not publish anything that is not substantiated. We believe in a responsible press. We have laws that encourage it—and penalties that ensure it.” He took her hand as if to shake good-bye and gripped it so tightly that her ring dug into her finger and broke the skin.
“Do you understand?”
She nodded. “Yes.” She understood all too well.
“Good day,” he said.
“Good day,” she answered. “Thank you.”
The general turned to the window. He didn’t turn back as she left.
CHAPTER 8
Hunkered down in the rear seat of her car while John started the engine, she willed her heartbeat to return to normal. A chorus of Olumide’s threats played over and over in her head: “I’d love to find out who your sources are. Perhaps I will one day. . . .” “We have laws that encourage it and penalties that ensure it.” The intimidation came not just from his voice but also from his abrupt movements. She thought of the lizard in the ambassador’s garden—heavy-lidded and scarcely moving, darting its lethal tongue to snatch a bug.
John pulled out into the street. Were they being followed? She turned to look out the back window. Not a single Black Maria in sight.
She decided to file her story immediately. She looked at her watch: 12:30 P.M. It was five hours earlier in New York, giving her plenty of time. Interviews with African heads of state were customarily relegated to the back pages of the paper, but this one might just make it onto the front page. Oil-rich Nigeria was important, and Olumide, who rarely spoke to the press, was a figure of mystery to the West.
She wrote the piece in an hour and a half, then tried to figure out the best way to file. Tentatively, almost on impulse, she picked up her phone, fully expecting it to be dead. But by some miracle, her landline was working.
Perhaps Olumide wanted the story printed. She didn’t waste time trying to figure it out but dialed the Globe ’s recording room and began the tedious job of reading her story to a machine, which necessitated including all punctuation, and spelling out every name. (“Olumide: O for orange, L for London, U for ukulele . . .”) She finished without being cut off. Relieved, she decided to place another call. The connection was weaker this time, but on the fifth try, she was delighted to hear a secretary say, “Foreign desk.”
“This is Lindsay Cameron,” she said. “Is Joe Rainey around? I’m calling from Lagos and I don’t know how long the line will hold.”
Joe picked up. He’s in early, she thought, probably didn’t go home last night. Once again his wife, Janine, would be furious.
“Jesus, Lindsay. We were wondering when you’d check in. What’s going on?”
“It’s been hell getting through and now that I’ve got a line, I’m going to talk fast. I just filed twelve hundred words on my interview with Olumide. He didn’t say much, but I’m using it as a peg for some background on the situation here. There may be a big story coming up. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone, but I’m on top of it.”
“What kind of time line are we talking about?”
“Not sure. Maybe a week or two.”
“Okay. What about the interview? Can we reach you later for questions?”
“Beats me. You can try. If the phone’s down, don’t send a fax through the public communications office. I’ll try my best to reach you.”
“There’s something else,” Rainey said. “You marked a piece ‘hold for orders.’ What do we do with it?”
She glanced down at her notebook and saw Olumide’s only comment about Babatunde Oladayo: “People like him, they are nothing. They are bugs.” Her face flushed with anger. It took her less than a minute to make up her mind.
“Run it,” she said. “You can pair it with the interview.”
“Okay. Good. Listen, we could use some features for page two while you’re waiting around for your big story. Maybe some lifestyle pieces. What’s Lagos like now? Write about African art,
“Do you understand?”
She nodded. “Yes.” She understood all too well.
“Good day,” he said.
“Good day,” she answered. “Thank you.”
The general turned to the window. He didn’t turn back as she left.
CHAPTER 8
Hunkered down in the rear seat of her car while John started the engine, she willed her heartbeat to return to normal. A chorus of Olumide’s threats played over and over in her head: “I’d love to find out who your sources are. Perhaps I will one day. . . .” “We have laws that encourage it and penalties that ensure it.” The intimidation came not just from his voice but also from his abrupt movements. She thought of the lizard in the ambassador’s garden—heavy-lidded and scarcely moving, darting its lethal tongue to snatch a bug.
John pulled out into the street. Were they being followed? She turned to look out the back window. Not a single Black Maria in sight.
She decided to file her story immediately. She looked at her watch: 12:30 P.M. It was five hours earlier in New York, giving her plenty of time. Interviews with African heads of state were customarily relegated to the back pages of the paper, but this one might just make it onto the front page. Oil-rich Nigeria was important, and Olumide, who rarely spoke to the press, was a figure of mystery to the West.
She wrote the piece in an hour and a half, then tried to figure out the best way to file. Tentatively, almost on impulse, she picked up her phone, fully expecting it to be dead. But by some miracle, her landline was working.
Perhaps Olumide wanted the story printed. She didn’t waste time trying to figure it out but dialed the Globe ’s recording room and began the tedious job of reading her story to a machine, which necessitated including all punctuation, and spelling out every name. (“Olumide: O for orange, L for London, U for ukulele . . .”) She finished without being cut off. Relieved, she decided to place another call. The connection was weaker this time, but on the fifth try, she was delighted to hear a secretary say, “Foreign desk.”
“This is Lindsay Cameron,” she said. “Is Joe Rainey around? I’m calling from Lagos and I don’t know how long the line will hold.”
Joe picked up. He’s in early, she thought, probably didn’t go home last night. Once again his wife, Janine, would be furious.
“Jesus, Lindsay. We were wondering when you’d check in. What’s going on?”
“It’s been hell getting through and now that I’ve got a line, I’m going to talk fast. I just filed twelve hundred words on my interview with Olumide. He didn’t say much, but I’m using it as a peg for some background on the situation here. There may be a big story coming up. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone, but I’m on top of it.”
“What kind of time line are we talking about?”
“Not sure. Maybe a week or two.”
“Okay. What about the interview? Can we reach you later for questions?”
“Beats me. You can try. If the phone’s down, don’t send a fax through the public communications office. I’ll try my best to reach you.”
“There’s something else,” Rainey said. “You marked a piece ‘hold for orders.’ What do we do with it?”
She glanced down at her notebook and saw Olumide’s only comment about Babatunde Oladayo: “People like him, they are nothing. They are bugs.” Her face flushed with anger. It took her less than a minute to make up her mind.
“Run it,” she said. “You can pair it with the interview.”
“Okay. Good. Listen, we could use some features for page two while you’re waiting around for your big story. Maybe some lifestyle pieces. What’s Lagos like now? Write about African art,
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