Hello people, this is an offering of my first novel. It is still a work in progress, nearing completion. I have decided to share it here to see if it strikes a chord, if it sits well with the primary audience, which is Nigerian and to also get your feedback, whether to go ahead and publish or not. It is a rough draft, unedited, not proofed yet, so any errors are mine. You are the first set of eyes to see this.

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents are the results of the writers imagination and any semblance to real or actual persons, living or dead, apart from historical references is entirely coincidental.

SYNOPSIS


Soldiers Of The Jihad

ISIS..Boko Haram…Al Shabab
This sinister triumvirate has now come together in an evil alliance to wipe out the political leadership of Africa’s largest economy and install a puppet as President, then hijack her oil resources for their own ends.

During a parliamentary address to a joint session of the National Assembly, being beamed live to a global audience, the President of the Federal Republic is taken hostage by a jihadist wearing an explosive vest and clutching a dead man’s trigger.

Mucheche’s request is simple- free the leader of the dreaded Boko Haram Sect and his lieutenants being held in the underground dungeons of the State Security Service facility just across the road and provide air passage for them to a destination of their choice.

The President faces certain death at the hands of a dangerous enemy with a king-size grudge against him and the establishment- a silver spoon kid and latter day adherent of radical Islam.

Only one woman can save the country- Asma’u Yau Komo, beautiful, intelligent, irrepressible- the renegade intelligence operative haunted by dark memories from her own past.

From Kano to Maiduguri, Timbuktu to Tripoli, Damascus to Beirut, Asma’u finds out, all too suddenly, that to save the President, she must outthink and outfox the jihadist in the explosive vest, then find a way to locate and demobilize his ticking bomb under the bowels of parliament, in this high wired conspiracy with roots that reach right into the Presidency.

Great job. You have to make your diction more evocative and your description more metaphorical.

Prologue

National Assembly Complex
Abuja, Nigeria
December 22
10.45am

Mucheche hung gingerly, on the struts of the high ceilinged ante room adjoining the Green Chamber of the National Assembly building in humid darkness, like a professional gymnast expertly working the poles in a gripping callisthenic rendition.

He intermittently looked through his improvised periscope, drilled through the ceiling boards to peak just beside the emergency water sprinkler, giving him uninterrupted vision of the small room below.

He waited patiently.

Patience was one of his virtues, and here he had so far used it to good effect. Afraid to touch the ceiling boards just in case his weight set off alarms somewhere in a control room, he had been suspended like that for the past two hours.

Mucheche’s muscles ached, and his sinews, taut and strained, seemed to be on fire. The exertion tasked his infinite reserves of energy no end, but nothing was too tasking for a shot at martyrdom.

Today, he was going to be in the presence of Allah- he was entering paradise to be united with his 77 virgins. The thought of 77 naked women made him giddy with excitement.

He was, however, dispassionate enough to know that he had a small job to do in a few minutes- the tardy business of dispatching a commander-in-chief and 5,000 souls to the great beyond with the simple flick of a switch.

Sweat streamed off his face as he struggled to maintain balance, up ended on struts in the ceiling that separated him from the cavernous space below. He was equally weighed down by the suicide vest he wore, which was laden with 20kg plates of C4 explosive.
It had been a temptation to pull up the ceiling board he had carefully cut out and push it aside to drop down into the small room and hide behind the junk of equipment and cartons littering everywhere, but he resisted the urge.

Security was water tight- an overzealous official from the DSS or one of the Presidential Body Guards could yet still walk in unexpectedly do another sweep for IED’s and he will be found.

He would be summarily shot without question.

Though the bomb he had planted in the basement of the complex and timed to explode in exactly one hour thence would still go off, Mucheche knew it would only cause limited damage. And more importantly, he would have failed to grab the infidel who called himself the President.
The NTA videographer was due any minute now, he mused looking at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. Faintly through the boards, he could hear the drone of the President’s brittle voice as he rattled off figures and bogus amounts in his fraudulent budget proposal to the equally thieving legislators.

Mucheche knew the President would soon round off his presentation, take a bow, listen to a closing remark then depart. Once he left the visitor box and became surrounded by secret service agents, it would be too late.

It was now or never.

Where is Musa, he murmured? Would the NTA camera man, chicken out? Yes, they had his family captive under the gun, but was threat of death to his wife and kid enough?

This was the major flaw of the plan.

If the camera man’s nerve failed and he gave him away, soldiers and secret service agents would come, guns blazing, shooting indiscriminately. Mucheche knew he won’t have a chance before he was cut down by the hail of bullets.

Had he been betrayed? He wondered. Mucheche closed his eyes, refusing to think of this possibility. Just as his fears closed in on him, he heard the door open tentatively as the beefy figure of a pressman appeared, followed by the loud drone of loudspeaker noise and light.

It was Musa alright, and he was alone as far as the intruder could see through his periscope. Mucheche heaved a sigh of relief and pushed away the ceiling board he had cut. He swung his legs into space and dropped silently on the marbled floor in his crepe soled shoes.

‘Everything ok?’ He asked in a whisper.
The big, frightened man could only nod, his voice gone with fear.
‘Good,’ Mucheche said straightening up and stretching his legs to restore circulation. Your camera mount is right infront of the visitor box?’
The man only nodded again, sweating profusely.
‘Good, everything is going according to plan then. We are in your debt, and Allah will reward you richly, my friend.’
The man could only stare in fright.
‘Your jacket please,’ Mucheche demanded menacingly.
The press man suddenly seemed to find his voice.
‘My wife..my boy…,’ he murmured almost inaudibly, ignoring the demand. ‘Are they alright?’

Mucheche looked at him coldly- he had no stomach for weak men. His instructions were to knock Musa over the head and leave him cold, but seeing the distance between them, he reasoned it would be better to just put a bullet through him than risk getting into a brawl if he got wise to his intentions.

Pulling out a snub nosed Glock automatic, he quickly screwed on a silencer, smiling coyly. ‘Yes, are fine.’
‘And you are not going to harm Mr. President?’
Only a stony glare met this needless question.
‘You do not plan to harm the President, do you?’ He repeated in a shrill voice.
‘No, not at all,’ Muchehe replied. He lifted the gun, pointing it at the chest of the big man.

Musa realized only too late what was about to happen and just as he backed away, ready to scream, Mucheche gently squeezed the trigger.
The pop sound from the silenced automatic was drowned by the faint drone of the President’s voice in the Green Chamber. Musa collapsed in a heap, dead before he even hit the ground.

Mucheche quickly went to the corpse and turned it over. He pulled off the NTA Press jacket and then proceeded to unbutton and remove the flannel shirt the dead man had been wearing.

The jacket should conceal the bulge of the explosive plates of his vest and give him the physical appearance of the bigger man while the shirt was for any curious eye. He changed quickly and smoothened the jacket over his flanks, fingering the detonator in his trouser pocket.

He moved quietly to the door.

He pried it open a little bit and peeped into the chamber, over the broad shoulders of two secret service agents backing the door. The chamber was jammed to capacity and Mucheche’s excitement quickened.

At a rough guess, there were more than 2000 people in there. Legislators, Cabinet ministers, presidential aides, journalists, cameramen, microphones and more cameras.

Without hesitation he pulled open the door.

With his heart thumping, he pushed through the middle of the two agents guarding the door of the ante room before they could protest and walked briskly in front of the principal officers across the chamber to the camera mount.

He climbed it and found himself staring right at the President, feeling two thousand pair of eyes boring through his back. If you planned well, it often seemed easy, he thought to himself.

Mucheche had barely trained the view finder on the face of the President when the elderly man rounded up his speech to thunderous ovation from the audience. He smiled to the applauding crowd while his ADC, an Army Colonel, gathered his papers and gadgets.
Mucheche knew in the next few seconds, the President will exit the visitor box and with his ADC in tow, walk right in front of him to take a bow in front of the Principal Officers at the foot of the raised dais.

That would be the moment to act.

At that point, his ADC would be clapping, his hands full of papers and gadgets. Once he seized the President, the soldier would be too surprised to act, reaching for his automatic only when he had gathered his wits.

Mucheche knew the extra few seconds he would gain before this happened were going to be crucial. His raised hand brandishing the trigger should stop the ADC in his tracks. If the soldier panicked, pulled out his gun and shot him, the trigger will fall off and they will all be obliterated from the blast that would follow.

Mucheche prayed the red neck, and indeed the secret service personnel spread all round the chamber would not do anything drastic. He was not afraid of death, and indeed, the President must surely die too, but before they did, the President had one final Executive Order he must give on live TV.

As expected, the President finished his speech and began walking towards the raised dais, waving frantically at the pulsating crowd. Mucheche was staring at him quizzically as he approached.

The President walked past, without even giving him a glance, to the foot of the raised dais, took a bow and was smiling at the principal officers when Mucheche made his move.

As fast as a rattle snake, he slid off the mount, sneaked behind the ADC and barged into from behind, pushing him off the dais. Before the bewildered President could turn, Mucheche grabbed his neck from behind in a vice like neck and thundered:

‘Allahu Akbar…This is the Jamā'at Ahl as-Sunnah lid-Da'wah wa'l-Jihād. Do not move. This is a snatch, everybody remain where you are,’ he thundered into the small microphone, built into the collar of his vest and rigged into the public address system of complex.

While speaking, Mucheche was whirling around with the President, helpless in his grip. Just as quickly, he unveiled his explosive vest, raising his hand for the world to see the dead man’s trigger he was wielding.

‘Any false move and we are all on a one way flight to hell,’ he bellowed.

Contd


BOOK 1

BACKGROUND TO THE CONFLICT




Chapter 1
Yellow House
Three Arms Zone, Abuja
May 22

Yellow House, the nom de plume for the sprawling high security facility housing the headquarters of Nigeria’s Department Of State Services (DSS) also known as the State Security Service (SSS) is located on the northern fringes of the Three Arms Zone in Abuja.

This secret police establishment is the primary spy agency and domestic intelligence service of Africa’s most populous country. It is also responsible for counter insurgency and for the close protection of senior government officials, particularly the President, Cabinet Ministers and State Governors.

The DSS or SSS, depending on which, one prefers, operates as a department within the Presidency under the direct control of the National Security Adviser and is one of three successor organizations of the dreaded National Security Organization (NSO) dissolved in 1986.

On this morning, a week before the inauguration of a new President of the Federal Republic, a high powered meeting was going on between the three most powerful men within the intelligence hierarchy of Nigeria’s Secret service in the plush offices of the Director General.
Reinforced steel and concrete walls delineate the official workspace of the head of the SSS from the rest of the Yellow house ecosystem- a section totally inaccessible to the any one bar the top hierarchy of the service and acolytes of the serving DG.

The office is huge and massive, large enough to accommodate both a working space and a sizable conference area with enough room for sofas, chairs and a mini studio equipped with a sophisticated real time video and graphical analysis system.

The ornate ceiling and other architectural details, such as the wood-paneled walls, decorative pediments over the doors, and numerous bookcases built into niches give the office a welcoming feel not expected of a spy.

The room features three large bomb proof windows of reinforced glass facing the DG’s huge table and overlooking the dome of the National Assembly Complex just beside a door that leads to a dining room and private study with an adjacent rest room.

The substantive Director General of the service and current occupant of that office, Dr Joseph Dagogo Whyte, a Kalabari from Buguma was seated at the head of an oblong mahagony table within the meeting area, furiously sifting through a dossier and writing with a ball point pen.
Dagogo Whyte was a short, portly man of about 55, with a bristling moustache and small, restless eyes under a balding dome. On this morning, his resource control hat that hid his fast receding hairline complemented his dark grey Niger Delta attire that must have cost a fortune.

One of the only two remaining men in the service now from the defunct NSO era, Dr Dagogo Whyte, or DWhyte as he was fearfully called by lower ranking personnel, was a thoroughbred professional who had risen through the ranks as a security operative.

He enlisted into the National Security Organization (NSO) as a cadet Officer in 1984 under the legendary Ambassador Mohammed Lawal Rafindadi, shortly after the military had toppled the civilian regime of Shehu Shagari, rising to the rank of Principal Security Intelligence Officer (PSIO) slowly under succeeding military administrations.

Coming from Rivers, the South South of Nigeria at a time the head of the NSO, Lawal Rafindadi hailed from Katsina, Nigeria’s core north, his rise in the service rife with nepotism was slow and unhurried till his kinsman, Dr Albert Horsfall took over the agency in 1990.
Kick starting his career proper with Dr Horsfall’s fillip, he rose rapidly over the next decades, working variously in Intelligence, Operations, Special Threats and Tactics, VIP Protection among other departments.

He was at various times Chief Protective Detail and Chief Security Officer to a Senate President, then President and Commander-In-Chief proper, before he was redeployed back to headquarters to serve as a deputy director. He soon gained promotion as substantive Director in charge of Operations.

Dr Dagogo Whyte was soon be appointed Director- General of the service on the recommendation of his niece who was the First lady of the Federal Republic. Having a niece who was married to the C-in-C of the Federal Republic had its advantages in a nepotism driven country.
However, having been linked with several corruption charges and after being hugely partisan in the just concluded elections that returned an opposition party to power for the first time after 16years and four attempts, it was common knowledge within the establishment that his six years as the head honcho of the spy agency were numbered.

Many of Dr Dagogo Whyte’s directors knew he was clutching at straws to extend his stay at the helm, and this desperation to be seen to be working seemed to initiate many of his present day moves. The three men seated infront of him knew this meeting, summoned at his instance couldn’t be anything less in the subtle power play that had engulfed the agency since the general elections.

No one was more aware of this fact than the only other relic of the NSO era, Mallam Lawal Abdul, the no nonsense Director of Intelligence, seated opposite the DG. Tall, lanky and sprightly, his fragile frame was donned in the grand boubou- the flowing, expansive Baban Riga with the eternal knot embroidery, made from hand woven cloth. His small pate was covered with a matching hula to boot. Mallam Abdul was a man with anger in his soul, tinged with his own frustration of his perceived lack of progress in the service.

The Prince from Sokoto had joined the service in 1983 under Alh Umoru Shinkafi as an non commissioned officer with only a school certificate from Barewa college, Zaria to his name. His nephew Umoru Shinkafi, the then Head of the NSO had convinced him to join, even without papers.
Lawal Abdul had thus joined the service against his better inclination to be a cleric and at Shinkafi’s instructions, Personnel had subsequently posted him to the office of the DG as Office Assistant- an euphemism for messenger really, running errands and generally keeping the office tidy.
Barely a month after he had resumed duty, the power struggles in the Presidency over an impending military coup had consumed Shinkafi and he had been forced to resign. Ambassador Mohammed Rafindadi took over and from then, Lawal Abdul’s misery began.

Due to his filial ties with the erstwhile DG, Lawal was posted out of the DG’s office to the admin pool where his career stagnated for many years. Not happy with his situation, Lawal Abdul enrolled for correspondence classes by mail and obtained his bachelor’s degree in that manner.
He then went back to attend SSS Academy as he had decided he did not want to pursue a career in administration. He was reluctantly absorbed into service though he had lost several years.

Over the next 25years, he had gotten a masters degree and a doctorate and attended several courses in covert operations, surveillance, security management, and executive protection. Lawal knew he had risen, but the monkey of joining the service as a messenger way back and obtaining his degrees by mail had never left his back.

He had seen two of his subordinates- well, not subordinates in the real sense of the word, but two green eyed cadets- who had only joined the NSO after him, rise to become Director General while he had only looked.Lawal remembered the first day Dagogo Whyte had arrived for duty, fresh from the SSS academy in Lagos. By then, he had already spent more than a year at the NSO under Rafindadi where he had stalled because of his filial ties with Shinakfi.

Political patronage had since installed Dagogo Whyte as DG.

Lawal Abdul had bided his time and he knew it would soon be him sitting in this expansive office calling the shots- DWhyte was washed out and Lawal’s time was nigh. He, it was, who had worked behind the scenes to frustrate the DG and prevent the SSS from rigging elections to pave the way for the emergence of the new President.

Mallam Abdul knew his reward for that effort must surely be that plum office- he was next in line anyway. He deserved it on merit, he deserved it for working with the right clique and for serving the soon-to-be ruling party.His excitement at this possibility made him ignore the slight of having his subordinate, Mr Fisayo Samaiye sit next to him at such a top management meeting, clearly breaching the chain of command.
Fisayo Samiaye was the Deputy Director, Counter Terrorism & Investigation and he sat coolly next to his Director, furiously studying a dossier and refusing to look up.

A fat, middle aged man with prodigious girth with hands like meat cleavers, he had a funny habit of always eating garlic, fouling the air of any place he entered. Mr Samaiye, a Psychologist from Ekiti was one of the most patronized officers in the service when the soldiers were ruling. His Langtang in laws had been traversing the corridors of power since time immemorial and had aided his progress no end within the service.
He too, had risen rapidly through the ranks but the military to civilian transition at the turn of the century had torpedoed his progress- his sharp career trajectory became blunted as the civilian dispensation ensured his powerful backers retreated to the barracks.

Mr Samaiye was one of the closest confidante’s of the substantive DG also doubling as his Special Adviser, Special Projects. Samaiye basically handled wet affairs- status that gave him the legal power to kill, on behalf of the state. Samaiye had no time for the Prince from Sokoto whom he considered dull intellectually and as he suspected, someone who harbored sympathies for Islamic fundamentalism. So for most times when he could, he often tried to go over his head in administrative issues as he now had.

Samaiye knew Lawal entertained the forlorn hope that he would succeed DWhyte as DG, but a petition he had secretly sent to the Chief Of Staff to the incoming President would surely put an end to that aspiration.If Lawal succeeded DWhyte, he may as well start packing his bags, bidding the service good bye. There was no lost between them, and they both knew it.

He adjusted uncomfortably in his seat as the olive green and beige Aso Oke he wore got stuck under his massive fanny that spread over the seat like a grotesque mushroom

On this day, Samiaye had forwarded an intelligence report straight to the DG about an impending Boko Haram attack at the inauguration ceremony that was billed to held a week thence. He had sent the report straight to the DG without passing through his Director, Mallam Abdul.
‘So, DG, why are here?’ the last man in the room, seated on the left beside the DG opened.

Mr Ganan WashPam was not known to mince words within the agency. As the Director Operations, he was the only one of the quartet without any political aspirations. He was just a hard core professional who was always content doing his job without making any play at power.
A pharmacist from Bauchi, he just believed in the latin maxim, Que Sera Sera- what will be, will be- and hence lived his professional life strictly, according to standard operational procedures of the State Security Service.

Tall, athletic and nicely built, his debonair appearance in his black pin stripe suit, belied his 50 years of age, giving him the look of a successful, but ageing Nollywood actor.

Dr Dagogo Whyte cleared his throat, shuffling through papers from the dossier.

Chapter 1 (contd)

‘This is a flimsy of a report I have just received,’ he began tentatively, passing across a sheet of paper to each man. He waited patiently for each man to glance through.
Mallam Abdul was the first to speak.
‘This report comes from DD-CTI, who is my direct report, and who is here seated right next to me. Why am I am just seeing this?’
Dagogo Whyte sighed.
‘Look, Mallam, we will address that issue later, let’s face the threat ahead. This is Critical Intelligence and as such, can get to me without necessarily passing through the proper evaluation chanels. We-’
‘No, DG, no. I refuse to accept this. We cannot continue running the agency like this. You cannot keep promoting insubordination, under such baseless talk. I will not take it. How can you encourage subordinates to bypass superiors under the guise of Critical Intelligence? Even if Mr Samaiye is your SA, he is still my-’
‘Mallam, will you keep quiet please. That is an order,’ Dagogo Whyte, shouted slamming his huge fist on the table, sending sheets of paper flying all over the place.
Mr Samaiye scrambled to his feet to gather the papers floating in the air.
‘Why do you go on and on? You are the Director, always have been, always will be. Nobody is taking your job, why do you keep getting paranoid over little issues? I run this outfit, and I determine what is permissible and what is not.’
Both men glared at each other.
‘I see!’ Mallam Abdul muttered through pursed lips.
‘Yes, you had better see. We have a house on fire and we cannot go about chasing rats. Let’s put out the fire, then worry about internal discipline, okay?’
Mallam Abdul could only stare at him, hatred blazing through his eyes.
‘Very well,’ he threw.
‘Well, lets get on with the business of the day.’ Ganan WashPam interjected. ‘In my considered opinion though, I will suggest Mr Samaiye is reprimanded DG. No need causing disaffection within your troops at this sort of critical period.’
The DG stared at him long and hard, then shrugged his shoulders.
‘Okay, fine. If that makes you happy, I will talk to Internal Affairs,’ he conceded though they all knew this was just mere talk.
Mallam Abdul sneered. He was consoled by the fact DWhyte would soon be booted out and he will take his seat. He will then know how to deal with Saimaiye’s indiscretions.
‘So, about this report, it’s a Grade A threat against Khalifa.’
Khalifa was the secret service code name for the incoming President Of The Federal Republic. The outgoing POTFRN was code named Escravos.
‘So how did DD CTI get to know this?’ Ganan Washpam asked? He had earned a reputation while rising within the ranks as a straight shooter, a stickler for rules and as someone willing to take on the brass.
‘An asset I have been running in Potiskum at the Al Asqa Mosque for six years now initiated this. As you know I was State Director, Yobe for five years before I was redeployed last year back here.’
‘This asset, anyone we know?’ Mallam Abdul asked, still smarting from the earlier rebuke from the DG.
‘No, he is only known to me and his handler. He has never given me wrong intel before, and I have no reason to doubt him now.’
‘Okay, so what is the nature of this intel?’
‘He overheard a conversation from some Yussufiya’s- those who are thought to be adherents of Mohammed Yussuf, the former leader- as they left Jumat last week. One of the three let slip that ‘Imam had assured them their final victory will come on the 29th. On that day, the infidel would have been cut down with all… ’’
Samaiye concluded
‘That’s all he heard?’ Mallam Abdul asked, snidely.
‘Yes, but I think that’s plenty. We know the locals refer to Saladin as Imam.’ Samiaye said, breathimg slowly, to control his pent up fury. Saladin was the secret Service code name for Abubakar Shekau, the leader of the dreaded Boko Haram Sect.
‘We know Saladin or Imam as the locals call him, considers the incoming No 1 as an infidel. 29th is the day of his inauguration. Cutting down the infidel could only mean they plan to terminate him on that day.’

Samaiye paused to look around the table.
‘Go on,’ Ganan WashPam encouraged.
‘That’s the fact of the matter. Now I enter the realm of speculation. I believe that Yussufiya, the one my asset overheard, wanted to say ‘….on that day, the infidel would have been cut down with all his key men.’ That would mean a bomb explosion, which is the only realistic way they could get at Khalifa and all his aides at the same time anyway.’
‘Very circumstantial, but if we could establish the veracity of this source we could better assess this threat. We have received so much false alarms of recent,’ the Director Of Operations, Ganan WashPam added.
‘Yes, but none of these alarms have come directly from an asset controlled by a Director.’
‘Deputy Director, you meant to say,’ Mallam Abdul interjected.
‘Please yourself, Director. But my source is credible and I think we shouldn’t take this for granted.’
‘No chance anybody can get at the Khalifa. It is my responsibility to assess threats to Presidential security, and so far, nothing untoward in that regard. The agents already around him are on high alert.’
‘I know…I know. But with this new information, I think we should escalate the threat levels.’
‘We are fine as we are. There is nothing to make us alter strategy as we cannot verify the authenticity of the intel and credibility of your asset.’
‘You will have to take my word that this is credible intel, Mallam Abdul. My asset is reliable and-’
‘How did he establish contact with you? A call?’ WashPam cut Samaiye short.
‘No, he doesn’t call. He has a son who brings rams from Potiskum to Zuba every fortnight. I told him anytime, he has information for me, he should send his son with a ram to my in law who sells rams and cows in that market. Once that inlaw, my wife’s cousin, brings a ram to the house, I will know and I will reach him. So I reached him.’

Dagogo Whyte was nodding slowly.
‘So you went to Zuba?’ Mallam Abdul asked, quite unnecessarily.
‘Yes, yesterday, I drove out there on the pretext of paying my inlaw for his ram. I met the courier. My asset has warned me never to call him with my phone, rather to always use his son’s phone to reach him. So I called him, and he related this to me- the threat is real.’
The three men were silent.
‘Suppose this is another red herring?’ Mallam Abdul insisted.
‘We lose nothing I suppose. We only step up security around the Khalifa and Escravos and lean on our informants over in their camp. We may get further leads.’ Ganan WashPam added.
‘That won’t be enough sir. I think we have to send a Joe out there-’
‘Joe? No way, I am going to do that.’
‘Okay, fine, but I also have it on good authority that we have a sleeper in their camp. We can activate him.’
‘Activate him on a whim? Do you know how difficult it is infiltrating those animals?’
‘I know…I know, but-’
‘No, you don’t, Mr Samaiye. If you did, you won’t suggest we activate and blow his cover for intel that may yet be false.’
‘Then, we have to send a reliable man out there, something could be brewing and we have no time.’
‘Send a valuable deep cover agent out there on a whim? On this circumstantial intel? To achieve what if I may ask? Liquidate Saladin?’
‘No, but Joe can gather us enough leads. My asset tells me, there is a boko within the sect’s ranks now.’
‘Boko? What does that mean,’ The DG interjected. ‘Boko is haram for those animals so how do you mean?’
‘I think they have someone in their midst now who is educated, who is connected, who knows his way around the city- this city.’
Mallam Lawal Abdul only shrugged.
‘We know they are being supported by several wealthy people, so this theory is nothing new.’
‘No, this Boko, this new man, I feel he is the real McCoy, and he is active operationally. He is their deep cover man within our midst, right in the Federal Capital here.’

A hush fell over the room.
‘Active? Deep Cover? In what way?’ the DG asked. ‘You are making these people look sophisticated
‘But they are,’ Samiaye countered. ‘This man, this Boko is not a run off the mill jihadist like what the soldiers have been dealing with, in the wilds. He is an intellectual prop for them, an agent of sorts for them and he is active within our midst.’
The other three men kept quiet, staring at Samaiye keenly.
‘How did you come about this theory?’ The DG asked coolly.
‘Gut feeling based on what my asset told me. My asset told me feelers from those who have escaped from the terrorist of recent say there is an upbeat mood in their camps. They say the terrorists literally speak of a Mahdi, not as one who will come to rule for seven or nineteen years before the Day of Judgment but as one who has come to rid the Ummah of evil ones- read Khalifa.’
Another long and interminable pause followed.
‘And you think this Mahdi, whoever he is has been tasked to try to liquidate the Khalifa?’
‘It is possible. We have to think along those lines.’
‘And you want Joe out there, to smoke out this Khalifa and stop him in his tracks?’
‘Yes.’ Samaiye answered, matter of factly.
‘Where does he start?’
‘My asset recognized one of the Yussufiya’s that day. He is a grains merchant in Potiskum and a community leader. That would be the place to start.’

Mallam Abdul was shaking his head unconvinced.
‘No, sorry to bust your bubble,’ he scoffed. I can’t send any Joe out there on the strength of this, sorry.’
Samaiye snorted angrily through his nostrils.
‘After all I have told you?’
‘Yes.’
The two men glared at each other.
‘You won’t take any action?’ Samaiye asked, slapping his huge hands on his thighs in frustration.
‘Are you deaf? I said no.’
‘I see….is that your final answer, Mallam?’ Saimaiye asked menacingly.
The chill in his voice made the older man look up quickly.
‘Yes,’ he repeated.
‘Very well. Should anything happen to the Khalifa, know that your career is on the line. You will be charged with dereliction of duty and am sure you will find yourself in jail. I will make sure this happens. There are two witnesses here.’
‘Are you threatening me, Mr Samaiye?’
‘Call it what you want, I am out of here.’ He concluded, positioning his hand embroidered fila hat on his head properly, as he gathered his papers and pushed back his chair.
‘Sit down Deputy Director,’ DG said, intervening in the face off.
‘I am not going to sit down here and listen to this man dismiss a probable threat on the life of the President of The Federal Republic so offhandedly.’
‘I said, sit down,’ the DG repeated in a voice that could have cut through stone.
Mr Samaiye glared at his three superiors, then collapsed back in his seat, sighing audibly. He looked anywhere but at the three men in front of him.

The DG let five minutes of thick silence elapse before he spoke.
‘What do you think DOPS?’ He asked, looking at Ganan WashPam.
‘I think we should investigate,’ the Director Of Operations said after an interminable pause.
Dr Dagogo Whyte stared at him keenly then shook his head.
‘I think so too.’ He concluded turning to Mallam Abdul. ‘I have to overrule you, on this Director. We would be doing our country a lot of disservice if we considered any intel at all invaluable, no matter how circumstantial, especially that which has to do with the life and safety of the President.’
The Director of Intelligence only glared at him.
‘It’s your show, it’s your call DG.’
‘I am glad you know that. We must act. We must investigate and I will leave this directly in your lap. You will nominate Joe who will be directly responsible to you on Operation, err……what should we call it?’ The DG asked, staring at his subordinates.
Nobody seemed to want to answer.
‘Okay, so Operation Mahdi Gras, I call it.’
Ganan washPam suppressed a chuckle.
‘So Operation Mahdi Gras it is.’ Mallam Abdul spat.
‘So, nominate an agent to spearhead this Operation. Samaiye will hand over all information concerning this operation to you, including his assets, and handlers.’
‘You know no asset in that region will talk to someone he doesn’t know. Certainly not mine. He is doing this at the risk of his life and his entire lineage.’
‘Well, we will get to cross that bridge when we get there. Director who do you have in mind for this?’ the DG asked, turning to Mallam Abdul.

The Director Of Intelliegnce was thinking furiously.
He was livid and smarting from rage. He will deal with these nincompoops once he had the opportunity, but for now, he will have to sheath his sword. He didn’t believe for one minute the President was under threat and wasting one valuable agent, no matter how useless riled him no end.
Who would he throw up? He wondered, thinking feverishly. Who was the most useless agent on the nominal role, he thought.
Silence engulfed the room.
‘Should I suggest a capable agent?’ Samaiye offered.
‘No, stay out of this. It’s Abdul’s Operation now.’ The DG said crossly.
‘Okay, fine, no problem’ Samaiye acceded, reclining back in his chair, shrugging his shoulders.
Mallam Abdul’s anger was making it difficult for him to focus. He was almost calling for an adjournment when the nickel dropped.
Asma’u Yau Komo, the big breatsed LovePeddler! Why hadn’t he thought of the single mother, immediately? What a punitive expedition it was going to be for her.

A vicious gleam came into his eyes.
Mallam Abdul had been having the hots for Asma’u ever since she joined the service eight years earlier. She had rejected his sexual advances so vehemently he had become frustrated.
He had tried to be nice to her, it had not worked. He had tried official threats, no way. He had used the carrot and stick approach, the girl had refused to drop her panties. He had got so frustrated walking around with a hard on, he had decided he wanted her out of headquarters.
Mallam Abdul remembered trying all he could to get Personnel to post her out but Ganan WashPam, who signed off on such transfers, had blocked his three attempts.

He had tried to block her promotion, succeeded twice but Admin had soon cottoned on, and decided otherwise. He was stuck with Asma’u and he soon resigned himself to the option of raping her once he had the opportunity. He would face the consequences later.
The full, figured image of Asma’u floated into his mind’s eye.
He saw her beautiful oval face, the liquid blue eyes that hid a hint of laughter, the wide gash of her pouty lips, her lush, supple body over her wide hips that tapered off into long, endless legs, the jutting nipples of her big breasts that always seemed to taunt him.
Mallam Abdul broke out in small sweat on that table.
He quickly took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. What could he not have given to have that girl in his bed? To worship her naked body? He had even been ready to marry her if that had been what she had wanted, but she had rejected him outright.

A cold knot of fury balled up in his bowels as he thought about this.
‘Yes, I have the agent for this Operation.’ He said gruffly.
‘Who?’ They all chorused eagerly.
‘One of my agents, PSIO Asma’u Yau Komo.’
‘Asma’u?’ The two directors chorused. ‘The girl from Gombe?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? She is a mere Intelligence Officer, she is inexperienced, and she certainly doesn’t have the stomach to handle this.’
‘Why not? She’s been with us 8 years, she’s 32, she’s well trained. If she can’t handle this, then why is she in the service?’
‘No…no…no,’ Samaiye protested. She is not right for this.’
‘You are implying she is incompetent? You think secret service is a picnic? You disappoint me, Deputy Director.’
‘If she went out there, and something went wrong, she won’t stand a chance. She can’t blend with the locals. You know how she looks, with her appeal, she will stick out like a sore thumb.’
‘We can’t help how she looks, can we?’
‘No, don’t send her. If she ever falls into the hands of those sexually depraved savages? They will turn her to a sex slave and take turns in raping her for years till she dies.’
A gleam of satisfaction came into Mallam Abdul eyes. If she wouldn’t give it to him, she may as well give it to those filthy savages as they danced and clapped.
‘Are you getting soft, Deputy Director? What the hell are you saying?’
‘I am simply saying we have better qualified agents for this job. She isn’t suited for this high risk operation,’ Samaiye countered feebly, looking helplessly at the DG for support.
Dagogo Whyte looked anywhere but at Samaiye.

He knew his Deputy Director, Counter Terrorism was right, he knew the younger man was making perfect sense, he knew he should over rule his Director Of Intelligence yet again, but he had already done that twice that afternoon, and he just couldn’t bring himself to do so again.
‘She is perfectly suited for this job.’ Mallam Abdul announced. ‘Asma’u was the agent on ground in Maiduguri when the crises broke in 2009, was she not?’
‘Yes, she was, but then Maiduguri was not yet a war zone, was it?’
‘So what? You want to hold her hand on this mission or what? She understands the terrain. She knows the root cause of this menace, she was there, right at the beginning. What are you yapping about?’
Samaiye could only on look hopelessly. He liked the girl, he didn’t want her in harm’s way. He had prepped an agent for this job and everything was now out of his hands.
‘By the way, it was her report way back in July 2009 that forced the then DG to show his hand. Need I remind you that it was on the strength of her spurious report that the then President ordered a full scale military assault on the group?’
‘Spurious?’ Samaiye croaked.
‘Call it what you want. She is the reason we are where we are today. It’s about time someone cleared up this mess. It’s just unfortunate she’s holding the can now.’
‘I can’t believe this.’
‘You better believe it. You wanted an operation, you have one. You wanted Joe, you’ve got Joe. Call her into Debrief, fill her in, then send her to my office.’

The note of finality in this directive told all three men that on this occasion, the Director would brook no argument.

Heromaniaa:
Great job. You have to make your diction more evocative and your description more metaphorical.

Seen bro. Tnx