Salt in the Wounds

By Peter Barker

Caught between an international drug smuggling operation and murderous local gang warfare, Peter Barker must find a way out from the international web of violence and intrigue he finds in Nigeria and Brazil.

Faced with threats from all sides, he uncovers more and more of the complex plot as the tentacles reach out to threaten not just him in Lagos but his family back in UK. Drawn into ever-increasing levels of violence, Peter realises this new job will lead to certain disaster and he must find an escape route before it is too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035810437

Peter Barker

Peter has previously produced a small history of the small Dorset village where he grew up. He is a Greenpeace activist, and with his wife, lives off grid in mid Wales with 31 rabbits.  

Book preview

About the Author

Peter Barker was born in Nima Clinic, Accra, Ghana, West Africa.

After school in the UK, he went to the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, joining an armoured reconnaissance Cavalry regiment.

He completed parachute training and diver training; qualified as an Arctic Warfare Instructor, Jungle Warfare Instructor, Mountain Expedition Leader, and a Forward Air Controller. He served in Norway, Denmark, Northern Ireland, Germany, Italy, Turkey, Cyprus, Lebanon, and Belize, eventually resigning as a Captain.

He has worked in Ghana, Cote d’Ivoire, Nigeria, Cameroon, Brazil, Malaysia, Brunei, Saudi Arabia, Dubai and Sri Lanka, specialising in shipping and trading.

He now lives in the high pasturage of the Jura.

Acknowledgement

My thanks to T.B. for all his encouragement and advice.

Copyright Information ©

Peter Barker 2023

The right of Peter Barker to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035810420 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035810437 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Dedication

To Carol for putting up with the journey so far and to Michael and Elizabeth, with all my love.

Chapter 1

Into the last hour of the British Airways flight from Heathrow into Lagos and time to get myself ready for the ordeal ahead. It’s been 8 years since my last visit to Nigeria but I doubt much has changed. This time I’m arriving to stay for a while as it’s a new job rather than just a business trip. I’m still not entirely clear that this was a good idea but it has been nine months since my last contract finished in Malaysia and the coffers are empty. With a wife and two small children in UK, a mortgage and bills to pay, I have been searching for a new work opportunity for too long now.

I would describe myself as a Generalist General Manager in that I can generally manage anything, normally in countries most people avoid. I have found often that the worse the country, the more lucrative the contract and the reality of living there turns out to be not nearly as bad as one feared. It is a question of making the best of things and taking pleasure in the smallest of victories against the odds.

I saw this job advertised in the International Herald Tribune and knew it would be an interesting challenge. Shipping and trading, port operations, import/export, general Sales and Distribution are my skill sets and this company covers all of those activities. A simple enough concept on the face of things; import bulk iodised table salt, process it into wholesale sacks, sell into the domestic market. However, port operations in Nigeria means extreme risk and running any business in this country raises difficult issues. Being a commodity of national strategic importance means the government is a shareholder in this public listed company with the foreign shareholders being an eclectic mixture of ex-US Marine Corps, retired officers and a Brit in Brazil whose role I have still to understand.

There are 10 expatriates in country, 7 in Lagos and 3 in Port Harcourt, some of whom have wives and children in tow. The company has been operating for 5 years but the Managing Director did a runner three months ago, after a massive spate of attacks against the company by the Dockworkers Union, culminating in the factory being torched, some workers killed and burnt in the carpark and the Operations Manager’s wife shot by mistake in a botched assassination attempt when stuck in the Lagos Go-slow traffic jam one morning.

My brief is that I am to get a 2 year contract with the guarantee that if I cannot restart the company, I am to evacuate all the expatriates and I’ll still get paid in full. During the interviews and meetings in London the details were very sketchy and I feel I am going to be given a pretty free hand to try and sort things out as we go along.

Final approach into Murtala Mohammed airport, cabin lights off, rain streaming along the window starring the ground lights and I can already feel the general tension amongst all of us in First Class as we get our game faces on.

As always, it is the combination of heat, humidity and smell that signals the doors are open and we disembark into the chaos of the airport. Modelled on Schipol airport, this place has not worn well and no air-conditioning means it stinks of damp mould from rotting carpets and fabric wall coverings. Most ceiling light fittings have loose wires and bulb fixtures hanging down and the travellators don’t work; all of us are scurrying to get to Passport Control ahead of the crowd. I step forward and drop my passport along with the Landing Card and Currency Declaration, braced for the usual opening gambit from the Immigration Officer. He looks me up and down as he thumbs through my passport and there is a noticeable flicker of interest as he sees the name of my employer on the visa.

He makes an uncomfortable shift on his chair as he weighs up the options but reaches for the rubber stamp, scrawls several signatures and shoves my passport back through the slot with a dismissive grunt. This is an interesting state of affairs and I just give a brief nod of thanks before moving on swiftly and away into the baggage hall. That was truly unusual as there is always at least a token gesture of trying to find fault, demand some sort of backhander or insist there is a problem of some sort, even if merely to maintain the reputation of Immigration officers being menacing and dangerous to cross.

We all gravitate towards the baggage carousel and I start to scan the exit door, looking for any recognisable company rep who will meet me to ensure a smooth passage from here on in. It can be a long wait in the baggage hall as we all know the airport workers need time to sort through the cases, judging how many and which sort of suitcases will disappear for re-sale. At last the warning siren squeaks, orange lights flash and the baggage belt began to turn. No matter how many times we all pass through these places we all have a reflex to crowd forward in eager anticipation. Down the slide onto the belt comes just a suitcase handle with baggage tag attached. Even by Lagos standards this is a spectacular gesture to the waiting throng. The handle is carried round the carousel, the baggage tag waving gaily in a mocking salute, not one of us wanting to be the first to step forward and claim the shame. Eventually I spot an obvious newbie clutching the handle and looking round in bewilderment as to what to do next. There is an almost audible sigh of relief from the rest of us coupled with the muttering of WAWA from the old hands. It always raises a smile when I hear the old coasters muttering West Africa Wins Again as yet another shambles unfolds.

My battered Samsonite appears and as I step forward, I find another hand reaching for the case. Ready for confrontation, I make a grab and end up holding sweaty hands with a wiry looking Yoruba man, a profusion of facial tribal scars twisting his smile into a not-unfriendly grimace.

Ah, master. I am James, your driver. Welcome to Nigeria.

So, James. How for do? We can go now, I only have the one bag.

Given that there are no secrets in Nigeria and James obviously has taken the trouble to get me pointed out by airport security it is only polite for me to show no surprise at his efficiency, indicating I would have expected nothing less from a man of his talents and expertise. He has a baggage trolley ready and together we walk off towards Customs. James hoists my suitcase onto the counter and steps back.

The Customs officer says with a broad grin, What have you brought for me?

James looks at me in expectation. I step forward and whisper in a conspiratorial manner, A small something for your girlfriend, to make her smell nice, and pass him the First Class complimentary washbag that we all got given on the flight. There is a barked laugh and high-pitched giggle coupled with a hissing through teeth at this joke and I get the white chalk-cross scrawled on my suitcase. James swings it quickly off the counter, onto the trolley and we are away and clear through the exit doors.

In the main Arrivals hall there is a seething mass of people and James barges his way into a corner near an exit door.

I go come with the car now, he says. It is white Landcruiser when I am coming.

I will look for you, I reply and he disappears into the darkness of the carpark.

Arriving in Lagos at night is not a good idea as the roads are lethal after dark. The main road into the city from the airport is particularly dangerous as gangs lurk at the roadside, lob a tyre rim through the windscreen of a passing car and then rob the wreckage. Scam roadblocks appear manned by gangs dressed in rented police uniforms targeting new arrivals with rich pickings of luggage and cash. Nobody is out on Lagos streets after dark unless they have to be. It’s been judged too dangerous to drive down into Apapa this late at night. Luckily the new Sheraton hotel is close by and I feel James is competent enough to know how to minimise the risks.

I spot a large white Landcruiser and recognise James’ face in the windscreen as he double parks, jumps out and beckons me forward. He opens the back passenger door for me, grabs the suitcase, puts it in the back of the truck and leaps back into the driver’s seat. I notice on the front seat there is a short-stock Winchester Defender pump-action shotgun and a small cardboard box. The Colonel axed me to give you the box, James said and I lean forward to pick it up.

Inside there is a note saying he has included a bundle of Naira notes for me to use for if I need to dash, or tip, anyone at the hotel, some briefing papers for our first office meeting and a 9mm Beretta automatic pistol with spare magazine. Welcome to Nigeria indeed and I get the feeling that life is going to get interesting fairly quickly. I transfer all this into my briefcase and put the empty box back on the passenger seat.

Will you be alright getting home tonight or you want to stay at the hotel, James? I ask. There must be driver’s quarters you can take?

I will be fine, thank you, Sir. My home is not far. I will come for you at nine o’clock tomorrow to go to the Colonel’s house at Waterside.

We swing in through the security gates of the hotel, up to the lobby entrance and James jumps out to get my suitcase. The hotel bellboy takes my suitcase and I shake hands with James.

Safe journey, see you tomorrow and thank you for fetching me.

Goodnight, Sir, he says and drives off.

In the lobby, I am pleased to notice an absence of that damp rotting smell of wet carpets and realise this place has stand-by generators to keep the electricity and air-conditioning constant. The hotel is new enough that things have not yet degenerated and it looks clean and fresh. The lobby bar is packed with aircrews and businessmen and in the restaurant, there is a general air of busy activity. Check-in works well, the room has been pre-paid by the company so I don’t have to risk having my personal credit card swiped. I tell them I may need to make some phone calls or order room service and leave some Naira with them as a deposit. They beckon across the bellboy who takes me to the lift and onwards to my room.

Once in the room he gives me the full welcome routine and allows plenty of time for me to extract a few Naira notes from my briefcase. I hold them in a roll in my lightly clenched right hand and hold my arm out at waist height. He steps forward and bobs, taking my hand in both of his, touching the back of my hand to his forehead as I uncurl my fingers and give him the money. He backs away with head bowed slightly, murmuring a thank-you as he reaches the door. Once he has gone, I bolt the door, put on the chain and look to see if there is a chair, I can wedge under the door handle. I have no intention of there being any uninvited guests and I know that just relying on the door lock and chain is not enough.

A quick check of the room and then I see if I can make an international phone call. Very surprised to find I can dial direct. I call home and get through to a rather sleepy Fiona in Devon.

Hi ya. Just to let you know I arrived safely. In the hotel and all’s well.

Great, she replied. I’m so relieved you got there OK. The children are already in bed. Will you be able to call again tomorrow and give me a contact number?

I think so. Most people seem to have mobile phones here so I hope to get one from the office tomorrow. This place is the usual, same old same old, but this new hotel is nice.

Fiona had visited Nigeria once before when I had been working in the cocoa business based in Cote d’Ivoire and she knew just how bad things can be from experience.

Ok, well, I miss you already. Good luck tomorrow and do please take care. If it looks too rough then don’t hesitate to bail out, she said.

Yes, I know. I’ll watch my back and you know me, no unnecessary risks. Love you. Night, night, I replied and rang off.

There was a knock at the door and I heard a girl’s voice call out, Room Service, Sir.

I went across and looked through the security peephole set in the door. A very young looking girl in a massive afro wig, skimpy crop top and PVC miniskirt was standing there.

I did not order room service, I called out through the door. There has been a mistake so go away now, please.

But Sir, I am here to look after you, she replied. You must be tired after your flight and I can give you relaxing massage now?

The classic scam was in full flow now, I thought. Opening this door would be a disaster.

I am calling security now so run away whilst you still can, I called out crossly and I was pleased to see her glance anxiously up and down the corridor outside before deciding to do a disappearing act.

I walked across to the desk and brought the chair across to wedge it under the door handle.

Chapter 2

I walk out into the hotel lobby to be greeted with the morning rush-hour of checkouts and arrivals. I spot James sitting in the Driver Waiting Area and beckon him over.

Morning, James. All well?

Yes, Master, fine, fine.

I’m just waiting to check out so take my case, please, and bring the car round.

He grabs my Samsonite and sets off towards the carpark. Meanwhile, I get to the reception desk, confirm the bill for my phone call the previous night and sign off my account. I get a rather motley assortment of Naira notes back as a refund on my deposit and ask for an envelope, just to keep them separate as I put them back into my briefcase.

The automatic doors in the lobby slide open and the heat and humidity engulf me. Lagos dress code means I’m wearing a suit, not really appropriate for the climate but essential to confirm social status and within seconds I can feel the sweat forming everywhere. I spot James driving up the ramp and it feels good to hop into the air-conditioned interior.

We are going straight to Colonel’s house, master, says James

Ok. Is it far?

Down on Waterside Estate in Kirikiri. It is not so far but there may be go-slow.

The Lagos traffic is notorious and the go-slow means lines of stationery traffic on dual carriageways in and out of the various city districts. We get onto the expressway towards Apapa, the port district and pick up speed.

During the 70s, Nigeria started to get a massive cash flow boost from crude oil sales and quite a large amount of money was spent on building impressive road networks in an attempt to free up the traffic jamming Lagos. The expressways are elevated concrete highways, crisscrossing residential areas and snaking across commercial zones. Given the lawless situation in Lagos many residential areas decided to start their own night-time security patrols with young men patrolling the streets after dark, looking for burglars. Anybody caught got a serious beating which sometimes ended up in death. The favourite way of getting rid of the body was to climb up the concrete pillars and dump it in the slow lane of the expressway under cover of darkness and hope a heavy lorry would run it over. Of course, lorry drivers quickly caught on to this and became adept at avoiding bodies meaning the early morning commute to work often involved sudden swerves round the grisly bundles.

Lagos is made up of a number of islands and this means there are bottlenecks on numerous bridges with no alternative than to join the stationery traffic to cross. Street gangs known as Area Boys walk along the lines of trapped traffic looking for easy pickings. A glance into the car tells them if the occupant is vulnerable and an easy target. A favourite extortion method is to stand in front of a car holding an iron bar or pickaxe handle and threaten to break headlights or smash wing mirrors unless some, dash or bribe is paid. The driver cannot get away so a few Naira notes are pushed out through a small gap in the side window until the gang decides to move on. One of the many reasons James has got a shotgun on the passenger seat; a glance inside our car is enough to make them move on to the next vehicle for easier pickings.

We swing off the expressway and down into Kirikiri district, threading our way through to the Waterside housing complex. Built in the 70s by a major international construction company for their large expatriate workforce, it has four apartment blocks, twenty houses of various sizes and, most importantly, waterside access direct into Apapa harbour area. A clubhouse with bar, restaurant, swimming pool and tennis courts means residents can enjoy a very pleasant lifestyle without ever having to leave the compound. There is also a small jetty and crane so residents can keep speedboats there to get out to their beach houses at weekends.

The Colonel lived in a substantial two-storey, four bedroom house in the centre of the compound. We parked outside and I made a quick dash through the heat and humidity to his front door.

I had last seen Colonel McGregor in London at the final interview and had found him the stereotypical US Marine. He had been a Mustang which meant he joined the Marine Corps as an enlisted man and worked his way up through the ranks to become a commissioned officer. He was old enough to have seen service in Vietnam and had operated in numerous other theatres around the world, specialising in logistics. We had swapped war stories during our last meeting and he had a professional appreciation of my Sandhurst background and UK military service. That’s not to say we would always see eye-to-eye on how things should be done but at least there was a foundation of mutual respect here.

He had married a Thai lady he had met whilst serving in the Far East and she had stuck with him through tough years since leaving the Marine Corps and working in a number of developing countries in harsh conditions. Things were supposed to be on a high now with money safely stashed away in the States, a big house on a beach complex in South Carolina and both of them looking forward to a comfortable retirement. This latest flare-up with the Union had upset these plans and she was very pleased to feel my arrival might mean she and the Colonel could go back stateside to peace and safety.

Good morning, Peter and welcome to hell! Boomed the Colonel from the cool, dark corridor of the house. Come on in, a grab some coffee. The others will be joining us later.

I walked in, shook hands and followed him into the house. He has things set up so there was a long wooden bar in the entrance hallway, closed off from the main living room and staircase. This meant he could play the genial bartender, entertain guests and also hold business meetings here without disturbing the rest of the household. Half a dozen bar stools lined the bar and off to one side was a small conference table and four leather swivel chairs.

Double espresso? He asked and already had his prized coffee machine bubbling away behind the bar. He fancied himself as a bit of a barista and coffee connoisseur, waxing lyrical about his own special blend of coffee beans from Costa Rica, brought in by the sack-load. The Colonel had very fixed beliefs about a number of things. Tanquery gin was the only one to be used for martinis, which were served very dry, no garbage. This was his description of neat, near frozen gin in a chilled glass, uncontaminated by lemon peel or olive. He smoked unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes which of course were the only proper cigarette and needed to be imported from the States for him.

Bar snacks could only be groundnuts, still with the skin on, lightly warmed in the oven so the peanut oil rose to the surface and bowls of roasted cashews, dusted with chili powder. I had a feeling we could be spending many hours in this room over the next few weeks.

He handed over a generous double espresso and I made the expected complimentary noises about how good it smelt and tasted. My own personal blend of Costa Rican, none of your store-bought rubbish, he boomed.

Once the coffee had been presented, I leant against the bar and sipped it appreciatively. Thanks for the Naira and the gift in the box yesterday, I said, I wasn’t expecting the pistol though. Do you think it is really necessary to go around armed all the time?

I reckon so. After Mick’s car got shot up, we have all been armed. I have got permits for the pistols and also for some Winchester Defender pump-action shotguns if you want one. Useful to have in the house in case the guys come over the wall. You never know, these days. It’s all got a bit crazy.

Ok, if you’ve got a spare shotgun, I’ll take it once I’m settled in the house, I replied. I just wanted to make sure we’ve got permits before I carry the pistol around with me.

Next through the front door was Michael Mahoney, the Operations Manager. I had not met him before but heard he was a hard Liverpudlian Irish Catholic with many years port operations experience.

Mick, come and meet Peter. You two have a lot to sort out so me and Su can get out of here and go home to some civilised peace and quiet, the Colonel said. Coffee, white, two sugars, like the pansy you are, Mick? He added.

I shook hands with Mick and we both hopped up onto bar stools to wait for the rest of the team.

Next in was Steve Wicks, the Factory Manager. From somewhere in Cumbria and an electrical and mechanical engineer or Lecky-Mech as he called himself. Young and single with a Nigerian girlfriend, he had been particularly traumatised by the attack on the factory three months ago. Although used to the casual violence of life in Lagos in general and the port environment in particular, this murderous raid had gone far beyond anything he had previously witnessed. I know he felt guilty for retreating to one of the flyboats on the quayside when the front gate got breached but the whole factory was torched and the Union gang was over 200 strong. Most of the workers also fled onto the barges, tugboats, flyboats or simply jumped into the creek to get away. The Hausa security men barricaded themselves into the gatehouse and were left alone by the mainly Yoruba Union thugs. Seemingly three of our men were captured and beaten badly, then necklaced in the middle of the lorry park with old car tyres and a can of petrol, their remains left as a warning not to re-start operations.

Morning Steve. I’m Peter. How are you holding up? I asked as we shook hands and shuffled up on the bar stools.

Things are very quiet now, no more issues. I’ve been going in and out of the factory by flyboat and had the main gates welded shut and barricaded. We are taking workers in by boat, pick up and drop off at random jetties each day to dodge the Union boys. Of course, no customer lorries can get in and anyway we’ve got no salt left so all we are doing is routine maintenance and protection against the salt corrosion.

Have you had any Union boys try to get in at all since the raid? I asked.

No. They kept a few men hanging around the front gate in their orange coveralls for a few days but once they saw we had decided to close and seal the gates they disappeared.

What do our workers reckon on things?

It is a mixture of fear and hatred, I reckon. If we can protect them then they will certainly come back to work full time. I’m just not sure how we can manage it though.

Well, this is what we’ve got Peter here for, said the Colonel. Me and Su want to get out of here as soon as possible so the moment he’s settled in we can get back stateside.

I think we will find a way through all this, I said. They may be murderous thugs but they’re not stupid and they need money. I think we’ll get a solution once I can meet them.

I felt Mick move restlessly on his bar stool. You know it’s Mick’s wife that is in hospital in Washington after the shooting? said the Colonel.

I told Mick putting tinted laminated on the car windows was a bad idea. They couldn’t see who was inside and assumed it was Mick. In fact, Mary had borrowed the car to do some vegetable shopping in the market, the car got ambushed and shot up and when they pulled open the back doors to do the final shots, they saw Mary and said ‘Sorry, Madam’ before they ran off. Ade, the driver got hit twice too but in the hand and thigh; he’s recovering ok now but still on sick leave.

My God, I said, How is she?

Well, she was hit three times in the body and one bullet is still lodged in her spine so she’s in a wheelchair in the hospital whilst they try and work out how to extract it, said Mick, The Colonel moved heaven and earth to get her casevac’ed straight to a specialist hospital in Washington who are the best at dealing with gunshot trauma so we’re hoping things will work out.

Right, well, as soon as I’m set you need to take some leave and get over there to be with her, I said. Nothing could be more important for you now.

Just then there was another ring on the doorbell and two men came barrelling in, laughing and joking.

Morning guys, said the Colonel, Come on in and meet Peter.

Looking at the new arrivals I could see two men well used to life in Nigeria, both hefty fellows with assorted tattoos and dressed in tatty shorts and tank-top sweat vests, a mixture of tanned and sunburnt with cuts and bruises from the work they were doing.

Hi, I’m Simon and I run the marine section, when Joe’s too pissed to function.

You watch your mouth, snapped the Colonel. Joe’s a fine man and I won’t hear you talk that way about him.

There was a very uncomfortable silence until Mick said, Peter, I’ll brief you on Joe and the marine section later. Simon, you should know better so keep your mouth shut now.

The other man shuffled uneasily and then stuck out his huge hand I’m Dave and I run the steel fabrication yard. The thick Sunderland accent perfectly matched the look of the man and I felt this was someone who was not fazed at all by the violence in the factory. I run a gang of welders making barges for the salt. We work out of a slipway further down the creek. The Union boys leave us alone as they know my guys are all hard bastards who don’t like their work interrupted.

Your boys all Yorubas? I ask.

Yeah. But not from Lagos city. Most of them are from Ikorodu area and as they come and go to work by boat the Union thugs can’t catch them.

So, we’re just missing Mark, said the Colonel, Any idea where he is, Mick?

Yeah, he’s got a job on delivering the generators to the ice plant on TinCan Island we talked about. He needs to be there to start the installation work, so I’ll take Peter over to meet him later, said Mick.

That’s ok, they can meet at the clubhouse tonight, replied the Colonel. I need Peter to come with me to the office this afternoon. We have a Board meeting scheduled for 15:00 with the Generals.

Ok, said Mick, Is Alice all set with Board papers for you? I spoke with her last week about it and Adekinle also said he was ok with the financials to present to them.

Peter, Alice is your secretary. A great lady and a whiz with the filling and keeping things organised. Adekinle is your Finance Manager and a qualified UK accountant, so you two Limeys ought to get on well together. You’ll meet at the head-office this afternoon, said the Colonel. The Generals are all getting very agitated by the fact we are closed and they’re not getting their monthly income like normal. They will want to hear what we intend to do about dealing with the Dockworkers Union, so you and I need to have some ideas ready by then.

Ok, guys. You’ve all now seen Peter. I’m going to run through with him how things work so feel free to add in with any thoughts of your own as we go along, said the Colonel.

As you know, we set up the business on the back of our work breaking the cement armada. The Generals were so grateful they gave us the intro to get started with importing bulk salt. The salt comes from Dampier in Western Australia. It comes iodised and with additives to make it free-flow table salt quality. The Group owns a ship chartering company based in Antwerp, so we lease ourselves vessels as we need them for this run. At the moment we have two 35,000 tonners, Korean hulls, Panama flagged with Russian masters and Philipino crews allocated to the run. The voyage from Dampier to us takes about 28 days, discharge is ten days and they sail back in ballast. They should discharge 25,000 tons in Lagos and then sail for Port Harcourt to discharge the balance 10,000 tons.

Fully laden, the vessels draw 10 metres so they can’t get up to Port Harcourt first, explained Simon, We moor the vessel here mid-stream, and discharge into barges using the ship’s gear and our hydraulic grabs. We have a fleet of 100 barges, each of 250 tons and they get pushed around by two tugboats.

The barges get pushed up to our factory wharf where we discharge with small cranes and grabs onto conveyor belts in the silos. These silos feed four banks of hammer mills that run into mechanical packers that bag up 25kg woven polythene sacks. We load bags direct onto customer trucks and keep only a bare minimum of bagged stock. It is not easy to stack as the bags are slippery and, in any case, we don’t have the floor space to keep too much lying around.

You’ll have a chance tomorrow to walk round the factory and Steve will brief you on the finer points then, said the Colonel.

We sell all our stock through Distributors, wholesale? I ask.

Yes, replied Mick, Up at head office we have a list of approved Distributors and their truck numbers. They keep a credit balance with Adekinle in Finance and we know how many trucks they can load per day. We have over 200 registered Distributors so it’s quite a task keeping track of who’s legitimate at the loading docks. The Hausa security have vehicle lists and run the weighbridge to check vehicles in and out.

My biggest problem is the power supply, said Steve, The mains electrical feed from NEPA might as well not exist as we cannot risk having a power cut when the conveyor belts are fully loaded. The weight of salt on the belts would just destroy the motors if the power cuts out and then we try to re-start fully laden. For safety’s sake I run the generators full time when the factory is operating. We have three gen-sets and need two on-line to give enough power. This means I can have one off-line for maintenance and back-up and swap the gen-sets on and offline as needed. There is a synchroniser to balance the feed from each gen-set and I supervise powering-up and switching to make sure we don’t get surges or brown-outs.

Also critical are all our fuel needs, added Mick, We have fuel tanks for both petrol and diesel behind the factory so we can be sure we have clean fuel. There are so many cowboys out there selling cut-price dodgy fuel it’s a constant pain making sure we don’t get contaminated.

Ok, guys, said the Colonel, That’s enough for this morning. Peter needs to get squared away in his house and then he and I will go up to the head office this afternoon. Steve, put the word about that we will all meet in the Beach Club this evening for a beer or two. Wives and kids included, don’t forget. See you all then.

Everyone gets up and there is a bit of milling about and chatter as they all leave. I turn back to the Colonel and asked, Where is my house then?

Right next door. Come on, I’ll walk you over.

Chapter 3

We both walk out into the heat and humidity, suddenly realising how cool the Colonel keeps his house. The house next door is identical but with a slightly larger back yard with a small swimming pool and thatched sitting area. He hands me a bunch of keys and gestures I should unlock the front door. As we go in, I hear noises from the kitchen area and a plump, happy looking woman bustles up the corridor. Good morning, master. My name is Mary and I am your housekeeper.

Hi Mary, booms the Colonel, Time to get busy again, you lazy girl. You make sure you look after the new master properly. She does a little bobbing half-curtsy and looks at me pleadingly. I will look after you very well. You will see I work hard. I can do all your shopping for you as you have no madam with you. You tell me what you like for chop and I will prepare all.

I’m sure we will get along fine-fine, Mary, I reply. You fit to make European chop?

Oh yes, master. I can make anything you like. I can also make very fine groundnut stew, oil-palm chop, curries as well.

Are the staff quarters alright for you here? I ask, knowing that there should be some rooms for live-in staff at the back of the house.

Yes, thank you master. All is fine but I need a new fan, please.

Ok, I’ll make sure one gets sent round today.

Right, Peter. I’ll leave you to it. Once you’re squared away come back to me and we’ll grab a sandwich before going up to the office, said the Colonel.

As he goes out the front door so James is coming in with my suitcase and I tell him to take it straight upstairs. I walk into the sitting room area which has big glass sliding doors out onto the swimming pool area, a door leading to the kitchen and then the staircase behind. The staircase has a heavy steel barred gate at the bottom so one can secure the upstairs at night. I walk into the kitchen and am pleasantly surprised to find it spotless and smelling of disinfectant.

You fit to do a food shop with James this afternoon? I ask. I will give you money and you can keep receipts.

Yes, master. I can go directly with James if you are going to office with the Colonel.

Fine. Let me unpack and I will bring you some money for shopping.

I go back into the sitting room and then upstairs. There is a large landing, big enough to make into a second sitting room if needed and then three double bedrooms sharing a large family bathroom. In the far corner is the master bedroom and as I open the door, I notice it is a heavy-duty steel door with a reinforced doorjamb. All the windows have burglar-proofing bars on them and I’m pleased to see one window’s bars are hinged with a padlock fitted. One hears horror stories of people trapped inside a house that is being robbed and unable to escape when the house gets torched. It’s all very well being able to barricade oneself in but a secure emergency exit is essential too.

The house is fully furnished but devoid of any of the previous MD’s personal effects. I ask Mary who cleared everything and she tells me it was Steve who came in and boxed everything up. You know that Mr Steve is the younger brother of the last MD? She said, He is looking after all his belongings until he decides to come back.

This was news to me. How on earth could the previous MD do a runner with his younger brother left behind? I think there is a lot more to this situation than I have been told. Everyone seems to have a high opinion of John but that doesn’t tally with him leaving them all in the lurch.

Ok, Mary. Let me unpack now, please. I will come down with laundry and some money later.

I hear her clatter off in her low-heeled house sandals and disappear downstairs.

Unpacking doesn’t take me long and I do a quick change of underwear and a fresh shirt before going back downstairs.

Mary. Come now, please, I call out through the kitchen door, And bring James too.

Right, Mary, here is a cash advance for this month’s shopping. Next month we can discuss better what I want for meals but for now just show me what you can do. Keep all receipts and we will settle up at the end of the month, I give her the balance of all the Naira I have been given at the airport yesterday. James, I need to get more cash from the office this afternoon. Do you have cash enough to buy empties and get two crates of Star, one crate each of softs?

Yes, master. I have enough money to do this for you. I will make sure it is done well, said James, with a knowing smile as if to say he appreciates that I understand the system here for this sort of thing.

Mary, when James brings you back, make sure the bar fridge is full of Star and softs and use bottled water to make ice as well. I do not need chop tonight but make sure there is bread and eggs for breakfast tomorrow. Also make sure you get good tea and coffee, please. I am going now to meet Colonel so see you this evening.

I leave them to chat and go out the front door and back into the Colonel’s house. Su has made a tray of sandwiches so together we munch away and have yet more coffee.

So how come John had to do a runner? I ask.

There was a bit of an awkward silence as the Colonel chewed hard on his BLT. Eventually he explained, "John was a great MD, really first class. Had a handle on the operations and seemed to be dealing with the Union bastards really well. Suddenly the violence starts; I ask if he is paying the Union boss off as normal and he says yes. Things escalate rapidly and then one evening he tells James to drive him out to the airport because he’s meeting a friend coming in. In fact, he had bought a one-way ticket out on the BA flight to London, no luggage, not even a briefcase, just gets on the plane and goes. James is left sitting in the carpark, wondering what the hell has happened. Eventually goes into the terminal and finds out John’s done a runner.

He comes back and wakes Mick up to say John has gone. After that all hell breaks loose during the next week with the Union thugs going full rabid at the factory, Mick’s car gets shot up, I have to get on a plane from the States and get over here to take control and get Mary casevac’d stateside. I get a call from John from the UK saying he quits and that’s that.

I’m surprised you still have a high opinion of him. I would have thought as a military man you’d have no time for a man who bugs out and abandons his men.

You could cut the air with a knife and I watch the Colonel really struggle to control his temper. He’s a good man and don’t forget it. Those Union bastards are animals and I don’t blame him for keeping safe. He must’a had no choice. I’d take him back in an instant if he agreed to return.

Not exactly a vote of endorsement for my appointment, I thought. I need to watch my back here if the Colonel could double-cross me and re-appoint John at some stage in the future. I’m not exactly sure who I can trust here so treading carefully and finding allies is going to be a priority over the next few days.

Right, let’s get off to the office. We can talk in the car. Mick’s going to drive us up there as he’s got my car now his has been shot up.

Mick’s house is just opposite, making up the third house in this cul de sac on the corner of the estate. It’s a carbon copy, 4 bedroom place like mine and laid out the same with a bar and meeting room in the entrance hall. Mick is ready to go so we all pile into the Colonel’s Landcruiser with Peter, Mick’s driver at the wheel. We need to be a bit careful with what we discuss in the car as Peter is bound to be passing on office gossip so we just chat about things in general as we make our way through the backstreets and up onto the expressway.

Just a 10 minute drive and we take a slip road down and into the head-office compound. The Hausa security guards all leap to attention and snap off salutes as we drive in. The head office is a two-storey building with quite a smart entrance lobby. We all walk in and go upstairs to the Boardroom. The Colonel introduces me to Alice, my new secretary and she ushers us into the MD’s office at the back of the building. Mick goes off to his office leaving me and the Colonel alone again.

Alice is a fine lady, says the Colonel, She runs everything here and makes sure all is well organised. Don’t you, my dear?

Alice is in her mid-thirties I think, very smartly dressed and with a nice smile. You can see she is used to the Colonel’s somewhat patronising tone and turns to shake hands with me. Good afternoon, Mr Barker, sir. Welcome to Nigeria. Is this your first time here? She asks.

No Alice, I have been to Nigeria many times but mainly to Ibadan, Ife and Akure because I was working with cocoa in those days. I only spent short times in Lagos before, I reply. I am sorry to hear of all the troubles for the company. I hope you have not been threatened at all?

No, sir, thank you. All the trouble is at the factory and they never come near here unless for meetings, explained Alice. Also, the Generals would never allow for such troubles and the Union thugs fear to come this side.

As the company is a joint venture with the Nigerian government and that is run by the military, the Board of Directors consists of three foreigners, Colonel Mcgregor, Steve Smith in Brazil and now me, with three Nigerian Generals as Directors and General Danjodo as the Chairman. This gives them effective control over the Board and ensures the overall foreign investment is as protected as it can be. Of course, it does leave us vulnerable to a takeover of control if things go sour but so far, the relationship seems to have worked well.

Is anyone in the boardroom yet? The Colonel asks.

Yes, Colonel, replies Alice, They have all just come now, together with General Danjodo, but I have still yet to give them tea.

OK, Peter, let’s get in there and see what’s to be done.

There is an interconnecting door between the MD’s office and the Boardroom at the front of the building and the Colonel knocks and enters. I follow in behind and get introduced to everyone. The three Generals are all in uniform but the Chairman is dressed in traditional Hausa robes, looking very regal in brilliant white with sky blue detailing to his agbada and matching cap. He has a fearsome reputation from his time as a Colonel during the civil war but he has segued well into his civilian roles and is a Chairman of several significant companies across Nigeria. Originally from Kano in the far North of the country, as a Hausa he rose quickly in the military becoming one of the youngest Colonels in the Army. The other three Generals have been given their positions on the Board as favours and to supplement their pensions so they have a keen interest in making sure the company gets up and running again as soon as possible.

It is clear General Danjodo is in a hurry and impatient to get on with things.

So, Peter, you come to us highly recommended as someone who can sort this mess out and get the salt flowing again?

Yes. General. I am sure I can find a solution with these Union boys and get our ships in again as soon as possible, I reply. In fact, I have no idea what to expect from the Union leader and it may prove to be impossible but I don’t think this first meeting is the time to raise any doubts.

May I make an initial security suggestion, please? I ask.

I feel Colonel McGregor shift in his seat as we have not had time to discuss anything in detail yet and I get the feeling he doesn’t like surprises.

I understand salt is considered a strategic commodity by the government and this is why we have this joint venture? If that is the case then perhaps, we should have a bigger government involvement in the security of the factory? I understand that the Nigerian Navy base is next door to the factory? Can we not move the boundary fence so our factory comes inside the borders of the navy base itself? In this way we can call upon the Navy security detail to guard our perimeter and ensure we do not get raided again by Union thugs like last time?

There is a silence around the table and everyone looks at General Danjodo for guidance.

His face breaks into a large but wolfish smile.