Francis Is Alive

By Moshood Adebayo

Francis Whyte, a notorious assassin who was supposedly dead is spotted arriving Nigeria at an airport. The CIA believes he's in Nigeria to assassinate the president. At the same time, Majeed Akintola and Olawunmi Oni, two lovers who defraud people on the internet receive their latest American victim as a guest. Has this guest, Michael Livingstone, arrived at the wrong time or is he the assassin as many would come to believe? Criminal dynasties, Intelligence Agencies and leagues of assassins who have scores to settle with Francis Whyte are headed to Nigeria. Francis Whyte's resurrection brings along with it; a love story, a paranormal haunt and a disturbing increase in crime rate on the streets of Lagos.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781387007509

Book preview

Francis Is Alive

FRANCIS IS ALIVE

Copyright © 2017 by Moshood Adebayo

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2017

ISBN: 978-1-387-00750-9

eBayism School of Thought

Oyo, Oyo, 234038

www.ebayism.wordpress.com

1

It was winter when chimneys would not stop smoking. Groups of young bundled people littered the streets in the biting cold, aiming for nearby bars with windows clouded with heat, army of candles lit. Gabriel had never liked winter; for him, any season but winter. In winter, his path for morning jogs would be snow-blocked, numbing the toes. There was no seeing far distances clearly and the day could even go dim between three and four in the afternoon, casting the silver into darkness.

He hated to be cast into darkness or had his sight obscured, so he had to install these Chinese sensors that would trip on an alarm if anything alive got close to his house. He had hated Germany once, the holocaust history had echoed all of the gloom of the twentieth century to him up until the moment Jessica came into his life. She illuminated it and gave him new eyes to view the world with.

When the terrible vibration accompanying an alarm spiraled through his auditory meatus into his sleep, he grunted self-pityingly and rose onto his elbow. It was his mum, he wouldn’t use the sensor alarm as ringtone for anybody else but her; a call from her wouldn’t be any different from the danger the sensor alarm could’ve meant. Madam Hobbs wouldn’t call to ask if he had slept well or if he was fine, when she calls, trouble calls. The phone sat in his hand, Hobbs blinking on the screen. Hobbs… that was his mother’s name in his phone’s register, Jessica would have suggested Mother but she didn’t seem to like Madam Hobbs and wouldn’t care if Gabriel had saved her name as Monkey.

He swiped his finger across the phone screen finally. Mum? Mum, she’s—mother! Okay… but what could possibly be so urg—all… right then. I understand… thirty minutes. He buried his face in his hands after dropping the phone back on the bed. What a mother!

Chloe started to cry and he was jolted out of his exasperation.

You woke her! complained Jessica who appeared immediately at the door with a novel in her hand.

Madam Hobbs did, not me. Gabriel raised his hands up.

Madam Hobbs?

Yes, she called. She woke me too.

Jessica came in, dropped her novel on the vanity table and lifted Chloe out of the cradle. At eight months, Chloe was the youngest Hobbs in town. Ever since she had joined their family, Madam Hobbs who used to send Gabriel on a lot of errands that Jessica was never happy about had withdrawn, giving them their long craved peace. Right until that very morning, she never even called to ask what they were doing or how they were faring in the cold. Much to Gabriel’s disappointment, the dry spell was over; Gabriel had to see her in thirty minutes.

Baby, my gorgeous little princess, c’mon now, mum’s here now.

It was sometimes as simple as that, gorgeous little princess, mum’s here and Chloe would stop crying, but most times, she would cry until they wanted to beat themselves up in annoyance. Few years back, Jessica wasn’t the type anyone would imagine as a mother; she was a model for fashion houses but after she met Gabriel and came down to Germany with him, she had settled down for love. She had all a romance writer would call sophistication; sartorial elegance, moderate sense of humour, intelligence and a bit of physical ruggedness, but she had become a mother, an ex-spy’s wife, a novel lover, modeling was her past.

Your charms work on her today. She must have taken after you in this crying game, Gabriel cracked, attempting to lighten Jessica’s sour mood.

Your mother woke her. If she has taken after anyone in crying, it’s her.

Can you even imagine that woman cry?

She always looks like she’s crying to me but my baby takes nothing after her. I’m her mum. She has to stop crying when she sees me. That’s it.

She must love her mum more than her dad then. I pray she’s not a lesbian.

Les—are you—you’re not serious! she grabbed a pillow with her free hand and threw it in his face.

I’m definitely not serious, he laughed.

So, what was her call about?

She wants me to come over.

Silence.

Tension mounded in Jessica. Madam Hobbs’ phone call couldn’t have meant anything good, she was sure of it.

I think she just wants to give us stuff for the baby, wheedled Gabriel.

Jessica gave him a bleak look. She could’ve sent someone, she said wearily and turned around for the living room.

She finally sat by the fire place, Chloe cooing contentedly in her hands. Gabriel strode across the room, rubbing his hands together restlessly.

What should I do? he finally asked indecisively.

She’s your mother, what do you want me to say, don’t go? Go see her.

Jessica!

Go see her, really.

I’m sorry. I promise I’ll be back before breakfast gets cold.

Before breakfast gets… errgh—check your time, breakfast is already cold.

He looked up, 9:42am.

Damn! he groaned.

Go now please. Let’s hear what Madam Hobbs wants this time.

I’ll be back in a jiffy. I love you, Jessica.

Go meet your mother. When you return, bath and eat, you’ll hear my I hate you too then.

***

Madam Hobbs’ house stood close to the Port of Hamburg’s train station. Train tracks, now silver lines of snow ran few yards away from her mansion. It was a house built of bricks from the past century on a rocky ground. She had almost a hundred employees living with her, none of them unarmed. They knew Gabriel’s car and didn’t have to question him before allowing him entrance. He was nervous; he breathed unusually hard as he took the steps leading to his mother’s apartment, but he wouldn’t look nervous, he was inflexible.

He found her playing her grand piano, which he suspected, was intentional because out of all the songs she could have played, it was Gabriel’s favorite of Beethoven she was playing. He stood there quietly and waited, whatever she was going to ask, he was determined to turn her down. Soon, it ended and she stood from the duet bench with a smiling face.

Wie geht es dir, Gabriel? she asked.

Überhaupt Gut, Mutter.

Tut mir leid für die Belästigung, das Kind?

Sie ist gut, Danke.

She walked towards Gabriel, touched his cheek and then walked past him, into the living room which was through a door behind Gabriel.

Come, she told Gabriel and he followed her, got served a steaming cup of tea and beckoned to sit.

Sit, she said tiredly.

Gabriel sat, sipped his tea and watched as his mother poured herself tea too from a jug Gabriel had known since he was ten. Madam Hobbs came to sit across from him so that she could look directly at him. And quietly they sat for like three minutes, sipping tea and sighing until Madam Hobbs finally cleared her throat and said in a rather sad voice, Francis is alive.

Gabriel set his cup down gently and leaned forward in his chair. What Francis? he asked.

Francis Whyte, said Madam Hobbs clearly.

That’s not true. He died. I was there. Gabriel shrugged.

So we believed but he was spotted in Nigeria few hours ago. I placed a call through to some friends in the NIA there. They told me the CIA has called on something of such. I have reached out to my old friends in the White House, it checked positive. As we speak, troops are being prepped for mobilization to Nigeria.

But mother, how can you buy that? Francis was killed, I was there. I saw it done.

Yes, you’ve said it before. He was killed and cast into the ocean. I never doubted you, have I?  But right now I have reliable sources telling me they spotted him at a Nigerian airport, arriving.

Reliable sources… really, mother? There are not many of us who know what Francis looks like. Not even you! How could they have spotted someone whose face nobody knows?

There’s only one way to find out.

Silence.

God damn it! Mother! Don’t tell me you’re going to send me to Nigeria now.

Only you know what Francis Whyte really looks like. Wouldn’t it be most sensible you go verify for yourself?

Yeah, there you go again, grandmother. In case you’ve forgotten, I have a little child who doesn’t even know me yet and I’m supposed to go after Francis Whyte all over again?

It seems after all you agree he’s alive.

I don’t give a rat’s arse whether he’s alive or dead! Why are you so interested in this Francis anyway? How many more lives do we have to waste running after him? The guy is a ghost, mother! With my evaluation, he’s the best assassin in the world!

He’s not better than you.

Mother, j—jus—just stop… stop please, will you? I’m done with all these. I’m a father now and I sincerely want to remain so. He lit a cigarette, went to look out through the window, and puffed anxiously. He knew it. She was as dangerous as the devil himself. I can’t do this, mother. I’m sorry! he nearly cried, knowing he couldn’t escape it. I know you want this Francis badly but I—I—I can’t just… I can’t leave Jessica! Chloe too!

Listen to me Gabriel. You think I do not care about Chloe and Jessica but I do, hell, what kind of grandmother would I be if I don’t? I sincerely do. But anytime I stand where you’re standing right now, looking out through that very window, beyond the mournful echo of the public address system in the platform of the Warschauer Strasse to Gleis 17 of S-Bahn station at Gruenewald, I—I… Gabriel, just try to see through my eyes, do you not understand why a neck like Francis’s must meet our noose? Visit Bergen-Belsen, Dachau and Ravensbrück, see what must never again be, see my fear.

That’s completely irrelevant! What do all those have to do with some American assassin? He’s not German after all, is he?

Gabriel, it’s not about his nationality. Where doesn’t he go to wreak disasters? We both know the world is never going to be a safe place for anyone, Jessica, Chloe, or me if Francis Whyte walks our streets. They could use him to start a world war. I know what I’m saying. Do you know how many people are after him now? How many countries? They don’t want to kill him. They want to use him! We need to stop him. We need to stop them. That’s our own role now. Our responsibility.

I’m sorry to say this mother but I doubt he can be stopped. After what I witnessed on the ship, if this Francis is still alive, then truly, he cannot be stopped. To him, all this is just some game and he’s a damn good player I assure you. He knows when someone is coming after him and he knows how well to run.

And you think he’s better than you?

Mother, but I’m not an assassin like him! I am not available for comparison with some barbarian who knows his way around guns.

That will be all, Gabriel. When you’re ready, a freight car will take you to Hamburg. You can fly from my platform there. Don’t kill Francis. Do not let anyone do. I need him alive, unharmed. Whatever you have to do to bring him here alive, please do, in one piece. After this assignment, I promise you, I’ll never separate you from your family again. I promise.

She stood and left him in the room. He was very angry then. He had promised Jessica to never leave her again for any pesky mission of Madam Hobbs’ but there he was yet again, he had to think of a way to tell her he was going to break the promise after all; to assure her he would return in just a matter of weeks; that Nigeria was important and he had to go.

2

It was becoming intolerable for Majeed as the white guy repeatedly kissed his girlfriend in his presence while he could not frown or complain lest he put the success of their little charade at risk. The previous two nights, Olawunmi had lied that she had to work the night shift at the clinic where she worked and would not be able to sleep with him as the white guy had demanded, but she couldn’t run forever, could she?

When Majeed was using Olawunmi’s pictures to deceive the man on the internet, giving him the false impression that he was chatting with a pretty Nigerian girl, he hadn’t been doing it without Olawunmi’s consent. They had been in it together from the start and Olawunmi had had tête-à-têtes with the white guy anytime he video-called. Majeed wouldn’t answer a video call if Olawunmi was not around. And this white man had been sending money to them, a lot of money from which Majeed had rented the apartment they had been occupying together for fifteen months now. He had bought a Camry and lived big with Olawunmi at Friends Colony Estate in Lekki, none of them ever considering that the man could want to come to Nigeria to see what he had been investing in.

Olawunmi worked at the clinic for a disguise; the money she and her boyfriend were getting from this white man was enough to sustain their lives. Whenever she was home, they would smoke skunkweed, drink vodka, dance to very loud afro hip-hop, have sex and fall asleep. Nothing else mattered. The neighbours had waged war against their public disturbance at first but had later withdrawn into tolerating them when they discovered the duo were always either high or drunk and drunk folk didn’t seem like the right persons to engage in reasonable arguments, so they just let them be.

When Mr. Michael Livingstone had announced that he was coming to visit his internet girlfriend of two years, chills had swept through both Majeed and Olawunmi like electric currents. They had tried to discourage him; Olawunmi dressing sick for the webcam, saying she wouldn’t be strong enough to entertain him as she had planned and that he should wait a bit longer, but Mr. Michael Livingstone had refused to continue in his waiting, he wanted to come anyway. And they had both gone to receive him at the airport, normal body build, handsome as already known, black hair and bright smile. His black hair was neatly cut off his face, and his green eyes looked most dashingly invigorating.

He was handsome – fairly handsome – and of course, rich for a guy of his age. He had seen Olawunmi before they saw him, and when he stood before them, pulling his bag behind him and full of smiles, all Majeed could do was just look anxiously, and Michael had hugged Olawunmi tightly then, giving her an everlasting kiss on the lips.

For a long two minutes, they had held onto each other before Majeed finally interrupted their maddening romance and introduced himself as Olawunmi’s friend.

I’m Majeed Akintola, Olawunmi’s friend. You can call me Majeed.

Michael, Michael had said, shaking his hand.

Olawunmi’s friend! A friend, whom Michael did not know was the bearer of the fingers keying all chats to him; the G-guy who had been behind the monitor, casting nets with his own girlfriend as bait.

Now, it was three days since he had arrived, and they were in Majeed’s house; Majeed had moved his things to a friend’s when it became certain there was no stopping Mr. Livingstone’s coming. His apartment was now Olawunmi’s for as long as the white guy would stay. They used to call him the biggest client but since he was around then, they called him by his name.

Majeed sat, a remote control in his hand, but with the corner of his distressed eyes, he watched the white guy smooch his girlfriend. He was hurt, miserable, angry and helpless but this was his business and this was one of the prices to pay. If that wasn’t happening, he probably wouldn’t have known he loved Olawunmi that much.

He rose.

Excuse me, he said. If we don’t want the Lagos traffic to hold us prisoners till next year, we have to go now. I’ll drive.

Huh, Michael let go of Olawunmi. Sorry man, the place we wanna go eh? My silly ass, I nearly forgot! Okay, let’s go then, shall we? Olawunmi, here… he held out his hand for her to grab and he pulled her on her feet after she did.

His pronunciation of Olawunmi would have made Majeed laugh if the guy hadn’t been outrageously annoying since his arrival, canoodling Majeed’s girlfriend and case-wrapping her. If only they had thought it through, they would’ve known a man wouldn’t be topping his oversea girlfriend’s bank account for two years and finally travel to meet her just for tea and not want to have some basic intimacies with her. How did he not see it coming?

The thought of the two having sex crossed his mind for a split second but he fought it off, hoping Olawunmi would have found a way to evade it permanently. But, could Olawunmi even do that? Avoid sex? She liked sex more than anything in her life! Holy hell, what could he do? Well, there was nothing he could do now; it was business and he had to face it as a businessman.

At this point, he and Olawunmi shared accusing and defensive looks respectively; brief, unspoken enquiries meeting unvoiced explanations but, there was no going back. They had been spending the money together; they had to go through the ordeal with open mind and spirit of—what? Camaraderie? What other choice was there? It was business.

***

In the Situation Room at Aso Rock, Abuja, the face of a man beamed onto the large screen at which five men gazed; President David Imoukhuede, the commander-in-chief of the Nigerian Armed Forces; Mr. Bolarinwa Olabode, Chief of Staff to the president; Mr. Bankole Ayotomide, the National Intelligence Agency (NIA) Director; Lt. General Abubakr Ali, the Chief of Defense Staff; and the man whose presence in the country had brought them to the situation room, Mr. John Penn, Director of Criminal Investigation Agency (CIA) from the United States of America.

Director Bankole Ayotomide and Director John Penn had appeared at Aso Rock that morning, demanding to meet with the president but protocol demanded that they meet with the Chief of Staff to the President first. So he, Mr. Olabode, sensing that the top boss of the CIA wouldn’t have come personally if something was not spilling over the edge, had called the president’s chambers to report that the NIA and CIA bosses were at Aso Rock, demanding to see him. President David Imoukhuede knew it must be about something very important, most assuredly of military nature, so he instructed Mr. Olabode to summon Lt. General Abubakr Ali to the presidential villa.

The president trusted Ali’s military counsel more than he could ever trust the Minister of Defense’s. His regime was a delicate one, being the first time the I-PROMO political party would produce a president and people were eager to see what rabbits they were going to pull out from their hats. The politics at hand, however, was beyond a matter of political party comparisons. World War III was being heralded by a great discord growing among the nations of the world and countries were picking sides, however unintentional.

President David Imoukhuede was among the few eloquently preaching against the war and struggling to quell dissents in the ranks, saying a world war would only crash all technological and architectural achievements the century had recorded but, did the stakeholders truly want peace? President David Imoukhuede would later indirectly declare support for the East against the West; a resolve surprisingly conflicting with the popular knowledge that the president’s sister who was Nigeria’s Ambassador to the United States was an admired supporter of the West.

Director John Penn sent a picture to the Wifi-enabled screen and stood to address the men.

This man you’re looking at here, he said, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the screen behind him, is looking perfectly simple and civilian with his humble smile, but this is no ordinary person, this is Francis Whyte, wanted by sixteen countries for cases of assassinations, bombings, kidnappings, robberies, piracy, drug trafficking and gun running. Mostly, he’s wanted for assassinations. His country of birth is unknown but most people believe he’s American. His country of residence is equally unknown, age, late thirties. He’s ubiquitously known as Francis Whyte but nobody is sure that’s his real name. He is known to be very good at disguising but he was wounded on many encounters and we have confirmed his blood samples to be the same. His DNA has matched with nobody’s on any country’s database. Categorically, he’s the most dangerous man in the world today. Now, Your Excellency sir, it is confirmed that he is in Nigeria as we speak.

Silence.

When President Imoukhuede saw the rest of them looking at him, he knew it was his turn to remark.

So, this criminal, Francis… Whyte?

Yes sir, Francis Whyte.

Francis Whyte…

Correct sir.

And you say he’s in Nigeria?

He entered Nigeria from Gambia three days ago sir. He tapped on the pad in his hand and a picture of the man dragging his box at the Muritala Mohammed Airport in Lagos was displayed on the screen. He looked too simple to be what he was described as but President Imoukhuede knew better than to fall for appearances; he had a doctorate in Psychology of Human Behaviour from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka.

These pictures are three days old sir, John reported.

That’s so long ago, muttered Lt. General Abubakr Ali, why have you waited this long to inform us?

I sincerely apologize, but… we have to—we had to be sure. We had to be sure it’s him.

And how come it’s only your agency? You know, that has this intel and nobody else does. How many countries did you say want him, sixteen? How could only you be aware he’s here? Not even our own NIA?

We had no reason to be aware General, defended Mr. Ayotomide. He was never a threat to us.

As I’ve said, Your Excellency, continued John Penn, he’s one of the most wanted criminals in the world, twenty million dollars placed on his head. He is Ayman al-Zawahiri, James Whitey Bulger, Joseph Kony, Alimzhan Tokhtakhounov, Matteo Messina Denaro, Dawood Ibrahim and Joaquín Guzmán in one man. The NIA didn’t know about him because he has not caused any damage here before, and in fact, I must warn you sirs, we have all reasons to believe we’re not the only ones that have flown down here because of him. We couldn’t have been the only ones to have spotted him, so, we have to take quick action to apprehend him and bring him in, once and for all.

What do you want us to do? asked the president forthrightly.

I have drawn a plan with Mr. Ayotomide and we have worked out a way to employ some of his best field operatives in making it happen.

But, I wonder though, mumbled the Chief of Staff to the President, what could he be doing here at all?

Judging by his pattern of operation, responded the CIA boss, he could be here to assassinate someone.

Silence.

The unspoken threat reflected on everybody’s face.

Someone important enough, continued John Penn, powerful enough, needed dead enough to go through the stress of employing someone as deadly as Francis Whyte to assassinate him.

Him? surmised the Chief of Staff.

Or her, how can I be certain? shrugged John Penn.

His audience shared wary looks. If the described stress would be gone through by anyone to assassinate someone in Nigeria, President David Imoukhuede would be the intended victim anyone would wager on, and the United States would as well be the prime suspect.

What’s your theory, Mr. Penn? asked the Chief of Defense Staff.

As I’ve said sirs, I cannot be sure, but one thing I can say as an advice is, Your Excellency sir, your windows are too open here. You have to tighten your security. A man like Francis Whyte, when he shoots, he doesn’t miss. And a hundred men wouldn’t be enough to hold him if he’s through with his… task. He was caught once, taken to the most impenetrable prison in the world, he escaped under the timeframe of fifteen minutes. Three years ago, we killed him –at least, we thought we did—but here he is again. Just give us the required permit sir. With the help of the NIA, we will grab hold of him before he does anything dire.

So, where is he now? asked Mr. Olabode distrustfully.

We’re not sure of that yet, answered the NIA boss. He must either be in Lagos or in Abuja. We’re looking both places.

And you said others might have spotted him too. If they had, why haven’t they come to warn us? asked the president.

"Not everyone respects territorial protocols like the