The Ex-Presidents' Club

By Aminu Maiga

When supermarket manager, Kelvin, went to his part-time night job in the brand-new London skyscraper, he was mainly looking forward to chatting with Sierra, the beautiful Brazilian night cleaner. But within the blink of an eye, everything changed.

Kelvin made a discovery that did not only mean immediate death but also threatened the lives and freedom of millions.

How to survive a cabal of former heads of state hell-bent on regaining past glory, an intrepid all-female squad of problem-solvers, long-forgotten bitter foes and shadowy multinational conglomerates with unlimited funds, was just the beginning of his problems.

Pursued by assassins and a hidden mastermind who proved to be more than a match for the CIA, MI6 and embedded Chinese double agents, Kelvin must race to save his kidnapped ailing brother and the one country that held the key to a possible new world power. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duxes Publishing
• Release date: Apr 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739739300

Aminu Maiga

Originally from Accra, Ghana, Aminu Maiga made his home in London, England, for many years. His love for books began at a tender age when he read all the books discarded by his elder siblings. His passion for writing came to the fore after he lost his only brother, who shared that joy of telling a good story. He currently resides in South Yorkshire, England.

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Work

Docklands, London, United Kingdom

Thursday, December 3

About A Week Earlier

KELVIN ERAMERSON FELT restless again. Prolonged periods of inactivity could do that, even to a patient man. It was the most difficult part of this night job.

He wore down the thick burgundy carpet on the eighteenth floor of the new Radiant Way building walking back and forth. To his left on this pass was the glass wall beyond which the picturesque majesty of the clustered skyscrapers of Canary Wharf unfolded. To his right were offices and a glass-enclosed foyer that led to more offices and conference rooms.

Thirty-year-old Kelvin’s six-foot-tall athletic frame was clad in a dark slim-fit suit with a white shirt and a red tie. His hair was cropped low, his beard neatly trimmed. The darker grooves under his eyes, which contrasted with his still boyish face, gave him the impression of permanent sadness. An aura of melancholy that, paradoxically, had the effect of drawing people to him.

Kelvin had joined a new security firm after just a telephone conversation, two forms, and a short Zoom interview. In-person meetings were still the options of last resort, years after the devastation unleashed on an unprepared world by a series of strains of coronavirus. He was now an integral part of the Proton Security Company’s night-shift team covering the new building in Canary Wharf.

It had been a couple of weeks already. He was on a zero-hour contract and self-employed. This meant he had no job security and no fringe benefits. But he enjoyed the freedom of working whenever he wanted. He wasn’t being micromanaged by an overzealous area manager like in the day job he’d just quit, running a supermarket on the High Street. The downside of this job was not the relatively lower pay and prestige, but rather the long spells of inactivity.

Kelvin responded to a status check on his radio and returned to his thoughts. He hoped his journey back home to Walthamstow in the morning wouldn’t be like his journey to work. He’d had to walk in the constant drizzle from the Docklands Light Railway station in the new expensive Italian shoes he had worn for Sierra, the Brazilian night cleaner he met on his first night working here.

Sierra Manucho was a postgraduate foreign student. The Brazilian government apparently sponsored her entire study under a new scholarship program for people in deprived areas commonly known as Favelas. She worked part-time at night to supplement her allowances. At least that was what Kelvin had gathered so far.

For the first time in a long time, Kelvin found himself drawn to someone and had to make a concerted effort. Sierra didn’t exhibit the saviour complex most women seemed to have where he was concerned. His naturally sad and mysterious vibe didn’t seem to do it completely for her. Sierra was into shoes and nice cars, and she wasn’t shy about it.

She seemed particularly interested in expensive Italian and French shoes. Kelvin was sure he had a thing for slender but curvy Sierra, with the exotic accent, luxurious cascading curls, and almond-shaped eyes. Her obvious aversion to the cleaning work she did was strangely part of her charm. Her complaints after every wipe of a window or a desk as she chatted with him were like foreplay to something incredibly beautiful.

Everything she did was magic to Kelvin. The way she angled her head, put one hand on her hip, and looked at him sideways slowly from head to toes. No, that’s not right. From head to shoes. How her eyes lingered on his shoes and depending on whether she approved or not, a smile or a quick return to her task.

Kelvin finally understood the importance of shoes. He blew half his savings the next day on designer shoes from designer outlets in Central London after her first look of disapproval at his unpolished brogues. His friends, Alandio Clement and his wife Tasha, happened to visit that day.

True love doesn’t care about shoes, bro, Alandio had said to his enamoured friend.

Don’t mind him Kel, you have to get in there first. I am glad you’re finally trying. Maybe a little trim of the beard and a manicure. I mean a proper...

Let me stop you there, Tasha. This is as far as I am going. It was only because she frowned at my shoes. I want her to know I care about what she thinks. Besides, these babies ain’t cheap. I am not spending any more money.

You should have gone to TK Maxx bro, same quality but much cheaper, Alandio said.

You should go to Specsavers if you can’t see these are custom limited editions, said Tasha.

Kelvin wore new shoes to work that night. Sierra rewarded his efforts with that sideways look she seemed to have perfected for him. He was right.

He listened to more chatter on the radio as he came by the glass enclosure again. According to the messages, the guests had started to arrive for a private meeting on his floor. The whole building was shut down for that purpose. One would think there was something of great significance going on, but the almost empty building suggested otherwise.

Two beautiful blonde-haired women emerged from a small conference room. They stood by the door as if expecting someone imminently.

Both were tall and slender with similar dress and demeanour. They wore the same short black sleeveless body-hugging evening dress, with black lacy stockings. Their red high-heeled boots made them even taller and climbed to their thighs.

They did not seem to notice Kelvin taking a position outside, near the corner of the rectangular glass enclosure that led to the conference room area. Kelvin had no access to that area. He could only observe through the glass. A private lift opened directly into that enclosure.

He stayed in that position. Finally, something to break the monotony. He was intrigued by the two women who now stood on either side of the private lift’s door. Their attire was a bit incongruous in that setting. It was what he would expect on his bouncer jobs at the doors of nightclubs. Who were they waiting for?

A muffled ping came from the lift through the glass. Then the doors to the lift opened. Three suited men walked out and looked around, not saying a word or directly acknowledging the presence of the two women. Kelvin could see three more dark-suited men in the lift blocking the view to another person behind.

Soon he heard a muffled, clear, from one of the suited men outside the lift. He assumed the men were security personnel, not unlike himself. But there were subtle differences to the keen eye. The black suits they wore seemed to be tailored, not off the rack. They looked like expensive bespoke Savile Row work. He should know.

A slight bulge in the breast area of each suit indicated active shoulder holsters. They were all armed. Their movements were coordinated and precise. Minimal wastage of time and effort. These were not your average SIA door supervisors or close protection operatives. These people were the real deal. They had to be elite in the world of armed forces. Thank God Sierra was not around to see their highly polished expensive shoes. He didn’t need any competition in that regard.

One of the first three took a position by the inner door to the conference room. The other two flanked the two women. One of the three in the lift came out and went to the door of the glass enclosure. He nodded to Kelvin and took his position on the other side of the glass door. He must have rightly assumed Kelvin to be one of the in-house security men.

Next came the remaining two on either side of a tall fleshy, potbellied man. He had huge, pockmarked cheeks, large eyes, and close-cropped white hair. Kelvin only saw him in profile as he came out of the lift.

There was something familiar about the man and his movements. The man went over and hugged each of the women. He kissed each on both sides of the cheek. Then he turned briefly to look around as he was ushered into the conference room by the two women. That was when Kelvin finally saw the full face of the man and froze.

Chapter 2

Marked Man

Kelvin was struck with consternation. He just saw former President Sunday L. Johnson of Nigeria in person. The man who offered him sanctuary and protection after he left his own country for a life in exile. The man who then acted to silence him after the incident in the North.

Kelvin’s mind drifted to the image of a burning bungalow with dark-clad armed men watching the house burn, bathed in the shimmering light of the flames. He heard their gunshots when they put down the odd person who made it out of the burning building with impunity. He recalled his shock and sorrow returning home that fateful day. His jump over the fence into his compound and the ensuing firefight.

He relived how he made each of his bullets count until he ran out of ammo in the only pistol he carried. His subsequent escape and the pursuit that followed. Kelvin was technically still on the run from this man he had just seen. This man was ultimately responsible for the death of the beautiful soul, Ayesha Toure. Ayesha of the golden voice. Ayesha the gem of the Sahara...

A ping from the lift brought him out of his reverie. He realised he was being watched. His reaction had not gone unnoticed. The bodyguard on the other side of the glass enclosure stared at him.

The lift doors opened behind the bodyguard and a man emerged, flanked by two suited attendants. It was a boon night for the security industry in London. But wait a minute. Who was that man being escorted now into the conference room? It couldn’t be.

It was none other than Etienne Kabila. Former President-for-life of the Democratic Republic of Congo.

Etienne Kabila was another despot who claimed a relationship with previous rulers of the same name. His real name was a matter of speculation and dispute. A web-based Congolese newspaper published what they believed to be proof of Kabila’s link to the infamous warlord, Laurent Kabemba. A man who was tried and convicted in The Hague for unspeakable atrocities. Rumours had it that Etienne Kabila put a two-million-dollar bounty on the head of the man responsible for the capture of Kabemba.

Kelvin wondered if seeing two of the last people he would ever wish to meet again in the same place was pure coincidence. Could it be possible he had unwittingly walked into an elaborate trap designed as a security event? It sounded far-fetched.

The bodyguard on the other side of the glass took a glance at the newcomers as they entered the conference room. Then he resumed his interest in Kelvin.

Kelvin walked back and forth, always keeping the lift in view. He took deep breaths and tried to remain calm. Repressed memories of loss and rage threatened to burst forth. A part of him wanted to break that glass door and go after Sunday Johnson. This was probably the closest he could ever hope to get to him in his current circumstances. But that would be suicidal.

He needed to control his emotions. At least until he had left this place and decided what to do. For that to happen, he must keep calm and protect his current identity.

The next guest to arrive was accompanied by only one bodyguard. He was a short potbellied man whom Kelvin immediately recognised. The man who united Anglophone and Francophone Cameroon in blood. Former President of Cameroon, Blaise Song.

In quick succession, and accompanied by at least one bodyguard, were former leaders of Benin, the Gambia, Burkina Faso, and a couple more Kelvin did not recognise.

Was this a subcommittee of the African Union? He doubted it. Something sinister was going on.

He knew he had to leave before this unholy gathering began to disperse. There was no telling how long that meeting would take. Better leave now when he could.

Do it. Just go. The infernal bodyguard by the glass enclosure still stared at him. He continued to walk back and forth. Do it. Just go. He still deliberated his exit when the decision was taken out of his hands.

The lift doors opened again. This time it was a solitary figure. A tall, fit looking man in a bespoke black suit stepped out of the lift. The man’s red striped tie belonged to a regiment Kelvin knew well. The Scorpio Regiment of the Ghana Army, founded by himself eight years ago. A selection of the best from all over the army to form the core of what he imagined would have the sole task of guarding democracy.

The man looked stern with a slight frown across his face. He had a cleft in his chin, which was slightly raised as if in disdain of all he surveyed. Kelvin had the presence of mind to internalise his surprise and avert his gaze. The newcomer walked into the small conference room.

If anyone could recognise him on sight, it was Captain Elvis Ansong. One of two brothers whose destiny seemed intertwined with his, in sharply contrasting ways. Captain Elvis Ansong’s presence here confirmed the nature of this meeting. He had stumbled onto a secret: he couldn’t be allowed to live if his true identity was discovered. It was time to burn rubber, or at least wear down the soles of those expensive shoes Sierra didn’t get to admire that night.

Kelvin touched his earpiece, ostensibly listening to a message on the radio. Then he held his mouthpiece, attached to the lapel of his coat, while he walked towards the door at the end of the room.

He kept walking until he got out of the office space and into a long corridor. He made for the general use lifts at the end of that corridor, walking as fast as possible without running.

HALIDUN DANDOYA WAS one of the three most trusted bodyguards of former President Sunday Johnson. Halidun was in a quandary. They had run drills about tonight. He must remain in this position by the glass enclosure. He must spot any danger and call for an exit only when necessary. An evacuation plan of the former President using two lookalikes as decoys would be activated on his word.

His position was assessed as the most likely point of entry for any hostiles. Halidun knew unless he was sure about a threat, there was to be no interruption to the meeting.

But he had seen a familiar face. He couldn’t be sure at first and was still not completely certain. But the suited guard outside the glass vestibule also reacted to seeing President Johnson.

His reaction was not of mere surprise. Halidun could understand someone reacting to seeing a public figure, or even their former President. But that kind of reaction was involuntary and filled with fear. At least in the beginning.

Halidun understood fear. It was part of his job back in the old country to dispense a healthy amount of it on a regular basis. It was like the guy had seen a ghost. Couple that with the familiarity, and you had too much of a coincidence. Halidun did not believe in coincidences. Coincidences in his line of work were usually harbingers of death. Period.

He kept on observing the guard. He saw a different kind of mild surprise or rather suppressed reaction, each time a guest came through from the lift. The man walked up and down unnecessarily. Nervous? If so, why?

He must have noticed he was under observation and is trying to disguise his behaviour, but this didn’t fool Halidun. You had to wake up very early in the morning to fool Halidun, son of Dandoya. He knew he had seen that face before.

Now the man was receiving a message. He pressed his earpiece and reached for his mouthpiece. Halidun pressed his earpiece. There was no sound. Then he realised the in-house guards were on a different channel. He pulled out his two-way Motorola radio and changed the channel from four to one. Still nothing. He knew the in-house security were on channel one. He could see the man still holding his mouthpiece and walking out into the corridor, but Halidun couldn’t hear anything.

Then it dawned on him. The man was leaving. He was running away. Even the movement of his broad back as he exited was familiar. Halidun frowned deeper. Finally, it hit him like a falling sack of yams.

An image of the back of a man running along a pier under yellowish street lighting in the marina area of Eko Atlantic City in Lagos. Turning around to look at Halidun and Captain Adebayo, who were in pursuit. Then jumping on a speed boat, knocking the boatman overboard and speeding away. Halidun’s eyes widened. His mouth opened and he was momentarily motionless with surprise.

Duke Tanson!

He finally blurted and turned on his heels, making for the conference room as quickly as he could.

KELVIN, KELVIN, RECEIVING?

The radio surprised him.

His left hand automatically reached for the mouthpiece on his lapel. He caught himself and paused. That sounded like Daniel Martin, the Proton Security team leader. He ignored the radio and carried on walking quickly. He got to the lifts.

Come in Kelvin. Where are you, mate?

He did not respond.

Kelvin, please respond immediately. I am at your position.

He pushed the buttons to both lifts and waited.

The sound of increasingly quickening footsteps came from the corridor behind him. Then another. The lift was still not there yet. No floor indicators. He looked to the right. Glass. He could see through to the Thames River and Silvertown beyond. If only he could fly. He turned to the left and saw a door. Beside it was a fire hose wound around a red metallic reel and a glass box containing a red painted fire axe. It was a few metres away.

Then from the radio, Team alert! Team alert! Please report on the sight of Kelvin. I repeat, please report on the sight of Kelvin.

The voice of Danny Martin sounded more urgent. The footsteps from the corridor broke into a run. That was his cue.

He dashed for the door beside the lifts. He was tempted to take the secured fire axe but knew he had no time now. He went through the door and down the stairs.

There were seventeen floors between him and the ground floor. He wasn’t looking forward to doing a mini marathon in those Italian shoes he had worn for Sierra. He needed to try for the lifts again on another floor. There should be some of his colleagues on the floor directly below. Nothing was said about the remaining floors except the ground floor and basement car park, covered by an armed contingent.

He changed the channel on his two-way radio from one to two. There was nothing but static. He turned it to channel three then four, whilst still quickly descending the stairs, and finally picked up some chatter. He picked up only a few snippets of coded messages which didn’t make sense, as expected. It was not standard common security language. These were professionals of a higher calibre. However, the urgency in those snippets told Kelvin everything he needed to know. He had to assume the worst and trust no one.

He kept his radio on channel four. Kelvin didn’t think they would risk involving other staff besides Johnson’s men and trusted affiliates to hunt him. It would have been too large a field of containment. One could be reasonably certain an investigation into any overt act of violence would occur in Great Britain.

Rational people didn’t kill with impunity in a country with strong institutions. They did so with circumspection. Johnson always had specialists in that regard. The ones that could be trusted to do horrible things to their fellow humans.

Such people were not usually characterised by huge muscles or any overt display of intimidating physical strength and weaponry. You’d see it in their eyes if you knew how to look. They inherently had the ability, inventiveness, and willingness to go that extra mile in creatively ending the lives of others.

Kelvin decided he could get the lift from one of the unguarded floors below and descend to the first floor. Then make his way from there to the ground floor and just walk out the front door before anyone could react.

He got to the fire door leading to the next floor. He ignored it and kept going. One more floor down, and he heard the door above open. He paused and saw two dark-suited men rush through. One big blonde man with a crooked nose and the bodyguard that was staring at him earlier. He took the next few steps to the landing and went quickly to open the fire door when one of the pursuing men from above shouted, Stop! Duke!

He stopped momentarily. Almost involuntarily. No one had called him by that name in years. Kelvin turned his face upwards.

The pursuers had both stopped as well, just inside the stairwell in front of the fire door above. The moment seemed frozen in time. He made eye contact with the big blonde bodyguard first, then the tall black bodyguard. Recognition finally came to him.

He had flashes of a pair of faces twisted in fury, running after him along the waterfront in the Eko Atlantic City of Lagos. A desperate jump onto a passing speed boat. Just making it. A struggle with the surprised boatman as gunshots rang in the air. Then a desperate break for life and freedom to the open sea. Behind him, two silhouettes in shooting stances against a backdrop of shining brand-new skyscrapers. The wind carrying a futile shout of frustration from his main pursuer, Captain Adebayo, Duke Tanson!

It was a matter of seconds of reminiscences that nearly cost him his life. Kelvin and Halidun were involuntarily locked to each other and transported across space and time to a memorable moment in both their lives. The crooked-nosed blonde bodyguard, on the other hand, was unencumbered by any significance of the moment. He pulled out his Glock 17 Gen5 9mm pistol. There was no need to manually release the safety of this efficiently crafted pistol. He aimed and squeezed the trigger.

Kelvin was triggered by the movement in his peripheral vision. He yanked open the door and shot through it just in time before a 9mm round lodged in the wooden frame of the door. He knew then a kill order had been given. A capture or kill order, probably. Johnson was either being reckless or had other reasons besides vengeance and being fastidious with loose ends.

Kelvin found himself in a similar office layout to the one he had abandoned upstairs. The lifts were about ten metres away to the left. Opposite the lifts was a corridor like the one upstairs. To Kelvin’s right was nothing but the glass and chrome walls of the building.

He dashed for the lift area and went down the corridor. If the layouts were the same as the floor above, there should be a double fire door to the right at the end of the corridor. The area seemed deserted. He ran to the end of the corridor and turned right. The fire doors were in the exact location as the one on the floors above but with one notable difference. A thick iron chain wound around the two handles and held by a thick padlock secured the door.

But why? Kelvin muttered in frustration.

That had got to be a fire safety violation. He had no time to go back the other way through the main stairs. He went back into the corridor and tried several office doors until he found one unlocked. He got into the office but couldn’t find a means to lock it. There was no locking mechanism, only a handle. He pulled a desk against the door. He needed a minute to think.

He pulled out his radio from his belt and turned off the volume. Even the slightest sound from his earpiece could give him away in the silence of that deserted floor. A thought occurred to him. He pulled out the radio again, turned on the volume slightly, changed the channel from four back to one and hooked it back to his belt. He depressed the mouthpiece on his lapel and said, Danny, Danny, receiving? Over.

He got a response almost immediately.

Kelvin. There you are. What happened? Been calling for you. Where are you?

Daniel Martin sounded relieved.

Listen, Danny, I am in danger. I am in...

The radio died. Dead air. He tried increasing the volume a bit further, but nothing happened. He turned it up all the way, his danger temporarily forgotten. Nothing. He tried different channels including channel four and still nothing. He knew then. Jammers had been activated. He was cut off now. It had to be a portable signal jammer with a limited range. If he could get far enough from the source, he should get a signal. He heard doors being kicked open, followed by muted shuffling sounds.

He had a flash of hope as it occurred to him, he had his mobile phone. He took it out and the signal was dead as well. He looked around the office for a landline. He could call for help. It was better to deal with any part of his secret that came out as a result of a police investigation, than fall in the hands of Johnson and that unholy cabal.

He found a phone on the desk blocking the door. He picked up the receiver but heard no dial tone. Surely jammers didn’t work on landlines. Did they? He didn’t think so. There had to be a phone that worked somewhere on that floor. He had to find it. He started looking around the office.

It was a spacious room with vertical shutters covering all the windows. It looked new like everything else. Some items looked like they had just been installed. Kelvin took another look and noticed the new furniture, walls with fresh paint and the smell of varnish. Plastic sheets and white calico cloth covered several items. The whole area seemed to be under refurbishment. A door within the office led to a smaller room that seemed to be a supplies cupboard.

Kelvin looked in there. No landline. He was about to go back into the main office when his eyes caught some items in the corner of the cupboard. Tools. Power tools. Drill hammers of various types, an electric saw, battery packs in chargers, and a nail gun.

Wait, was that an electric nail gun? He picked it up. It was a cordless nail gun, but the battery was not attached. It was useless. Kelvin cursed under his breath. This could have given him a fighting chance. He put the nail gun down and went back to the main office. The muffled sounds outside got closer. It was only a matter of time now.

He continued to look around desperately. He picked up a chair and pulled out one of the four wooden legs. It was about half the length of his arm and not very heavy. It wouldn’t do a lot of damage. Maybe if he could get some nails on the wood to give it some bite, he might stand a chance. He went back into the supply cupboard. The nail gun he left was on the floor. He searched around the area. There should be nails where there was a nail gun. Maybe inside the nail gun itself. A shuffling noise came from the door. He peeked. The handle turned, but the door was blocked by the desk.

Kelvin decided to take his chances with his wooden weapon. Then his eyes rested on the green blinking lights on the battery charger. Ah. The battery for the nail gun was right there in front of him in the charger, along with several other batteries. He tried one, too big. The next, perfect fit. The door was being crushed open. He shot a nail to the floor to test it. He smiled.

Okay. Dance time, he said to himself.

Chapter 3

God’s Work

Former President Sunday L. Johnson, code-named the Great Elephant by himself to his staff, sat in a plush black leather chair in a medium-sized rectangular dimly lit conference room. Three of his bodyguards stood by the wall in the shadows behind him. A square coffee table on each side of his chair bore his favourite drinks and snacks. Behind the table to his left, stood a pair of female attendants.

It was the same setup for each guest at the clandestine meeting of former autocratic leaders. The female attendants seemed to come in pairs. Each duo attended to one guest and had one main point of difference from another: the style and colour of their hair, which tended to be generally ostentatious. Seven other people sat in similar chairs placed at discreet distances from each other, facing a dais at the end of the room.

The lights dimmed further. A screen on the wall behind the dais came alive with a huge blue map of Africa. Selected countries were highlighted in orange. Through a concealed entrance behind the giant screen came a stooped elderly man. He was about five feet five inches tall, with a short wispy beard and a slight limp.

The man looked to be over seventy years old. He wore a white suit with black shoes and a black bow tie. With his white hair sleeked backwards and his arms clasped behind him, he ambled casually into the room. Then he stood in front of each occupant of the chairs and bowed.

Once he had completed that ceremony, he went back to the front of the room, and was joined by two tall women with blonde hair. Their appearance elicited knowing smiles and a few nods of approval from the audience. The pair took their places standing by the solitary chair on the dais.

After a brief pause, the elderly man stepped forward and began to speak.

May I reintroduce my two main assistants Ying and Yang? I believe you’ve all had the good fortune of meeting them or you wouldn’t be here.

Small applause and more nods of approval followed. President Sunday Johnson seemed particularly enthusiastic in his applause. The elderly man continued once the applause died down.

"My name is Waling Tong. I am your facilitator. In short, I will ensure that everything is working like clockwork behind the scenes. What you need to know about me is that I am African like you. Born in Dar Es Salam, Tanzania, to Chinese parents. I had part of my education there before studying abroad in Asia, Europe and America. I became a lecturer in political science at two prestigious universities in America before being approached to consult in intelligence.

"I have since consulted with most of the intelligence agencies you would recognise. The likes of the CIA, MI6, Mossad, FSB and the Ministry of State Security of China. But also, quite a few you might not recognise and several private military contractors. That was before I quit five years ago. Since then, I have been working for you. You needed to know a little of my background for what I am about to