Insurrection

Bolan set a bag down and extended his right hand in greeting.

“Matt Cooper,” the customs agent said, before he could utter a word. “You are a photojournalist. If you please, Mr. Matt Cooper, just call me Sean. I was advised that you were coming.” His speech had the sharply clipped accent that came from an African heritage combined with a British higher education.

Yes, Bolan thought as he shook the man’s hand. You were advised, all right. And smile or no smile, you were paid off royally as well, no doubt.

For a second the men stared into each other’s eyes, both sizing the other up. The soldier reminded himself that most officials who were willing to break their own laws for money played both sides of the fence for all they were worth. Most were also willing to go back on their original agreements if an offer of additional bribery presented itself.

The Executioner made a mental note not to forget about Sean Azizi and the potential threat he represented. The customs agent might not know exactly who “Matt Cooper” was or what he was doing in Nigeria, but he knew he was American, and that he was there under false pretenses and using false identification. So somewhere down the line the man might just find another market where he could sell such information. And if he did, Bolan definitely got the feeling that the man would take advantage of it.

But for now, everything went as smoothly as Brognola had promised it would.

The customs agent guided Bolan through both customs and immigration and updated his passport. Their last stop was at a currency exchange.

Fifteen minutes after the Learjet had touched down, Bolan said goodbye to Azizi, loaded his luggage into the trunk of a battered taxicab and settled into the backseat.

“The Isaac Center,” he told the driver, who nodded, threw the transmission of his twenty-year-old Chevy into Drive and pulled away from the airport.

The man tried several times to start up a conversation, mentioning the unseasonably cool weather, suggesting a few tourist spots that Bolan should see and finally offering to get him the most beautiful prostitute in Nigeria at a fair price.

“Beware,” the cabbie went on, as he moved the steering wheel back and forth. “Other taxi drivers and men will tell you they will get you the best women cheap. I do not promise cheap—that means ugly and diseased. You get what you pay for.” Bolan saw him look up into the rearview mirror, waiting for a response.

When he didn’t get one, the driver finally shrugged, gave up and fell into silence. Bolan stared through the open windows as the taxi passed block after block of mud-and-plaster dwellings with shiny tin roofs. Ibadan, he knew, was the home of close to a million Nigerians, and the capital of the Western Region. One of the largest cities in Africa between Johannesburg and Cairo, it boasted a top-notch hospital and medical school, as well as the country’s premier university.

They drove through three market areas crowded with pedestrians buying fresh vegetables, yams and spices, as well as clucking chickens. They passed huge piles of cotton cloth, much of it the blue color favored by Yoruba tribesmen. Twice the cabdriver was forced to stop as wedding processions of dancing and singing men and women streamed by.

Bolan took in the sights, sounds and smells around the cab as they passed more pedestrians on the crowded streets and sidewalks. It was a colorful and vibrant city.

The taxi began climbing a steep upgrade, and at the top Bolan saw the destination he had given the driver. The center had been named after Isaac, the son of Abraham, whose faith and devotion to God had been demonstrated by his willingness to sacrifice his only son. Not only was the story of Abraham and Isaac a prelude to the sacrifice of God’s own son, it symbolized the orphans who lived at the center. Isaac had been spared at the last second by the hand of an angel. But Boko Haram had shown no such mercy. In their own twisted version of the Old Testament story, the terrorists had sacrificed the parents instead of the children in their ongoing war against Christians in Nigeria.

The Isaac Center now provided a home to over three hundred Nigerian orphans. The main entrance to the relatively modern building was centered on a circular drive. Behind what appeared to be a one-story reception and office area stood a three-story section that could hold dorm rooms. To the right, new construction was going on, with framers raising skeletal two-by-four walls on top of a concrete slab. From the general layout, it looked to Bolan as if more dorms were in progress, which could mean only one thing.

The Isaac Center was expecting even more orphans.

The sharp hiss of electrical-powered nail guns sounded as the cabbie pulled up to the front door and killed the engine. Bolan got out of the backseat. Together, they lugged his bags through the front doors and into the lobby.

“This is far enough,” Bolan said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out several naira bills, pushed them into the hand of the driver, then turned back toward the building’s interior.

Under the watchful eye of an elderly black woman, roughly a dozen little boys and girls were playing on wooden rocking horses and other handmade toys to the right side of the lobby. Their laughter made it obvious that they had been too young to know how much they had lost. At least they had been spared the bloody memories that would haunt the Isaac Center’s older residents for life. The Executioner vowed that the terrorists responsible would pay.

The big American stepped up to the front counter as the cabbie exited the building. English had been the official language of Nigeria since British colonial days, so he had no trouble when he said, “My name is Matt Cooper and I’m looking for Layla Galab.”

“One moment, please,” the receptionist answered pleasantly.

Bolan studied the woman as she reached for the telephone. Around thirty years old, she had well-defined but still feminine arm muscles revealed by her sleeveless blouse. She worked out at a gym—a fairly unusual luxury in such a country as Nigeria. And while Bolan was hardly a fashion expert, what he could see of her skirt looked to be more expensive than the clothing on most of the other women he’d seen since landing. Two gold rings, one featuring a large diamond, the other an opal, flashed on her hand as she lifted the receiver to her ear.

As was the case in many developing countries, the rich got richer as the poor became poorer, and Bolan guessed this woman had come from a wealthy family. Perhaps her conscience had gotten to her and she had taken this job to help those less fortunate than herself. In any case, he doubted the rings or clothing had been purchased with money from her Isaac Center salary.

A moment later, the woman placed a call and spoke into the receiver. “Miss Layla, there’s a Mr. Cooper here to see you.” A short pause ensued and then she said, “Okay,” and hung up. Rising, she took the time to bend and smooth her short skirt over her thighs. “If you will follow me, please, Mr. Cooper.” She strode around the end of the counter, then stopped and looked down at his baggage. “Your luggage should be perfectly safe right where it is,” she said.

Bolan thought of what the bags contained, then glanced in the direction of the children. “I think I’d better take it with me, just to be careful,” he replied.

The receptionist frowned. “Perhaps you are right,” she said. “You must have many thousands of dollars’ worth of photographic equipment inside, and even the most well-behaved children become curious. I would hate for them to break any of it.”

The soldier reached down and grabbed the handles and straps of the bags. He wasn’t worried about the “equipment” inside the bags getting broken. He was worried that some of it might harm any curious children who got their hands on it. All the firearms inside were loaded, cocked and locked. It wouldn’t take much for a kid to accidentally blow one or more of his friends away. And Bolan didn’t intend to take the chance of that happening.

The receptionist started down the hall, her hips swaying in what the Executioner suspected was a slight exaggeration for his benefit. He followed, his rubber lug-soled hiking boots making soft thuds in time with the woman’s clattering high heels as they crossed the tile.

A moment later, she stopped at a door on the right side of the hall, twisted the knob and pushed it open. Then she stepped back from the opening.

“If you would, Mr. Cooper,” she said, smiling up at him.

Bolan had to turn sideways to get the equipment bags strapped over his shoulders through the doorway. But as soon as he had, the door closed behind him, and he found himself alone in a small office with a strikingly beautiful woman.

She had risen from behind her desk, but held a cell phone to her ear as Bolan entered. “Yes, Mother,” she said, looking up and smiling. “No, Mother. Leave the laundry for me. I will do it as soon as my duties permit. Yes, Mother. I love you, too. Goodbye.” She lowered the phone from her ear and clicked it off.

Layla Galab smiled as she extended her hand across the desk. “Mr. Cooper,” she said. “You will excuse me, please. My mother’s mind is failing and I must check on her several times a day.”

Bolan nodded in understanding as he set his bags on the floor. Her smile appeared genuine, but he noted that her lips stayed pressed together as they curled up at the corners.

The Executioner took her small hand in his, noticing that while it was delicate, her fingers and palm were covered by calluses. This woman was not just a sit-behind-the-desk paper pusher. She got out and worked for the welfare of the children who lived at the Isaac Center, perhaps even helping with the ongoing construction next door.

“Miss Galab.”

“You will excuse me, also, I hope,” she said, turning her hands palm up and glancing down at them. “But as you no doubt saw when you arrived, we are constructing new housing, and I often go out to help. I am afraid it has taken away the femininity from my hands.”

“No,” he said. “It just emphasizes your other feminine qualities.” The Executioner stared down into the woman’s chocolate-brown eyes. She was indeed beautiful, and he could feel the electricity passing back and forth between them.

Breaking eye contact, Galab pointed to a chair in front of her desk and said, “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Cooper?”

“Thanks.” He sat, then looked back across the desktop and said, “But call me Matt.”

“Thank you. Please call me Layla.”

She resumed her seat and said, “Now, Mr. Photojournalist Matt Cooper, can you tell me the real reason you are here? I do not think it is to take pictures for NationalGeographic.”

Bolan crossed one leg over the other. “I understand you’ve helped Americans before,” he said.

Galab gave the room a 180-degree glance, as if it might be bugged, before nodding. Then, in a low voice, she said, “And I will help you in any way I can.” A second round-the-room glance seemed to take some of the stress from her face. “I will do anything to keep the terrorists from murdering more mothers and fathers and creating more orphans.” She leaned down and pulled open a drawer in her desk. A moment later, a bottle of antacid appeared in her hand. “You will excuse me if I—” she began.

Bolan interrupted her. “Of course.”

“I’m afraid I have developed an ulcer from all of this,” the woman said, as she twisted off the cap.

A faint odor of chalk floated across the room as she took a long drink. Bolan chuckled to himself. The woman was self-conscious about the calluses on her hands, but didn’t seem to mind looking like a wino who’d just found a bottle of Mogen David 20/20 when it came to her ulcer.

Enough pain, Bolan knew, had a way of chasing self-consciousness right out of the soul. Besides, he thought. Like her calluses, chugging the medicine straight from the bottle somehow emphasized her femininity rather than detracted from it. It made her seem more human.

When she had finished, Galab screwed the cap back on and returned the bottle to her desk drawer. She pulled a tissue from the same drawer and dabbed daintily at her lips before turning her attention back to Bolan. “Let us get to the topic at hand,” she said. “Are you able to tell me what you have planned?”