“I don’t . . .” A sob. “I don’t know. But if he did, it wasn’t you, because I said it was somebody else.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Whoever it was at the bank, you said it was an accident, accidents do happen.”

“That kid in New York, was that an accident?”

Rafe hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“So you don’t know either.”

Rafe didn’t answer, wondering what he did know, about this or anything. He leaned over and opened the suitcase.

“See?” Catherine said.

He saw. Bundles of hundred-dollar bills. Six hundred seventy-five thousand. In the overall scheme of things, not really very much.

He closed the case and sat back into the couch.

“Okay,” he said. “I have an idea.”

Catherine nodded, crying now without tears.

He put both arms around her, and she didn’t resist. She leaned into him. He kissed her, and they stumbled their way to the bedroom.

Obligation

OBLIGATION

It didn’t take more than a few minutes online for Majid to anticipate what would come next from Detective/Peace Ambassador Emmanuel Okoro. The FCIID, the Force Criminal Investigation and Intelligence Department, was elite, but elite what? The Nigeria Police Force was notoriously corrupt, world-class corrupt. Google “Nigeria police corruption” and get sixteen million results: “Police Abuses Rife,” “Nigeria Police: Protectors or Predators?” “Survey: Police Most Corrupt Institution in Nigeria.” Majid found some photos of the FCIID headquarters in Lagos. On a ramshackle side street called Alagbon Close, the low-rise structure looked like a derelict motel, with hand-painted signs pointing the way to various offices and bureaus and warning lesser officials not to park in their superiors’ spaces. Looming ironically over the mess was a half-completed high-rise intended to replace the current offices. It had been abandoned mid-construction following exposés of massive corruption. If the police couldn’t get their own new headquarters erected honestly . . .

Okoro returned a day after his first visit. He walked in like he commanded the place. The formality of his language made his words sound scripted, a memorized text, but delivered by a talented actor. “I know you were lying when I was here last time,” he said. “There were a small number of other candidates, other firms, that might have facilitated the transaction in Sahel Hydrocarbon, but I have seen them now and eliminated them as possibilities. That leaves only you.”

Majid was still seated behind his desk. Okoro had not given him time to rise. He was standing just inside the door. “Only me what?” Majid said.

“Don’t insult me,” Okoro said, “and I will not insult you. This is simply business. There are obligations to meet. And one obligation has not been met. I represent a party in Nigeria to whom it is owed.”

“I thought you represent the police.”

“I do that also.” Okoro smiled. “It simplifies things when all parties are one.”