crazy—but they tolerate me. A few even believe me.”
She grabbed Lindsay’s arm. “For them, I am a priestess. They call me the white priestess of Oshogbo. I have twelve converts. Soon we will have a whole community, then a village, and then . . . who knows?”
Lindsay recorded the conversation and shot two rolls of film. Then they walked back to the house, and when James returned he found them still deep in conversation.
Roxanne rose and gave James a peck on the cheek. “Now, my dear,” she said, “I must do some business with your friend.” She led him into an office. Lindsay wandered around the small gallery stocked with replicas of the giant sculptures outside.
After half an hour, she decided to go for another walk outside. As she opened the screen door, she heard a murmur of voices coming from a small arbor. She was surprised to see Roxanne and James talking with a striking-looking man she hadn’t seen before. His skin was almost blue-black, his hair cut close to his head. Although he was probably a Hausa, Lindsay thought, he wasn’t wearing traditional dress. He sported a sharply tailored, expensive-looking white linen sports jacket, a pale blue shirt open at the neck, navy blue trousers, and soft black Italian shoes. She noticed that he was holding an impressive black ebony cane. There appeared to be an ivory dragon’s head carved at the top.
The three seemed deep in some kind of negotiation, speaking softly, presumably working out details of a sale. She didn’t want to disturb them so she walked away, strolling through the woods for another half hour. When she returned, Roxanne and James were in the sitting room waiting for her and the man was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER 12
“Who was that snazzy-looking guy you were talking to?” she asked, as they climbed into the car.
“Oh, did you see him?” James looked surprised. “I thought he’d come and gone while you were taking your walk.”
“Just a glimpse. Pretty sharp.”
He grinned. “He’s a local business contact. Did you notice his jacket? A few trips to Italy and now it’s nothing but Armani.”
They stopped at a hotel James knew on the outskirts of Ibadan. He went to register while she parked the car. She found a space next to a black Mercedes government car, identifiable by a black and white license plate with the number 4 in the upper left corner. The lower the number, the higher the position. She pulled out her overnight bag, locked the car, and went to join James in the lobby. He was talking to a Nigerian man sporting a pair of dark Ray-Bans. As she walked toward them, the man moved on to the elevator bank.
“You certainly know a lot of people,” she said amiably, when she reached James.
“He’s from the export bureau,” James said. “I have to have good relations with these guys if I want to get any really old artifacts out of the country. It’s illegal to export antiquities, you know.”
She nodded, already having assumed James greased the wheels like every Western businessman. In any case, who was she to talk? If she hadn’t done the same, she’d still be waiting on line at the public communications office.
“I wonder if he’s the one with the impressive license plate,” Lindsay said, filling him in on the car in the parking lot.
“What number did you say was on it?”
“Four.”
“No. That’s way too low for him. Four would go to an important minister or his deputy.” He thought for a moment. “I heard that Billy Anikulo drives number four.”
“You mean the health minister?”
“Yeah. I wonder what he’s doing here.”
She approached the desk and asked the clerk if Billy Anikulo was registered at the hotel. The clerk blinked quickly.
“No, madam.”
“Well, have you seen him here? Has he met with someone staying in the hotel?”
“I don’t know, madam.”
Lindsay smiled at the clerk. “You don’t know or you can’t say?”
His face showed only the slightest trace of a smile in
She grabbed Lindsay’s arm. “For them, I am a priestess. They call me the white priestess of Oshogbo. I have twelve converts. Soon we will have a whole community, then a village, and then . . . who knows?”
Lindsay recorded the conversation and shot two rolls of film. Then they walked back to the house, and when James returned he found them still deep in conversation.
Roxanne rose and gave James a peck on the cheek. “Now, my dear,” she said, “I must do some business with your friend.” She led him into an office. Lindsay wandered around the small gallery stocked with replicas of the giant sculptures outside.
After half an hour, she decided to go for another walk outside. As she opened the screen door, she heard a murmur of voices coming from a small arbor. She was surprised to see Roxanne and James talking with a striking-looking man she hadn’t seen before. His skin was almost blue-black, his hair cut close to his head. Although he was probably a Hausa, Lindsay thought, he wasn’t wearing traditional dress. He sported a sharply tailored, expensive-looking white linen sports jacket, a pale blue shirt open at the neck, navy blue trousers, and soft black Italian shoes. She noticed that he was holding an impressive black ebony cane. There appeared to be an ivory dragon’s head carved at the top.
The three seemed deep in some kind of negotiation, speaking softly, presumably working out details of a sale. She didn’t want to disturb them so she walked away, strolling through the woods for another half hour. When she returned, Roxanne and James were in the sitting room waiting for her and the man was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER 12
“Who was that snazzy-looking guy you were talking to?” she asked, as they climbed into the car.
“Oh, did you see him?” James looked surprised. “I thought he’d come and gone while you were taking your walk.”
“Just a glimpse. Pretty sharp.”
He grinned. “He’s a local business contact. Did you notice his jacket? A few trips to Italy and now it’s nothing but Armani.”
They stopped at a hotel James knew on the outskirts of Ibadan. He went to register while she parked the car. She found a space next to a black Mercedes government car, identifiable by a black and white license plate with the number 4 in the upper left corner. The lower the number, the higher the position. She pulled out her overnight bag, locked the car, and went to join James in the lobby. He was talking to a Nigerian man sporting a pair of dark Ray-Bans. As she walked toward them, the man moved on to the elevator bank.
“You certainly know a lot of people,” she said amiably, when she reached James.
“He’s from the export bureau,” James said. “I have to have good relations with these guys if I want to get any really old artifacts out of the country. It’s illegal to export antiquities, you know.”
She nodded, already having assumed James greased the wheels like every Western businessman. In any case, who was she to talk? If she hadn’t done the same, she’d still be waiting on line at the public communications office.
“I wonder if he’s the one with the impressive license plate,” Lindsay said, filling him in on the car in the parking lot.
“What number did you say was on it?”
“Four.”
“No. That’s way too low for him. Four would go to an important minister or his deputy.” He thought for a moment. “I heard that Billy Anikulo drives number four.”
“You mean the health minister?”
“Yeah. I wonder what he’s doing here.”
She approached the desk and asked the clerk if Billy Anikulo was registered at the hotel. The clerk blinked quickly.
“No, madam.”
“Well, have you seen him here? Has he met with someone staying in the hotel?”
“I don’t know, madam.”
Lindsay smiled at the clerk. “You don’t know or you can’t say?”
His face showed only the slightest trace of a smile in
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