Chapter 4

When I open my eyes, there is a shadowy figure a couple of paces before me, its head an oval shape from which a pair of eyes gleam with silent curiosity.

 The hall is deathly quiet around us, proving that my boss and her team of external auditors have left the building without even realising that I was still at my desk—not that I blame them: most of the floor lights were already turned off, and the only illumination comes from the subtle glow emitted by a couple of LED console on a far wall. I cannot clearly make out the man’s features, but with a sense that his positioning is deliberate, I sit and stare; not breathing, not daring to move.

When he speaks, the voice is the same one from my phone, but slightly different… more benign, somehow. “Well, it worked—your plan. As the resident branch Internal Control staff, your friend has Head Office Sys-Admin status. I got him to sign on as a HO verifier so as to complete the transaction.”

He steps closer. My cold blood chills further.

“About N56.8 million has been moved to several accounts under my control in other banks via Interswitch,”  he goes on. “Since the source of the funds were General Ledgers accounts that would have been automatically swept to other ones by month end, the transfers will be difficult to track. The receiving accounts balances are currently being drawn down by my agents on standby.”

Now inches from the edge of my desk, his posture exudes confidence and control. “It took about seven different transactions, but we got them all. He doesn’t even suspect he was set up by you, his best friend and colleague.”

I can, with all honesty, say that I have never taken any mind-altering drugs in my life, but in the moment it is all I can do to stop seeing the figure before me flicker between something human and a representation of death itself—a ghoulish creature superimposed itself on and off over the urbane features I can now make out in the subdued lighting of the deserted banking hall.

I stay rigid, too afraid to move for fear of simply sliding from my padded chair and ending up a sweaty, guilt-wracked heap on the tiled floor.

Standing over my desk with both hands casually locked behind his back, the assassin observes me for another moment. When he brings round his right hand to extend something dark and tube like towards me, my chest expands and I release a weak squawk as my hands fly to cover my face.

He chuckles, the sound deep and jovial.

I peer through my fingers at what he is holding —a deluxe size Snickers bar.

“I’m sure you haven’t tasted anything all day,” he says next. “Adrenalin and lack of food will mess up your system. Eat something before you faint.”

Slowly, I extend a shuddering hand and take the chocolate.

“Did–did–did you…?” I ‘m unable to complete my question.

“Wipe your friend? No, he’s not dead, just… taken care of.” The words, delivered in a matter of fact manner, scrape at my already shredded nerves.

“I told you before,” he adds. “I do my homework. I know you’ve never experienced anything like this before in your life. As things go, you never will again.”

He pauses. “You know, I was serious when I said I’m giving up the business. Why? I’m… disgusted, believe it or not, disillusioned about those who require my services nowadays. I know you’re wondering how a person like me could even feel anything like that, but it’s true. In the old days, when you handled an assignment, it came with a certain sense of justice—like serving a higher purpose, whether good or bad.”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the motion languid—just a simple fellow shooting the breeze on a cool Lagos evening.

“I try not to make a distinction because it’s usually a matter of perspective, but let me ask you, is it right to turn off a corrupt government official who embezzles money and then uses it to plate his toilets with gold, while a poor man’s son is promptly lynched when caught stealing things worth a fraction of what such people spend on loose women in one night?”

He lowers his head as if ruminating.

“Should I hesitate?” he ponders, almost to himself. “Should I stop and think when I have a corrupt tyrant in my gunsights knowing that before the end of that day, he will have signed away the lives of several people who made the mistake of trafficking in drugs in order to improve lives he either destroyed or doesn’t give a hoot about?”

He looks away for a second, then turns to gaze intently at me. His tone becomes one of cold admonition. “I am the f*cking scales that maintain the balance, otherwise there’d be nothing but chaos. I have a purpose—the same way Judas’s purpose in life was to test the strength of Jesus’ faith.”

As he says this, I am chewing the unwrapped chocolate bar slowly, mechanically, not tasting it. A random thought occurs to me: the sweet snack might be poisoned, but then I surmise that if the intention was to eventually kill me, this would certainly prove to be far less painful of the available option.

With smooth motions, he drags up a nearby office chair, sits down with head tilted while tapping slim looking fingers against the side of my desk and eying me under beetled brows.

He then rises, stands over me, and says, “Steve, time to go. You leave first, and I’ll follow about half an hour after. Like I said before, don’t worry about your friend. He didn’t suspect your involvement, so you can spin a story about how you waited, and after going to find his office locked, assumed he’d gone home despite your plans. Just give his door a few good knocks and then be on your way.”

“But… the CCTV cameras and security men. You’ll be identified…”

“I wore shades as I came in and I’ll wear them going out. It’s actually good that there’s still a few cleaning staff left on the lower floors—they’ll attest to your exit time, and that you were all alone. Make sure they see you leave.”

He watches as I come to my unsteady feet.

“We’re almost done, you and me,” he declares. “My final instruction is for you to drive to the parking lot of that sports bar you like: the ‘Orion.’ Wait for me there, and I’ll meet up with you around nine. Don’t attempt going home yet. Don’t try to call anyone or do anything to spoil things when we’re this close to the finish line. Give me your phone.”

I place the device in his outstretched palm. I then walk slowly past him, catching a subtle whiff of exotic cologne as I do. My furtive glance shows him unsmiling, but there is also a hint of humour in the bland features, the small but intelligent eyes.

Outside, as I trudge like a robot to where my Audi is parked out in the bank’s empty premises. Once there, I look around for any unfamiliar vehicles and see none. How did he get here? I get in and pull out.

Heading for the hang-out bar, I imagine him nestled among the throng of patrons during any of the last few times I was here—watching keenly while I and other weekend warriors sat with folded shirt sleeves around intimate tables, digging forks into spicy fish and talking loudly.

I roll through the front gates of the sports bar compound; get directed by a parking attendant to a free spot at the end of a shadowy gravel drive lined by low shrubs and garden lights.

For minutes that seem like hours I sit in my car. In the brightness spilling through the open windows of the main building a few metres away I can see at least a dozen patrons—men and women—as they sit separately or in lively groups around drink laden tables.

I wonder if what has transpired today signals the beginning of the end for me. I wonder if Bibi is at home worried that she hasn’t been able to reach me all day. I wonder what will become of my mother if I don’t ever return.

It dawns on me that this place is perfect for discreet assassination, and I begin to feel extremely foolish for obeying a killer’s directive without question.

I should have…

Firm knuckle raps on the car window send my heart lurching into my mouth as I utter a low croak. On the other side, my bogeyman leans close and makes a twirling gesture with his finger.

I roll down the window.

His smile is flat and humourless as he says, “Come with me.”

Close by, what I correctly assume is his vehicle turns out not to be the macabre hearse I half expected, but an ordinary looking grey ford panel van tucked away at a far end of the parking lot. Despite it, singular dread again tightens a band around my temple and I there is a renewed rushing in my ears.

In a swell of doomed finality, I check the odds of being able to fight him off if it came down to that and then feel even more ridiculous—killing was this monster’s vocation; reciting people’s savings balances was mine. He couldn’t differentiate an asset amortization from a straight-line depreciation; I wouldn’t even realize when he’d murdered me.

We walk until we reach his van, then come to a halt in front of it.

He turns to me, a set of keys swinging from his left hand. “Have you even asked yourself,” he begins, ‘Why me’?”

I gape back, eyes blank, head full of storms.

“You’re not exactly an innocent yourself,” he further prods. “Are you?”

I try to organize a coherent thought. “I don’t know what you…”

“Don’t f*cking waste what time we have left,” My response to the retort is to clamp my mouth shut, to rapid-blink my eyes.

He comes closer. In the shadows I perceive an object in his other hand—something hard, dark and gleaming faintly in the nearby lights.

My throat is a clogged pipe. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I-I-I…” My voice trails off and dies with an impotent click.

“I know everything, my friend; I know it all. It was you who put two and two together when that attempt was made to defraud the bank.”

He thrusts a hand—the left one—into his pocket; keeps the other hanging by his side. “You were just doing your job, abi?” He tilts his face to gaze at nothing in the near distance.

I continue my vapid stare. The shape and intent of the object poorly concealed in his free hand is unmistakable. I can’t think clearly. My whole body starts to tremble, to quiver. My knees ache. My head oscillates, and I cannot restrain the childish tremor in my voice. “Please sir, I beg you, just spare my family. None of anything I may have done is their fault. You-you promised…”

“I know that. You think I don’t know that?” His tone is vehement now, an impatient growl. “You’ve put me in a quandary here, o… me, that never leaves an assignment uncompleted.”

He pauses for a moment before continuing, “On the other hand, certain… events may have led to my having to take a different view of the business. Then there’s the fact that I really do want to stop and retire, to turn a new leaf, you understand? And that has a lot to do with you.”

“Did you know that you can get somebody wiped in this town for as low as twenty grand?” he suddenly muses, and it sounds as chilling as anyone could expect. “I’m telling you, there’s no dignity of labour anymore. Young people nowadays don’t think about providing commensurate work for pay—mind you, that applies to not just mine, but any other profession out there.”

He commences a languorous stretch, lifting both arms so I can see that the gun he is holding with practiced ease is, unlike his van, new or very well maintained. Its grey metal sheen reflects the soft night lights scattered around us, its grip dark and pitted.

He ends the stretch with a small flex of his square shoulders. “I mean, just look at civil works in the rural communities. Why would a so-called youth association demand to be paid off before a project meant to benefit them is allowed to be executed? What madness is that? Believe me, this ugly culture of rent taking has gone so deep into the psyche of our people that I can’t even blame the youth anymore—their elders have been doing same since crude oil was first dug up in the south.”

He stares at me. “Children of vampires become vampires themselves, right? Right!? I’m talking too much again.” Gesticulating with his gun hand, he seems completely unaware of how bizarre his diatribe and its circumstances have been.

I remain mute. All my normal sensory functions have more or less ceased.

He lowers his weapon, peers at me for another moment or two, then fishes a fold of paper from his left trouser pocket.

“Your sister is at this address. She hasn’t been harmed in any way. In fact, I left a juice box and some Indomie noodles in a flask for her.”

I accept the slip and push it into my pocket, not daring to dwell on the possible portent of his act.

His scrutiny intensifies. “But I want an honest answer right now, so think carefully before you say anything: Were you in any way involved with the attempt at your bank?”

“I don’t understand…”

“Mary, mother of Christ—the cheque fraud you told me about, have you already forgotten?”

“Oh… oh, no sir. Y-Yes… I mean, no, no, of course not…”

“You knew nothing about it?”

“Nothing at all, sir…”

“So what happened?”

Despite the feeling that I’m stepping into fresh quicksand, my thoughts reel back to the events that took place at that time.

I had taken the call from one Madam Balogun, whose husband had been recently hospitalized from a freak traffic accident—a vicious hit-and-run that he’d been very lucky to survive with only a few broken bones and cuts. My receiving the call had been a fluke of sorts as their joint account was actually under the purview of another relationship manager—old Folly, I think—but he’d been out of the office at the time, and according to the customer, unreachable.

On checking the account status, I noted something odd. There’d been a series of entries passed over it indicating that money had been moved out, and then the same amount returned. The enquiry from M. Balogun was a final balance request that obligated me to only reveal the amount at the bottom of the statement, nothing else—especially as I was not directly in charge of the account. After properly identifying her as next of kin I’d done as asked and relayed the figure.

Still, something felt off. Curious, I later took a closer look at the entries that had been passed on the account. As at the time I had seen them, they hadn’t been verified and had been visible on the account balance request template. If it had been later in the day, I would have only seen the final balance.

I made a few investigative calls and found out that a cheque that was being used to draw the said amount had been presented at our Onitsha branch. I quickly rang up the branch manager and explained my suspicions. One thing led to another and, after the power outage that delayed the withdrawal, by next day the fraudulent cheque accomplice was caught in a coordinated sting worthy of a Hollywood law enforcement tv series.

Weeks later, I received an official commendation from the Bank M.D. as well as an honourable mention at a subsequent joint management performance review meeting. For a brief time, I was actually regarded as a kind of minor hero.

Now, as I do my best to outline all this as clearly and briefly as possible to the assassin wielding what was definitely a well loaded gun before me, I don’t say how—at any point in all of it—I hadn’t felt the least bit heroic.

By the time I finish speaking, his expression is cold, inscrutable. “You’re telling me the whole truth?” he asks.

“I swear to God, sir.”

“I see. You know what, I choose to believe you. Like I said, you remind me so much of someone that was very close to me in the past, so I’m going to do you another favour.”

He turns to the van and moves towards the back, motioning for me to follow. “I’m going to give you a choice, one I’ve never wanted to give before.”

Like a zombie, I trail close behind him.

His tone is conversational. “I’m not a beast. I mean, well, yes—of course, maybe I’m like a beast since I prey on others for a living… look, what I’m trying to say is I’m not some mindless animal bent on devouring any and everything I cross. That would be wickedness for wickedness’ sake. I’m more of a necessary evil…

He pulls open the double doors at the back of the van. The interior is a jumble of assorted spare parts and mechanical knick-knacks—greasy ball-joints, a partly stripped gear box; a broken lathe, for some reason. It smells of spoiled fruit and engine oil.

Deeper in, a figure is lying atop a pile of old newspapers. Clearly that of a man, it is face down on the van floor with both hands tightly bound behind his back with electric cable. What I can see of his face is streaked with dark, shiny rivulets. Blood.

Certain I am staring directly at a fresh corpse, my mind falls into a white noise of abject despair. My ears pop as if in response to a sharp drop in air pressure.

I realise how deeply, how pitifully I had begun to feel hope rising after being handed the keys to my sister’s prison, and how much crueller was the joke that had been played on me.

At any moment, I am going to lie alongside this unfortunate soul. Knowing this awakens such crushing doom and finality in me that even seeing the supposed dead man make small, stirring movements does nothing at all to ease my devastation.