The Eyes of Lira Kazan (8 page)

Lira observed him quietly from the doorway. She liked his tone of voice, very different from that of the average lecturer. This Nwankwo was a real
sputnik
, you could tell. And smart too, with his white shirt and sharply pressed trousers. He must have brought all the files and reports with him, nothing would be forgotten. He must know a great deal about all the arrangements, the money to be made out of Nigerian soil, and about Louchsky himself, who had been a member of every Russian delegation that had come to negotiate access to gas and oil reserves. Nwankwo went up to the map and pointed to coloured pins, like an officer examining front lines in a war.

“These are the areas controlled by governor Finley, the bastard who forced me to go. He was in the pay of Tevip, the company referred to by the
FT
. Just at the moment when sites were being allocated he arranged for regular payments into a Gibraltar bank account. All he needed then was a circuit-breaker to get the money back.”

“What's that?” one of the students asked.

“The circuit-breaker breaks the connection between the transmitter and the receiver, the briber and the bribed. Let's take Finley – he charges a large sum for an agreement to mine uranium on his territory, say eight million dollars, the other man creams a bit off as well, that's the game. But there can't be any traces, and so the money is paid into an account in Gibraltar, and that's where the circuit-breaker comes in. He might be a lawyer – he goes to the bank with his power of attorney, draws out the eight million in banknotes in a suitcase, and deposits it in another bank, sometimes just across the road, in an account which this time is in Finley's name.”

Alone in the deserted corridor, Lira smiled. Every word Nwankwo spoke seemed to be addressed directly to her, in this curious world in which a Russian and a Nigerian who have never met can find that they have a great deal to talk about. She longed to go in, to listen, to ask questions, but she didn't dare to interrupt the informal but closed circle of teacher and students.

“The other thing the uranium buyer can do,” Nwankwo continued, “is to force the seller to raise his price.”

“What?” said the students.

“It's a deal: you sell it to me for fifty per cent more than the declared price, you keep ten per cent and the remaining forty per cent is paid into a Swiss commercial account. And so there you are, without anyone realizing it, you have opened an off-shore account.”

As he spoke Nwankwo was drawing circles and arrows on the board with a black felt tip.

“You have to try and think like them. Do everything backwards. Start with a criminal act and build a legal structure around it. They are obsessed with one thing only – keeping the money hidden. That's the game, everything must be disguised. It's like a masked ball with us, poor fools, the only ones with our faces exposed. And we have to somehow find our way through it.

Nwankwo no longer spoke in an even, professorial voice. His need to pour it all out was becoming apparent. The black ink on the board was like bile. The two students remained still, willing him to go on.

“There's a Yoruba expression: ‘
Oyinbo su s'aga!
', which means ‘Before he left, the white man shat on the throne'. Our throne is filthy.”

“Why did you leave?” one of the students ventured.

Nwankwo put the pen down, and remained for a moment facing the board, as though he wanted to turn his back on the question. Then he turned round and told his story.

“Finley had given the order to kill Uche. Uche was my right-hand man, but above all he was my friend. We had summoned Finley eight days earlier. He came into my office in a foaming rage. He took the chair we offered him but turned it round with his back to us, as if to say ‘Talk as much as you like, I'm more powerful than you.' Uche got angry, and coldly asked the governor to turn around, to answer the questions about his bank deposits, but he wouldn't move. Then Uche got up and pulled away the chair and the governor fell down. Uche had knocked down a man used to gazing down at others from high up, from a heavy chair at the end of a long carpet. The governor was on his knees. ‘Get up!' Uche shouted, putting the chair straight. ‘And sit down!'”

“What did you do?”

“I got up and signalled to Uche to calm down. I didn't want to disown him, but we had to give a bit of dignity back to the governor. We had been much criticized for our methods, and by the opposition as well, and by lashing out like this all we would achieve would be to provide them with a pretext to close us down. I helped Finley up, and I apologized. I know Uche resented that, although he never said so. He didn't have time – eight days later he was dead. They found him in the boot of his car, parked outside my house. I'll never forget his face. He looked terrified and completely alone.
It was his loneliness that struck me as much as his actual death. He had told me to go home early to see Ezima and the children. If I hadn't left him to close up the office on his own, perhaps he would still be alive today. It was all so predictable.”

In the corridor, Lira closed her eyes, listening to the pain in Nwankwo's voice. He then returned to his previous didactic tone: “Get hold of the American ruling. It's very important, jurisprudence is in the process of changing,” he concluded. The two students left, visibly upset, without noticing Lira flattening herself against the wall.

She tapped three times on the door. Nwankwo was just about to leave. She introduced herself.

“I don't speak to the press, sorry,” he said, stepping into the corridor.

“There are just a few things I need to understand—”

“I don't speak to the press. I've got an appointment now.”

“I won't quote you.”

“Please don't insist.”

“I've just got a few questions about Sergei Louchsky. You must have come across that name during your enquiries. He owns a uranium mine in your country.”

“The name means nothing to me.”

“Could you at least tell me what you know of any contracts with the Russians. Half an hour would be enough.”

“Listen, I've only been here for a few weeks. It was a difficult journey, very stressful. My youngest child cried for two hours without stopping in the hold of a boat. The others were quiet but they were afraid too. Now we've got a nice house not far from here, the children are at school, I've got a job. I can't destroy all that.”

He was walking fast, and she ran beside him along the empty corridor. His stiff expression betrayed the fact that he hadn't really given up at all. She carried on.

“I repeat, I won't quote you. I've come a long way. I heard a bit of what you were saying just now to your students.”

He stopped and stared at her. She shouldn't have admitted to eavesdropping.

“Well then, you've had your half-hour. Goodbye, madam.”

 

She trailed slowly back to the station. The setback was mitigated by a message from Polina with the time of her arrival in London in a couple of days' time. The promise of a bit of light-hearted fun, perhaps a shopping binge at Topshop, cheered her up. Polina was a child of her time, bubbly, sharp and restless. She didn't read her mother's articles – she might do so later, or perhaps not. For the moment she protected herself, avoiding dark areas. She could certainly guess at the seriousness of events around her; when she was little she used to overhear conversations on the other side of the partition – her parents shouting at one another, her father yelling that her mother was sacrificing her family to her work. And she probably agreed with him then. Now all she wanted was to be happy. Lira smiled when she thought about her. She had let her daughter grow up and go away without ever trying to stop her. They had argued as mothers and daughters do, but not about permission to go out – more about random remarks, a question, an over-insistent piece of motherly advice. One day Polina had cracked: “No one is ever up to scratch with you – it's a drag, I've had enough.” After that Lira had understood that her desire to get everything right had made her daughter too fearful of getting anything wrong.

 

The half-empty train gradually filled up at each station. Passengers from the suburbs joined the train as it travelled past the graffiti-laden bridges, the lines of parked wagons, the hoardings: every inch of land was covered. The Thames became thicker and dirtier and soon they were in London, that blend of old and new, curves and cubes, with the big wheel in the distance that seemed to say “This is where we have fun”. Lira loved the city. She had loved it long before
ever coming here, thanks to the tapes passed around, hidden beneath coats, when she was fifteen. For her it was the home of the Clash, who had given a rhythm to the rage of youth. She had gazed at the graffiti of the time, in those days far more politically driven than now. She had studied albums, photos, the names of the studios; she had learnt the words by heart, pronouncing them perfectly. Listening to rock music and dressing in Western clothes from second-hand stalls had been her own form of resistance as she grew up. Her father would sigh at the sight of her in tight, worn-out black Levi's, not because they represented the great capitalist Satan – he believed that even less than she did – but more because they were so distant from true elegance and high culture, the real thing. That music was just noise, he would say. Lira had spoken to him just before leaving for England and he hadn't even asked her what she was going to do there. All he had done was complain that she had turned down a page in a book he had lent her. She had apologized but that hadn't been enough, he had insisted on giving her a lecture as though she was still twelve years old. His only way of feeling alive was to repeat the same thing louder and louder. Perhaps everyone became like that in the end.

Paddington, the end of the line. Lira decided not to plunge into the Underground. It was already eight and not yet dark. It had been a hot day and this was a good time for a walk. She set off, heading east. She had found a small hotel just beyond Soho; it was not particularly comfortable but the sheets were clean. The brown and beige carpet on the other hand appeared to have absorbed thirty years' worth of dust; the pink walls were hung with bad watercolours of blue lakes and grand houses hidden behind trees – another world, to be sure. But it was central and within the magazine's budget. It would take about three quarters of an hour to get there.

 

She cursed herself for having gone about things clumsily with Nwankwo Ganbo. On the train, so as not to forget any
details, she had jotted down what he had told the students, all the techniques and world-banking mechanisms that were employed to make things presentable. It was all a long way from the official language spoken by the City of London financial analysts and the experts in Russian affairs whom she had spoken to since coming to London. Perhaps she should try to see him again. She was less worried about her article than about having failed to get his attention. She felt that they were alike; she recognized the tension in him. She decided to write down as much as she could that night and go back to Oxford the next day; he'd understand. If she came back, he'd understand. And then Polina would be there. They would go shopping and see the bright lights and the crowds, and eat the Thai food they both loved. They so rarely had a chance to be together.

She hurried on, keen to get to work. There was no table in her room, she would have to work on the bed, sitting on the nasty synthetic flowery bedspread. At Tottenham Court Road, the station nearest to her hotel, she stopped and bought a packet of cakes and a carton of fruit juice to consume while she worked. As she paid, she asked the man at the cash desk the way to the hotel, just to check. Left, and then straight on to the crossroads, the man said, and after that he spoke too fast. Oh well, she'd find it. She turned left onto Charing Cross Road, down Denmark Street towards a crossroads, still thinking about her article. She liked Nwankwo's image of the masked ball. She hesitated, turned right. Perhaps a vampires' ball might be a more effective idea… Suddenly two hands grabbed her shoulders, no, four hands, two men, one on each side of her. She could hardly see them, it was dark now. She pulled away and slapped her attacker's face, scratching with her nails, and kicked her leg in the other direction. But the other man pulled her backwards and threw her to the ground. Thinking she was now at his mercy he leant over her. She kicked both legs into his stomach, pushing him away and getting up, but the one she had
scratched was already behind her and caught her by her hair. She shouted but no one heard. She elbowed the first man in the face. He let go. She ran, but not for long. The two men caught her by her jacket and she turned to face them. She caught a hand (protect your face, always protect your face – that's what she had learnt) about to punch her. But then came another blow, and another, and another. She backed against a wall, she didn't know where she was, she shouted as loud as she could. They were surprised by her resistance, but it had only delayed them. They were too strong. She begged them, offered her purse, but they didn't react or say anything. They weren't muggers, or even rapists. They looked at her coldly with tense muscles. One of them searched in his pocket. What was he looking for? A knife? Without thinking Lira launched a kick at his hand, and then the other one became really angry and grabbed her by the throat, holding her against him with his elbow. She could feel his hot beer-laden breath on her cheek as the other one approached, holding the thing he had been looking for. She couldn't see what it was – a little bottle? She saw his grin, a gold tooth and she screamed again. The other man put his hand on her mouth, a window on the street opened and shut again, and then suddenly the burning liquid. Her eyes! She couldn't see, she screamed with pain and collapsed in the darkness. She heard them running away. She heard them speaking – Russian. And then nothing.