens." A pause. "And there was another abduction this week. Schoolgirls again. You heard?"

  "I heard something," Dobson had said. "The COK again."

  The COK, the so-called Caliphate of Kanuri, was the new name for a terror group that had started as Boko Haram and plagued the Nigeria for years. Boko Haram had been partially defeated but then resurrected itself by spreading north, east and west and linking up with better organised groups like AQIM - al-Qaida in the Maghreb - that deliberately triggered ethnic disputes to gain support, especially in Mali where French forces had failed. Al-Qaida had never really died. It was still influential and still the most powerful jihadist movement in Africa not caring about using different names, titles or acronyms like the COK.

  The COK had been re-enforced by disaffected Nigerians, Somalis, Eritreans and gangs of desperate, stateless, poverty-stricken migrants from all over Africa.

  "Bastards." Gabriel muttered.

  COK raids on northern Nigerian villages, bordering Niger and Cameroon had restarted some while back. Trouble was brewing in Burkina Faso. There were murders, abductions and burning of schools and clinics that had only just been rebuilt. Livelihoods were being wrecked again. School age boys from poor families were being carried off to join the fight. But it was the abduction of groups of schoolgirls that were really prized for the publicity they generated. And if the girls could be used to carry out atrocities so much the better.

  "Schoolgirls, Mark. Can you believe that?"

  Mark Dobson and Pastor Gabriel Joshua, a black Nigerian and a white Englishman, carrying on where they'd left off just a few weeks back.

  "So why the call?" Dobson asked. "Why are we meeting under a tree in a cemetery? And how are Sol and Kenneth?"

  Dobson had met Solomon before Gabriel - a problem with a government contract that was never resolved. It was the murky world of bribery and corruption again with Solomon Trading the innocent victim. And Dobson had half expected Solomon to be there or, if not Sol, then another of Gabriel's small team - Kenneth Eju.

  Kenneth Eju ran Gabriel's UK business operation from a low overheads establishment above a Polish food shop in a side street in Croydon, South London. It had a sign, 'Household of God's Miracles Church', in the upstairs window but was, in fact, the UK headquarters of Solomon Trading, their main source of money and funding for Gabriel's so-called 'Project'.

  Mark Dobson had never been very clear about Gabriel's 'Project' except that it was some sort of charitable work funded by Solomon Tra
ding. It seemed off limits as far as their commercial dealings were concerned and Dobson had never delved too deeply. So: "How are Sol and Kenneth?"

  Gabriel's smile faded. "We walk, mon."

  The banter was finished and Gabriel took off across the wet grass for fifty metres or so then stopped. He looked up. He looked down. He just wouldn't look at Dobson. Then he took a deep breath.

  "Kenneth's dead," he said. "He was shot dead. He was found on a derelict industrial estate in Essex." Then he'd walked away again leaving Dobson standing there, questions falling over themselves for answers but with his mobile phone buzzing and vibrating in his pocket.

  "Yes, Colin."

  This was Colin Asher of Asher & Asher, the uninspiring name for a miniature equivalent of MI5. MI6, the CIA and FBI that Dobson and Asher ran with a few lady assistants. Its headquarters were rented rooms above the 'Red Sea' frozen fish shop and Ali's Egyptian barber's shop on Edgware Road in West London.

  Asher & Asher may have sounded like a divorce solicitor or a struggling accountant, but it was, in fact, a high-tech operation with computers, servers, winking lights and other wizardry beyond Dobson but played with like toys by Colin Asher. Everything they did had been learned from a few years working together for the Fraud Squad.

  "There's an arrest warrant out for Gabriel - fraud, corruption, money laundering," Colin Asher announced.

  "For Christ's sake! He's just told me Kenneth Eju's dead - murdered."

  There had been a few seconds of thoughtful silence before Colin Asher broke another piece of news. "And I've had the Household of God's Miracles Church on the blower. A Nigerian. Someone called Osman Olande. Mean anything?"

  "Nothing. What did he want?"

  "To know when you're going back to Nigeria. He seemed to know you. He's phoned twice today saying he works for Kenneth."

  "Not true." Dobson said, smelling trouble. "Let me talk to Gabriel and I'll phone you back."

  Gabriel had, meanwhile, stopped at a stone cross that was higher than his head and Dobson thought he was going to lean on it. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest and stared at the inscription. 'Sir Joseph Barnby. hymn writer, conductor and church organist, died 28th January 1896.'

  That was OK, Dobson decided. Sir Joseph wouldn't have minded if a big black guy from Nigeria called Pastor Gabriel Joshua had leaned on him. They clearly had some common interests.

  Holding back on the arrest warrant news for a moment, Dobson asked more about Kenneth Eju but Gabriel didn't know much. He' and Solomon had been in the US. The police were investigating. He'd know more later. He went quiet again.

  Dobson, well aware of how Kenneth's death would affect both Gabriel and Solomon, changed the subject. "How's Michael?"

  While Kenneth Eju ran the London office of Solomon Trading, Michael Fayinka ran the Lagos office.

  "Michael phoned me this morning," he said, moving away from Sir Joseph. "He's upset. He smells trouble. He has his family to think of. He's thinking of moving out. Sol knows about Kenneth but he's back to Lagos. We'll watch developments. I feel I should go back but there are other problems."

  That was when Dobson realised Gabriel already knew. "So, you already know about the arrest warrant?"

  Gabriel nodded, "Oh, sure." He strolled away again and Dobson followed.

  It was quieter now - the traffic more distant. Perhaps the days' funerals hadn't yet started but Dobson didn't really understand what went on in Norwood Cemetery. It looked more like one big outdoor museum, the sort of place that hosted organised tours of famous headstones for the morbid. Gabriel did just that. He stopped at another tomb: "Charles Haddon Spurgeon, religious leader. Baptist who drew huge crowds, b.1834 d. 1892."

  "You wanna keep working for us, Mark?"

  Dobson was grateful for the question. Business with Solomon Trading had been looking murkier by the minute. Gabriel's lifestyle was complicated enough and Dobson had struggled to know if it was worth the hassle. But: "Your account's in credit, Gabriel. I still owe you. What do you want?"

  "A few jobs done. To get to the bottom of the arrest warrant. To carry on where we left off. Keep the Project on track, move it forward."

  The Project. There it was again. Gabriel's Project. All Mark Dobson knew was that it used up most of Solomon Trading's profits and seemed consumed by politics and controversy.

  "But you're upsetting people, Gabriel," Dobson said. "Stepping on the toes of presidents, prime ministers, foreign governments, aid agencies, army chiefs, corrupt businessmen, foreigners and fellow pastors guarantees a few headaches coming your way."

  "Yeh. I know," Gabriel said.

  Acknowledgement was something but trying to change the world just because you believed everyone was on the wrong track and utterly corrupt was hardly a way to win friends and influence people.

  "You know what I'd do?" Dobson said.

  "You're the fucking consultant. Advise me."

  "Wind up Solomon Trading. Re-launch it as something else. Assume a low profile for a while. Get Sol over here out of the way. Ensure Michael is in a safe place. Stop and think. I've got a million questions that need answers but I'll head to Lagos again to start some digging."

  Gabriel had rested an arm across Dobson's shoulder and nodded. Charles Haddon Spurgeon would have been quite touched by the scene if he could see.

  "You know what Nelson Mandela once said?" Gabriel asked and Dobson had shaken his head. Nelson Mandela hadn't been on his mind just at that moment.

  "The greatest glory of living is rising every time you fall. You like that?"

  "Mmm - very profound."

  While Gabriel wandered away again, Mark Dobson stood and returned Colin Asher's call.

  "This guy Osman Olande," Asher said, "Something's not right."

  "You sure he phoned from Kenneth's office?"

  "I got a fix on the mobile he was using. If he wasn't in Kenneth's office, then he was very close by."

  They'd discussed it for a few minutes longer and agreed that Gabriel was now upsetting people big time. It was a conclusion re-enforced by a long night Dobson had recently spent in his flat in Paddington watching You Tube clips of Gabriel's 'inspirational speeches'.

  It had been like watching Martin Luther King, Jesse Jackson and Nelson Mandela rolled into one except that Gabriel didn't mince his words so much. There was everything there - Islamic terrorism, fraud, corruption, poverty, overpopulation, African despots, disastrous African economies, the mass migration of Africans looking for a better life.

  Dobson made a decision.

  "OK. This is what we do. Try phoning Olande back. Tell him that the heroic Mr Dobson is intending to return to Lagos to continue where he left off. Tell Olande I'm booked on the Virgin flight on Saturday but I'll actually take the KLM flight on Friday. If someone's waiting at the airport a second time, they'll be disappointed."