Blood Is Dirt by Robert Wilson Page A

for us to reveal our involvement at this early stage,’ said Bagado. ‘I’m also very tired.’
    â€˜How do you feel about Napier Briggs now?’
    â€˜I can understand why he was a very scared man.’
    â€˜Not so scared that he couldn’t be tempted into the
cocotiers
for two million bucks.’
    â€˜They knew Napier Briggs well enough,’ said Bagado, ‘and it didn’t take him too long to figure you out.’
    â€˜I didn’t know what he was involved in at that point.’
    Bagado gave me a look that let me know I was a pretty sorry specimen.
    The second message was for me from David Bartholomew, the guy who worked in the British High Commission in Lagos and pushed the occasional no-hoper our way. I called him, Bagado on the earpiece this time, and we talked about nothing until I asked him why he’d left the message.
    â€˜Just wanted a chat,’ he said, and Bagado cocked his head to one side which meant that David had told his first lie.
    â€˜I thought you might be calling to ask after that guy you sent us.’
    â€˜Which one was that?’
    â€˜You mean you’ve sent us half a dozen in the last few weeks?’ I said. ‘Because they haven’t turned up.’
    â€˜Did that Napier Briggs chap turn up?’
    â€˜David, you might have a brain the size of a small block of flats, which is why you’re working for the Foreign Office in the British High Commission and I’m doing a poor job of kicking shit in the street, but for God’s sake credit me with something.’
    â€˜I don’t follow.’
    â€˜They haven’t given you an interrogation-techniques course in your entire time at the FO? Or did the only one you get consist of standing around in a room with a bunch of other guys all with gin and tonics in your hands.’
    â€˜Gins
and tonic, Bruce, and absolutely not, Scotch and soda in the evenings and pink gin at lunchtimes.’
    â€˜I suppose that’s Scotches and soda...’
    â€˜Well, it certainly wouldn’t be one. You’ve never been to an FO “do” if you think that.’
    Bagado had his head on the table, a gentle snoring issuing from his nose.
    â€˜Napier Briggs is dead,’ I said. Silence from the FO. ‘He was found on the railway tracks in Cotonou with his eyes squeezed out, two six-inch nails in his ears, his tongue ripped out and his mouth cut off.’
    â€˜My God.’
    â€˜You didn’t know he was running with such a fast crowd?’
    â€˜He was just pathetic, like all those other ones who come to see me. I told him to go home. He said he couldn’t leave without the two million he’d lost. So I sent him to you.’
    â€˜Why didn’t you send him to Colonel Adjeokuta?’
    Bagado sat up and shook his head. I held up a hand.
    â€˜I thought you’d rather have had the business.’
    â€˜Thanks for thinking of my welfare, David. That must be a first for the FO thinking of a British citizen in distress.’
    â€˜There’s no need to be like that,’ said David, getting a littie camp. He was a homosexual and could resort to that kind of thing with people he knew and if he needed to hide for a bit.
    â€˜I thought you’d have heard about Napier by now. Didn’t the Honorary Consul call you, or was he doing a Graham Greene?’
    â€˜Are you coming to Lagos sometime, Bruce?’ he asked, surfing my question.
    â€˜I’ve got no need to at the moment... now that Napier Briggs is dead. If I do, I’ll call you.’
    â€˜Or maybe I’ll come to Cotonou.’
    â€˜You’ll be welcome.’
    Bagado was pacing the room, hands in pockets, his processor whirring—his hard disk snickering.
    â€˜We’ve got something here,’ he said. ‘It looks as if it’s flying higher than we thought. When you asked him about Adjeokuta why didn’t he just say that Mr Briggs didn’t want an