City of Endless Night (Pendergast #17)(56)
The longer he thought about it, the more Bryce Harriman, the newly minted celebrity, the darling of the papers and the airwaves, began to reassert himself. Scurrilous lies, Ozmian had said. Character assassination. Well, two could play that game. This blackmail of Ozmian’s—perhaps it could be a story in itself. He, Harriman, had the backing of the entire might of the Post behind him, from Paul Petowski all the way up to Beaverton, the publisher. More than that—he had the backing of the people of New York as well.
He was not going to take this shit. It was time, he realized, to do some more digging—this time into Anton Ozmian. And in short order, Harriman felt sure, he’d dig up enough dirt from Ozmian’s own past to turn the tables and neutralize this frame job. And who knew? The story might just deflect attention from his problems with the late Saint of the United Nations.
He leapt up from the couch and headed for his laptop, filled with sudden new purpose.
38
WHEN D’AGOSTA STEPPED through the Second Avenue entrance to the Nigerian Mission to the United Nations, he was instantly aware of a heavy pallor hanging in the lobby air. It had nothing to do with the barricades outside, or with the heavy NYPD presence, supplemented by Nigerian security. Instead, it had everything to do with the black armbands that were worn by practically everyone in sight; with the lost-looking, downcast faces of the people he passed; with the small knots of people who spoke together in mournful tones. The mission had the feeling of a building whose heart had been ripped from it. As was indeed the case; Nigeria had just lost Dr. Wansie Adeyemi, its most promising stateswoman and recent Nobel Prize winner, to the Decapitator.
And yet, D’Agosta knew, Dr. Adeyemi couldn’t be the saint she was cracked up to be. It just didn’t fit the theory he believed, also enthusiastically endorsed by the NYPD task force. Somewhere in that lady’s background he would find a cruel and sordid past, which the killer knew about. Earlier in the afternoon, he’d called Pendergast and run by him various ways to uncover the smoking gun D’Agosta knew must be hidden somewhere in the woman’s history. Pendergast had finally suggested that they arrange an interview at the Nigerian Mission with someone who’d known Dr. Adeyemi intimately, and he offered to set it up.
D’Agosta and Pendergast passed through several layers of security, showing their badges numerous times, until at last they found themselves in the office of the Nigerian chargé d’affaires. He knew of their coming and, despite the people milling about and the heavy cloak of tragedy that lay over everything, he escorted them personally down the hall to a nondescript door labeled OBAJE, F. He opened it to reveal a small, neat office, with an equally neat man sitting behind a spotless desk. He was short and wiry, with close-cropped white hair.
“Mr. Obaje,” the chargé d’affaires said in a stony voice, “these are the men I told you to expect. Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI and Lieutenant D’Agosta of the NYPD.”
The man rose from behind the desk. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” said the chargé d’affaires. He nodded at Pendergast and D’Agosta in turn, then left the office with the air of a man who had just lost one of his own family.
The man behind the desk looked at his two guests. “I am Fenuku Obaje,” he said. “Administrative assistant to the permanent UN mission.”
“We greatly appreciate your taking a moment to speak with us in this tragic time,” Pendergast said.
Obaje nodded. “Please, take a seat.”
Pendergast did so, and D’Agosta followed suit. Administrative assistant? It looked like they were going to get the royal brush-off with some low-level functionary. Is this the best Pendergast could do? He decided to withhold judgment until they’d spoken with the diplomat.
“First,” Pendergast said, “let me extend to you our deepest sympathies. This is a terrible loss, not just for Nigeria, but for all peace-loving people.”
Obaje made a gesture of thanks.
“It’s my understanding that you knew Dr. Adeyemi well,” Pendergast continued.
Obaje nodded again. “We practically grew up together.”
“Excellent. My colleague, Lieutenant D’Agosta, has just a few questions he’d like to ask you.” With this, Pendergast turned pointedly toward D’Agosta.
D’Agosta understood immediately. He was champing at the bit to peel off the veneer of holiness and get the dirt on Adeyemi; Pendergast was kindly giving him the lead to do so. The ball was in his court. He shifted in his chair.
“Mr. Obaje,” he said. “You just told us you and Dr. Adeyemi practically grew up together.”
“A figure of speech. We went to university together. Benue State University, in Makurdi—we were both part of its first graduating class in 1996.” A smile of pride briefly broke through the pained expression that was practically graven onto his face.
D’Agosta had taken out his notebook and was jotting this down. “I’m sorry. Benue?”
“One of the newer Nairobi states, created in 1976. ‘Food Basket of the Nation’—”
“I see.” D’Agosta continued his scribbling. “And you knew her well at the university?”
“We were reasonably well acquainted, both at school and in the years that followed immediately after.”
Immediately after. Good. “Mr. Obaje, I realize this is a very difficult time for you, but I must ask you to be as candid with us as possible. We are trying to solve a series of murders here—not just that of Dr. Adeyemi, but several others as well. Now, everything I’ve heard about Dr. Adeyemi has been laudatory in the extreme. People are practically calling her a saint.”