Fog Soldiers

By Ena Eweka

Egozien, a soldier of conscience, suddenly finding the military to be at complete odds with his principles, decides hes had enough. The opportunity to desert presents itself, and he grabs it. But he doesnt get very far. The military tentacles stretch farther beyond the reaches that he had imagined. Though placing first is second nature to him, he finds himself deploying a skill set that tests his outermost limits. In a civilian world filled with wily and extremely sharp characters, he comes to the realization that its impossible to stay alive without love and a lot of luck.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546285892

Ena Eweka

Ena Eweka is a Nigeria trained lawyer and obtained his secondary and tertiary education over there in the 70’s and 80’s. He spends his ‘writing time’, a period when he chooses to indulge in the creativity of writing, which he loves, in London, UK where his family resides. He also maintains an active legal practice in Benin, Nigeria. This is his second work; the first being under the title ‘Fog Soldiers’. Cover illustration concepts by Ena Eweka & Olu Ajayi

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© 2018 Ena Eweka. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/22/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-8590-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-8589-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

PROLOGUE

Dawakin Kudu. Kano, Amina’s Cove: Dec. ’00

Most citizens in the remote, sparsely populated Hausa village knew of the cantonment location. It was situated two miles east of the only western presence—a decrepit two-block primary institution, behind which seemingly lay oblivion.

The only road leading from the village transcended from a graded one, which came off the flawlessly tarred major interstate road from the east. It was without gravel, just pressed northern yellow claylike soil which over the years had loosened, and now released its dust at the slightest provocation. It made its way north past the school, and joined up with the old Kano city axis some thirty to forty miles away.

Not many in the sparsely populated long-forgotten village were concerned about the road leading to an unaffiliated residence four miles west of the school’s flank. Like the school, it was seldom used, and even today, the arrival of the invitees had been timed to keep arousal to a minimum.

It was 10 a.m., a time when weary farmers took the first major break from tilling the coarse land to participate in prayers at the only mosque across from the square, far away to the east of the school.

Thirty minutes after the first arrival, all nine vehicles parked in the vast parking lot had veered off the main village road and onto the wide dirt track which appeared to lead nowhere. Sparse scorch shrubs dotted the crusty landscape in all directions. The ten-kilometre track was properly maintained, going by the prevalent culture, and took a little over six minutes to manoeuvre.

Eleven years earlier, a Dando rig had gone down twelve hundred feet, to ensure the supply of water responsible for the splendid oasis-like spread that was now seated on three and half hectares or so of cultivated hemmed-in greens. The bungalow at its heart was now completely concealed and deceptively small, with a third of its space being below ground level.

The tension driving the meeting that was about to commence was built around the knowledge, among all the participants, that their sacred mission, commenced thirty-six years back, would either take on an added dimension or come apart at the seams.

The participants went, two at a time, down a red-carpet-lined stairway which opened into a huge, lavishly furnished living room. At the head of an aesthetically pleasing mahogany conference table, the coordinator for the day’s proceedings sat rigid.

When he made his first glance down its thirty-foot length, at a preferred spot just above head level of the member directly across, was when all nine were seated. He appeared to be drawing courage from the eight-by-six-inch framed pictures of the three founding fathers.

The bottom line was that everyone in the room knew Colonel Jubril Muhammad to be a fine soldier, the most deserving for at least one of the six coveted brigadier slots up for grabs.

His sponsoring sect, the A’lmijira, had been humble enough to present just the one candidate, put by four each from the other two blocks, but its leader, General Gwarzo, was uneasy.

Six of his colleagues, all generals wearing a minimum of three stars, were avoiding his gaze. It was obvious to him that some form of collaboration had been forged behind the scenes.

The pseudo or quasi-egalitarian Am’Hadari, represented by General Yusuf Mamman, and the radical X’Zinkafa blocs had finally found common ground. Fleeting rumours confirming the suspicions had reached him just before he boarded the flight headed for Kano, and now there was boldness on faces where previously there was humility. In their reckoning, it was time to stand up to age. After all, between them, they possessed beauty, brawn, and youth.

Fate had also ensured General Addo Muhammed was the highest-ranking officer in the room. And he was of X’Zinkafa extraction, a first in the thirty-six-year history of their most revered ‘Z’Amina Kuru’ confraternity.

At the previous meeting, two years earlier, it had been the recently deceased Adu Bisala, of Am’Hadari extraction. All those preceding that had been acceded to A’lmijira, out of respect for the age-to-rank ratio and the sheer power wielded by its members.

After the lobby and votes, A’lmijira, along with its lead, Lieutenant General Muhammad Gwarzo, conceded, letting go of all the ranks up for grabs and accepting the possibility of a power shift, before retreating quietly to lick their wounds.

***

The northern power bloc, out of which the current tussle emerged, started with the presumptuous colonialist gifts, which, as things went at the time, excluded the east and the South-South geopolitical region of the country.

To the west was given education, and to the north, the gun.

Four years after independence, sometime in March of 1964, in a small northern military cantonment somewhere in Dawakin Kudu, serendipity forged three fine soldiers, Sarkin Bello, Tijani Abdulahi, and Abubaka Waziri, all first lieutenants of divergent extraction, to the same officers’ mess.

After much kuri, the locally brewed alcoholic beverage, a single theme emerged.

The pivot was an old joke, common among soldiers throughout the north, and it addressed the issue of the farthest extent to which one would go in order to assist a friend in need. Roughly translated, it went something like, Out of my love for you, I have procured you a wife, but please do not expect me to lend you my tool to use in keeping yourselves happy. The analogy sounded crude and funny to them, but it was considered profoundly apt that night.

The moral: the colonialists had done their best by providing them power. Sustenance was their responsibility entirely.

Coincidentally, the three wise men, as they came to be known, were from the most prominent ruling houses in the north, and each, once they’d departed to their various tents, spread the good news and targeted new recruits. All subsequent secret meetings between them focused on enhancement and purification of the newfound coinage, and its proposed tenets.

Coining of the phrase ‘Z’ Amina kuru itself had enthused the founders no end, and birthed a zeal that was believed would conquer disunity and install unfettered power to all within the ambits of its umbrella.

Elected members from each of the three major houses, A’lmijira, Am’Hadari and X’Zinkafa, would deliberate on every delicate issue affecting the northern sector of the Nigerian military, but only within the confines of the codes and ethics set down by the founding fathers.

The A’lmijira axis, previously the most revered of the houses, emerged from the centre of the north, with the old Kano military elite at its taproot.

Am’Hadari evolved out of the right horn of the north, with its core members originating from Borno. Like X’Zinkafa from the left horn, it gained in prominence following the shift which saw the capital move to the central, but more northerly, location of Abuja.

By far the fiercest, X’Zinkafa gradually distilled into a group of radical extremists with little regard for clout or brainpower, possessing enough spiritual energy to detonate an atomic bomb from a thousand paces. Sokoto, with its spillages from the Niger tribes from Maradi and Illela, formed the major root.

Between them, all power within the military was manipulated, much to the chagrin of the western military elite, who felt short-changed on account of their superiority in ‘Western’ exposure, education, and relative population advantage.

‘The stone the builders rejected’ and ‘What had been hidden from the wise and the prudent’ were just two of the proverbs of exasperation used to address the paradox, whenever a veto from the north was deployed by this powerful unknown group.

The codes which regulated the fraternity were sacrosanct, hinged as it were on life or death, and for a long time an absence of consensus or disruptions was unheard of.

Thirty-two years on, with the giddy pace of political and social development and, invariably, financial interference, the first signs of cracks began to appear. The left and right began a subtle squeeze which saw them exclude any Kano or central-sector presence in military affairs affecting to the new capital.

The numbers, between both sects, now stood close to a thousand strong, with the usual three tiers of finest soldiers from the north, all carefully and secretly drafted.

The implications of the current dynamics and trends within the sect would take quite some time to cascade for some, but certainly not for all.

CHAPTER 1

Lagos. Ikoyi military cantonment: Jan. ’01

Back in Lagos, barely twenty-four hours after the clandestine meeting up north, Major General Maman Yusuf, also of the North Central’s A’lmijira persuasion, was the officer elected to break the bad news.

Both officers offered brisk salutes, initiated by Colonel Jubril. The general settled his stubby self, with the huge paunch, into his seat. He was five foot six inches tall, with a pyramid-shaped face. His narrow forehead, chubby cheeks, bulging sad eyes, and small pouting mouth, with the absence of a neck, gave him the appearance of a mature tadpole.

‘So how is it going with Colonel Adud and the Turkish regiment? How are they finding Lagos?’ the general asked.

Jubril, who remained on his feet, managed to conceal his dismay. General Yusuf did not indulge in small talk and had only been away in Abuja for three days. He knew the exact position with the Turks. Jubril replied, ‘Welcome back, sir. The conference and training concluded Thursday, sir. They flew back yesterday, thirteen hundred hours, sir.’

‘Good. You’ve been passed over for the promotion on the current list. I can assure you, it will not happen again. We’ll be better prepared next time. Inshallah, ’02 will be your year.’

He dropped being evasive and regarded the colonel more affectively, stopping his eyes on his face for the first time. Jubril was rigid; his face never dropped. ‘I’ve been getting some very disturbing figures coming out of Ijare, Akure. The stats are causing apprehension, but that maniac Lieutenant Shakpa seems unconcerned. I’d like you to do a recon on the state of affairs down there come end of the festivities—5 January to be precise. Get the report on first-hand observation and be back within five days. Dismissed.’

***

The jeep conveying the team was a departure from the regulation army green and bore dark-tinted windows. Colonel Jubril occupied the back space, busying himself with figuring out the future. Reflections flashed through, like the greenery rushing by. He was not sentimental; in light of developments, a thorough, clinical evaluation needed to be done. At twenty-five, as a first-class lieutenant, he engaged the notorious Muslim bigot Matatsine of the north. His effort brought the quelling of the largest religious uprisings the country had ever seen. A loss of four hundred lives was recorded, and the bigot’s followership had been increasing by the day when Jubril had stopped him. Jubril had also been thrown into the deep end with the Khartoum and Monrovia peacekeeping forces and had come out unscathed.

He felt a slight heat rush. His laced fingers came apart and ran down the length of both his thighs. It was a twinge of despondence that made him feel vengeful.

One of his prime, constantly itchy considerations was his noticeably expanding midsection brought on by time. Jubril had long convinced himself he was not being vain. This, coupled with the fact that his chin cleft and dimples were smoothening under new layers of fat, ought to cause concern, he thought. He laced the fingers again and stared back through the rushing greenery. The recent resolution helped. It was a welcome departure from having to suppress dismay each time he looked in the mirror. If anything, it acknowledged the probability that he was filling out and even appeared more handsome because of the expansion.

He had intelligent but mainly evasive dark brown eyes and was always clean-shaven, with a half-square fringe on permanently close-cropped dark healthy hair with not a single streak of grey.

Jubril was thoroughbred northern Nigerian, born in Kano to Hausa parents. He’d had no experience of life outside the northern parts till he was thirteen and ready to embark on secondary education. He’d also had no reason to doubt the wisdom of the elders—until now.

The choice he now had to make came easily, mainly because each time he had the mental wrestle, vivid memories of his stint down south sprang to the fore. It featured his most cherished memories, invariably including those of his father, who had been posted there on military duties. The place was the midwest. And his father’s duties were sundry, including being aide to Brigadier General Waheed Tjani, now long deceased.

Life had been good then, a major departure from the strife presented at the old Kano city where he was born and spent his earliest years. There were always leftovers from the main house, so food was never a problem. And the opportunity to hitch a ride in one of the brigadier’s numerous cars meant transport was never a luxury.

The plan to see Jubril in the military school in Zaria was well under way when his father died as a sergeant major just two years later. It was in Zaria, under very tough conditions—most likely prompted by his father’s rather early departure—that he finished his secondary and tertiary education.

It was hard to tell if his father knew anything of the A’lmijira persuasion to which his boss was aligned. But what Jubril did know was that his father had been a damn good soldier—clean, crisp, disciplined, and in the main, broke.

Jubril’s eyes moved from his thoughts to the digital time displayed on the trims. The ride from Lagos to Akure would take four hours at least with the deplorable state of the roads, but this time he found it comforting. It was enough time to put issues about his fate with A’lmijira and the inherent politics to bed. The proposal from the stocky Turkish diplomat, Grohzny, loomed. Both issues balanced themselves out nicely.

The lobby which now ran across all three northern sects was a new approach, and there was no point in hanging around for acknowledgements or head noddings. There was a need to force the hands of the decision makers, and the Turks had to be the future.

You are a good soldier, Jubril. The words of General Yusuf echoed in his head. The rare gift of keeping your head has been an asset to this unit, but some feel radical changes are required within the body today. With the sort of politics we are now seeing, I don’t blame them.

The general can tell that to the fairies, Jubril thought, adjusting his position slightly, now only briefly irritated. With the kind and abundance of opportunities available to military officers, there was little point in even registering the patronizing comment as an insult. He had better ideas on ways to move the arm of the sect forward, and they certainly did not involve the general as a key player.

Jubril’s thoughts moved to the high points in the discussions with the Turk. He was still affected by the younger man’s demeanour. One would be forgiven the assumption the man was talking about goatskins, he thought, staring beyond the onrushing green verges into the new layout of dense forests.

The rate at which Nigerians travel makes this a route filled with promise, but it is currently being exploited by—how do you say?—brigandage. Proper coordination is required. The Turk had sounded almost philosophical, puffing hard on cigarettes and intermittently, when not pulling, exposing the palms and outstretched fingers of both hands in gesticulation. His speech was heavily accentuated, and he spoke in rapid clusters, often punctuated by short pauses that enabled him to find the right English words.

Jubril dug deeper and settled for a recap on three issues which made the Turkish proposal ideal. There were colossal figures involved, and the nature of the proposed arrangements were carefully thought out. In practice, and as a soldier, he’d never seen the need for theories; the operational sides were relatively risk-free. The second point was the opportunity it gave him to develop better structures for his thriving diamond trade, currently limited to mainland Africa. And finally was the fact that the Turkish crook had most certainly compiled a dossier on him, including his extramilitary affairs. There was no other reason for the bastard to have been so brazen in his approach.

Two of Jubril’s mules on the new Belgium route had broken away to forge their own diamond trade racket lately, and he wondered vaguely if the abrasive Turk, considering all he appeared to know, had approached any of them. His assurances to the contrary carried very little conviction. Either that or the man was simply a bigoted racist.

Jubril shifted in the seat. In some respects, the audacity of the proposal blurred the borders of blackmail. The fact that he had no idea he was the subject of anyone’s scrutiny, particularly someone of such high profile, made him a little uneasy.

His left hand instinctively went to his mouth to conceal a sigh. The good life is always going to come with several risks, he thought, before passing the same hand characteristically over the skin of his face and bringing it back to settle on the leather-trimmed armrest.

***

The jeep turned off the Benin–Ondo motorway and cruised for about fifteen minutes on the freshly tarred Ijare road before pulling up at the designated spot. Second Lieutenant Egozien alighted and approached the passenger’s door.

‘In view of the surveillance planned, the best approach for the selected location from which to observe is the rear, to the east, sir. We are two miles east of the platoon’s camp.’

Jubril scanned the area. The patch of dense shrubbery through which the path was cut was at the end of a two-mile curve, approximately seven miles of the busy express road. ‘And up ahead?’

‘Another three miles will bring us to the base of Okota town, sir.’

‘Get in.’ Jubril tapped the driver’s headrest, urging him to proceed farther up the road. It extended for precisely three miles and led upward, with the first incline being close to thirty degrees. It levelled out, after a series of twists and turns, close to thirty feet above sea level, before shredding into indistinguishable dirt roads fifteen feet wide. Like their main artery, all were without drainage. Most of the rainwater simply ran into the shrubbery verges and, ultimately, the eager forest.

The town which had come into view was not the oddest in the stone-blitzed landscape of the country’s west-south-west sector, but it was certainly the oldest. The second lieutenant had been curious upon stumbling upon the unusual layout during his initial reconnaissance mission, and going by folklore, he learnt that it had become a model for the other ancient settlements scattered on the hills, each consisting of roughly two hundred buildings etched into convenient crevices between the rocks and monoliths.

The driver adjusted the stick to accommodate the incline, which steepened as they progressed, mindful of the sheer drops from the narrow, barrier-free dirt paths.

Jubril, enthralled, took in the landscape and surroundings. The houses and streets were constructed to take advantage of platforms or spaces on or between rocks, and the highest were perched close to a hundred or so feet above sea level.

The social fabric, from what he could see, appeared woven to ensure discreetness. There was barely anyone walking the streets. Most of the houses were made from mortar too, with a sizeable few being impressive-looking modern storey buildings hemmed by dense but well-maintained shrubs.

Twenty minutes later they were back on level ground, and the jeep was parked on a convenient clearing close to the point of entry, facing north.

The path was relatively fresh, forty-eight hours old, but the shrub tips had rebounded and were eager to claim the space. They appeared, most astonishingly, considering the time available, when least expected, like whips, curling and lashing, tangling and tripping, and inevitably provoking soft cursing, in consequence of hastier motion from the advancing unit of three.

The forestry was secondary now, with plants between five to twenty years old, but they were high enough to provide complete shade over the narrow path. The sun, though, was relentless, and the little breeze there was struggled to get through the denseness.

A third of a mile in, the landscape opened to the rear view of a series of majestic monoliths, spanning several miles to the north-east, taking up the best part of five to six hundred hectares of space. A dent, highlighted by perspective, appeared in the rim-like formation a few miles further up, before it disappeared behind the town’s eastern flank in the distance.

It was hard to tell if the strain brought on the flashback as Jubril’s mind drifted from the direction in which they were headed.

We can ensure an easy flow into Nigeria at no risk to you. All you need is a little more imagination than you are using on the diamond routing, just a little more.

The Turk had created a gap between the index finger and thumb on his left hand to emphasize how little he felt the imagination needed to be, and it was somewhere close to a tenth of an inch!

Jubril tore himself from the flashback and observed the treacherous surfaces ahead, acknowledging the efforts his junior aide had put into securing the trip. He could tell the boy had done an excellent job of securing the route against slips. The emergence onto the worn path they were now treading, leading to the villagers’ farms, had also been expertly cut, and would be easily missed except by the trained eyes. This left Jubril impressed. Fewer than fifty paces later, they turned off through what prior had been a concealed entrance, on to another path. The young lieutenant had created the mesmerizingly wide gap by one simple stroke of the machete.

The ascent was nothing like Jubril had expected. He struggled to keep abreast without overtly exerting himself.

His thoughts fleeted back fifteen years, to a time when he had admired the huge monoliths with a view to surmounting them. He had actually dreamt of the summit, his own small take on Everest. Now, he sighed gratefully in the knowledge they were stopping at eighty feet. He glanced wistfully towards the point he dreamed of, another six or seven hundred feet of climbing from their present perch.

***

Once in position, Jubril trained the binoculars. His handsome features seemed relaxed, but it was hard to tear his mind from the financial projections presented by the Turk. He admired the fact that the man made no apologies for a ruthless ambition, or the adopted philosophy that all experiences needed to be viewed in phases. Jubril gritted his teeth in agreement. Like all the other tough ones in his life, the current phase, which saw him out in the field, even as a colonel, would pass.

The trough which came into focus was close to the length of an Olympic standard pool. It had to be six feet wide and at least four feet deep, and was half filled with mud. That was the first surprise. His understanding of the topography meant such a continuum of soil space had to be unavailable without hitting rocks.

Three of the new recruits slated for ‘breaking in’ took turns submerging and wallowing like lean pigs in their underpants. On the edge, arms akimbo, was First Lieutenant Shakpa, the dreaded instructor. The patch was a clearing of approximately six acres etched in the dense forest on a west-facing slope illuminated by the high sun. Behind it, about five kilometres away, was a cleft, then a hundred or so feet of elevation with variation in vegetation coloration, indicating the Benin–Ondo road. The exit from the camp, heading towards it, was only barely discernible.

Jubril rolled onto his back before rising into a sitting position. The rock surface on which they were perched was nested between three boulders. It was much like being at the foot end of a bed with side rails. They were at least eight hundred metres away, at an elevation of eighty feet, and the view appeared to be through a forest belt which could not have been better selected. The biggest of the boulders, the one which could be likened to a backrest, was one of the hugest megaliths in Akure, and it virtually blocked out the sun behind them. The dense foliage and trees which emerged from its crevices provided the perfect cover from the spectacle unfolding below.

‘How did he get the machines in for the digging? I thought heavy-duty shovels were prohibited?’

‘It is man-made, sir. With machetes.’

Jubril subdued his astonishment with a short glance in the second lieutenant’s direction.

‘One of the units has just started filing out for the fifteen-mile uphill, sir. You will witness the dreaded frog march any moment, sir.’

Jubril slowly rolled back into the observation position, impressed. His mind fleeted to their first encounter barely sixteen months back.

The young man beside him, Second Lieutenant Egozien, or Goz, as he learnt he had been called all the way since his secondary school days in Lagos, was endearing in the fact that he too was a man of few words. Intensive, mostly surreptitious observations which Jubril had executed on the young man revealed that much.

Jubril had tightened the scrutiny and tests on the lad, mainly on the spur of a deeply buried instinct with which he felt uncomfortable, but everything had panned out perfectly. He considered the young man fitted perfectly into his ideas of one to man his security details, and the recommendations so far appeared flawless, but there seemed to be a veil beyond which Jubril’s sixth sense could not penetrate.

With Goz being twenty-six years of age, and standing just over six feet tall with a lean, muscular build, Jubril thought that the long haul seemed a possibility, but not before the veil was penetrated.

Goz was handsome, with his eyebrows, the most prominent feature on his face, being peculiar by the slow rise and sharp descent into the narrow space just above and between his eyes, each like mountain peak of sorts, consisting of dark curly hair against his caterpillar to golden-brown skin.

The last assessment report, which alluded to the young man’s amazing power of observation, attested to a sense of awareness rarely seen among his peers.

Jubril tuned to the spectacle below.

In the last month alone, First Lieutenant Shakpa had lost six new recruits.

Fatalities came with the territory. Jubril had always assumed such investigations were a mere formality, but the numbers were swelling. All the same, his opinion leaned towards the unprecedented level of breakdown in law and order, and acute unemployment and hopelessness engulfing the country’s youth. It appeared to be pushing them towards the military. He had seen it countless times. They all wanted to handle a gun, and there was only one legitimate way—the armed forces.

Six of the supposedly injured had been set aside for inspection, all bound in crudely assembled bandages. The instructor held on to a one-inch-thick aluminium pipe about seven inches or so long. An order appeared to have been given, and they began a frog-marching drill. In less than two minutes, the chain had broken.

The drill was exceptional, even by Jubril’s standards. He watched as the culprit was pulled aside and made to squat with his head leaning over his knees. The nape was exposed, and bore the full impact of the blow. The victim keeled over and was still.

Two of the others, bandaged limbs and all, broke free and scampered off to join the roadwork. Jubril dropped his binoculars. The blow had been too close to the medulla region.

‘Did you catch that?’

‘Yes, sir. Two o’clock, sir, on the hill. I think it’s Blue unit, sir.’

Jubril adjusted the dials.

He laughed softly as one of the recruits, previously prostrate, sprang to his feet. The method of ensuring the runners were truly unconscious was crude but seemed to be effective.

‘That will do for now. Let’s head for Benin.’

CHAPTER 2

Abuja. Garki cantonment: June ’01

First Lieutenant Maleeke walked briskly up the wide passage leading from the guards’ living quarters with a mind consumed by the presentation that lay ahead. His regard for the man requiring his presence manifested itself in his strides. He revelled in the belief that faith was mutual, and had resolved, after two years of adoration from a distance, that he was the luckiest man alive because he’d been taken into confidence by a man such as Colonel Jubril.

To his credit, all the performance stats weighed heavily in his favour, placing him at the top on all fronts of military endeavours.

His presence was supported by a thick six-foot-four frame cast in one of the seventy million or so Nigerian shades of much darker brown.

The corridor was typical of ones to be found in all mansions of the Nigerian rich—surfaced as it was with glazed, glossy marble. Most of the lower-ranking officers speculated, with good reason, that the surface was the sole object responsible for the unusual swagger associated with the bloody rich civilians, even when they eventually had to walk on grated grounds—and not the physical attributes presented by outrageous paunches stuffed with bad food and alcoholic beverages.

The Garki cantonment, like many of the others across the country, had two such properties within their confines. Colonel Jubril occupied the more luxuriant of them. The top military brass, who had agitated for their construction, reasoned it was not out of place that they too share in the manifestations of opulence typical of the country’s privileged.

Maleeke’s hand paused on the chrome doorknob, and for a brief second, the expectation of what lay beyond it almost stopped him from twisting it.

Inside the vast room with its white walls and high, plaster-of-Paris ceiling, the single occupant, Colonel Jubril Muhammad, regarded the rigid lieutenant with his usual demeanour, seemingly casual.

His most active days were nearing an end, and his rounded midsection was ample testimony. His hand caressed the black leather trim on the three-seater’s left armrest.

Maleeke retained his full posture, aware that every aspect of the dilemma at hand, including the best solution, had been assessed and calculated with unerring precision by the colonel. The reason he had been summoned was down to a question of alignment or telepathy—a question of whether or not they were