CRUDE INSTINCT (10)
The Captured Bishop and Double Agents
The controversy surrounding the magnate had acquired a life of its own. What began as a calculated financial manoeuvre against Oleo had swollen into an international embarrassment of convicted financiers, opaque offshore vehicles and uncomfortable questions.
Newspapers that normally reserved their front pages for the gestures of presidents and news from the ongoing UNGA conference in New York now carried photographs of Raskolnikov and Ellison beside the magnate’s carefully cultivated public image.
In Lagos and Abuja, men who had once spoken of the takeover as elegant engineering now fell silent when the subject arose.
The magnate’s lawyers worked through successive nights. Public relations advisers drafted statements insisting he had known nothing of the criminal histories attached to certain names in the structure.
The immediate problem was no longer the collapse of the bid itself. It was the fire that had ignited around it, and the people in London, Lagos, Geneva and New York who understood that if the flames were allowed to spread, they might illuminate far more than one attempted acquisition.
Nigeria had become too consequential to remain merely a source of crude. The country now possessed one of the world’s largest new refining complexes in Lekki, Lagos State, an industrial fact that had rewritten the old equation of exporting raw barrels and importing finished products.
Refining capacity, storage, marine logistics, trading and distribution were coalescing into a new strategic landscape in which control of infrastructure could prove as valuable as ownership of the oil itself. That was the larger opportunity the men behind the attempted takeover had recognised.
The Oleo position was only one door into a much wider commercial axis. If positions could be established across vertical integration, entire companies might eventually find themselves dependent upon the infrastructure that surrounded them.
The cartel’s refinery plans were in the works. Lagos had been marked for the location. It was a project whose ambitions exceeded even the scale of what Alhaji Dangogo had already built in Lekki.
Powerful interests in the West understood precisely what such an asset could mean if its financing, supply relationships and commercial dependencies could be drawn into their orbit.
That was why their involvement with the sellers of the stolen crude mattered. The Oleo takeover would be assisted with purchase of such crude which would generate vast pools of capital that travelled outside ordinary financial channels, layers of offshore companies and investment structures until the funds were severed from their origin.
By the time some of that money reappeared, it had lost most of its criminal flavour and had been baptized as investment capital.
The crime was the source of the capital. And if no one followed the money far enough backward, that capital could be used to build something that appeared entirely legitimate.
That was the part of the operation that could not be allowed to become public.
*************************
Igbalele community
Cape Formosa
Brass Local Government
Bayelsa State
5 am
Dawn came late to the islands of Cape Formosa. The mangrove stood dense and ancient, roots rising from the black water like the tangled fingers of something that had never learned to let go. Low mist clung to the creeks, thinning only reluctantly as the sky shifted from ink to the colour of bruised pearl.
Beyond them the forest closed in, green and watchful, broken only by the narrow footpaths that the people of Igbalele had worn into the soft earth over generations. On one of those mud banks the tide had left a long, pale shape.
Timothy lay half in the water, half on the silt, one arm flung out as though he had been reaching for something that had already moved beyond his grasp. His shirt clung to him in dark, torn patches. A thin cut ran from his temple into the hairline. Breathing, but only just.
The first to see him was a boy of twelve, barefoot, carrying a small net. He stopped, stared, then ran without a sound back toward the cluster of houses that rose on weathered posts above the high water mark. Within minutes the bank was crowded.
They stood in a loose half-circle, men and women whose faces still carried the night’s sleep, voices low and sharp with the caution of people who had learned that strangers rarely arrived alone.
“Na soldier?” someone asked.
“No be soldier.”
“E don die?”
An older woman, her wrapper tied high, stepped closer and nudged Timothy’s shoulder with the toe of her slipper. He groaned, a thin sound that barely escaped cracked, dry lips. The old woman turned to announce her discovery.
“E never die.”
The arguments began almost at once, overlapping, rising and falling like the small waves that licked the bank.
Hand him to the navy. Let them come and take their own. Check if he has money in his pockets, might be one of those men who often sailed this way with stolen oil. Or simply push him back into the water and let the current finish what the night had started. Better a quiet disappearance than another visit from the navy.
Memory lived close to the surface here. Everyone still remembered the last raid: the sudden roar of engines at dawn, the houses set alight, the men dragged away for “questioning” that sometimes lasted months and sometimes never ended at all. Collective punishment had a long memory in these creeks.
Among those gathered was a fisherman named Pa Advantage. He stood slightly apart, a wiry man whose hands smelled permanently of river and diesel. Only a month earlier the police had swept through the neighbouring settlement at first light.
His son Advantage, nineteen and awaiting admission into university, had been among those taken. They had put him in a boat and carried him to the naval base downriver. No charge had been read. No release had followed.
The family had gone twice to inquire and twice been turned away with the same empty promise that he would be released soon.
Pa Advantage looked at the young man on the mud and felt the old, familiar tightness behind the sternum. The correct thing, the safe thing, was clear. Call the number that every community elder kept for such emergencies. Let the state reclaim its own. Distance himself and his people from whatever trouble this stranger had brought with him on the tide.
He crouched instead.
Timothy’s eyes opened again. This time they found focus. He tried to speak. The sound that came out was little more than a rasp.
“Oli Aru.”
Pa Advantage understood enough. He had heard radio chatter of a naval interception far offshore and a barge filled with oil.
Pa Advantage rose slowly. He looked from the faces of his neighbours to the young man who had washed up among them, then out across the water that had carried both fortune and ruin to these islands for longer than any of them could remember.
He thought of his son’s empty room. Of the unanswered questions that still sat on the family’s table every evening like an uninvited guest. Of the state that took and rarely gave back.
He did not owe them anything.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that the others had to lean in.
“We no go report am. Make e go.”
Someone started to protest. Pa Advantage lifted a hand, not in anger but in a finality that silenced the bank more effectively than shouting ever could. He had spent years being the community’s spokesperson and a figure of authority that seldom brooked arguments.
“Pasịesịe,” he said in his native Izon. “I don talk, I don talk. I no go talk again.”
They helped Timothy to his feet. He swayed, water streaming from his clothes, but he stayed upright. Pa Advantage pressed a small plastic bottle of water into his hand and pointed with his chin toward the narrow footpath that disappeared into the denser mangrove further inland.
“Go wait dat side. Boat dey come for night. Dem go carry you go Yenagoa.”
Timothy nodded in thanks. He turned and began to walk behind Pa Advantage’s younger son who had been asked to guide him, his steps were slow and careful, the soft mud sucking at his bare feet as he wondered what had become of the others.
The crowd disappeared immediately. Pa Advantage remained a moment longer, watching the place where the stranger had vanished. Then he turned back toward his canoe, and began to calculate the day’s catch.
***************************
Wilton Crescent
Off Belgrave Square
London
Private conference room
8:15 am
Rain moved steadily across the windows of the upper floor room, blurring the elegant Georgian façades of Belgravia into long, trembling streaks of gold.
No telephones rested on the polished table. The blinds had been drawn. Even the assistants who had arranged the meeting had been instructed not to enter unless summoned.
Five men sat around the table. The sixth occupied the chair at its head. The magnate was absent, confined to his bed in a private hospital in Abuja. His lawyers had insisted that he remain out of the virtual meeting until the immediate controversy surrounding his partners could be contained.
His name already stood too prominently beside theirs, and every additional conversation created another opportunity for misunderstanding, leakage or deliberate distortion.
The man at the head of the table opened a folder.
“We have spent two days reacting,” he said. “We cannot spend another two doing the same thing.”
Across from him one of the financiers glanced at the newspaper lying open before him.
“The story has reached Washington.”
“It was always going to.”
“The pension funds are nervous.”
“They should be.”
“And the regulators?”
“They are asking questions.”
No one appeared surprised. The man at the head turned a page.
“The immediate objective is containment. Raskolnikov and Ellison must become the story, not the scheme.”
A silence settled. One of the men leaned back.
“That will only work if nobody follows the money.”
“Which is why the crude purchases are now our greatest exposure. The vessels that lift the stolen oil are ultimately controlled by us. The capital they generate moves through the same offshore layers we use for the Oleo position. If that chain is examined too closely, the entire system becomes visible.”
The atmosphere in the room altered. The magnate’s name came up. The American energy consultant near the window looked up.
“He brought the crude guys in, correct?”
“Yes. He discovered the theft by chance and bought into the flow. The man who organises the lifts sits on his payroll, but he does not know the buying vessels belong to us.”
The consultant took a few seconds to digest the information. He spoke again.
“And Dangogo? His refinery has just gone public in Nigeria. There is talk of a planned NYSE listing after the next capacity expansion.”
The man at the head considered the question.
“Dangogo is not the focus at this point.”
“You still intend to proceed with the refinery?”
“Of course.”
“Even now?”
“Especially now.”
He looked around the table.
“The refinery is not the problem. It is the opportunity. Nigeria has entered a different phase of the market. Whoever controls the entire energy infrastructure holds influence and better yet, influences policies.”
He paused again and then resumed speaking.
“The Oleo position may have become inconvenient. That does not mean the opportunity has ceased to exist.”
One of the men leaned forward.
“So what is the next move?”
The man at the head of the table looked toward the rain darkened windows, then turned back to them.
“We stop trying to take everything at once. We build around our main target, Oleo. We apply pressure.”
***************************
Off Lake Chad Crescent
Maitama, Abuja
4 pm
The magnate lay in a private hospital suite on the edge of the city, immobilised by drips and the lingering damage of the heart attack that had dropped him in his own boardroom.
The room was cool, hushed, the blinds drawn against the afternoon glare. Monitors tracked the slow, stubborn rhythm of his recovery.
The doctor finished checking the lines and the latest readings, then straightened.
“Two days,” he said. “If the numbers hold and there are no further episodes, we can discharge you then. Restricted activity only. No stress.”
The magnate nodded once. His voice, when it came, was thin but clear.
“Two days is enough.”
The doctor left. The door closed with a soft hydraulic sigh. For a long moment the only sounds were the quiet pulse of the machines and the distant traffic beyond the glass.
He stared at the ceiling and considered the situation before him. The public linking of his partners had been a blow, the heart attack an inconvenience. Neither was fatal. What remained was the card he had kept in reserve. The one he believed would finally break Oleo.
It was not money or force or another layered corporate attack. It was a person. Someone who had once known Obinna better than most, who had sat inside the private circumference of his trust. The magnate had bought them over months earlier, patiently, thoroughly, with the kind of leverage that did not appear on any balance sheet. They were still in place. Still useful. Still waiting.
He closed his eyes and allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
Two days.
Then the last card would be played.
*****************************
Utako
Abuja
7:48 p.m.
Rachel had only just stepped from the shower, the last of the water still tracing slow paths down her spine, when three measured taps came from the other side of her living room door.
She paused in the middle of applying lotion, drew a thin cotton robe around her damp body, and crossed the modest living room. Through the peephole she could just make out a broad figure in the corridor.
“Who is there?”
The answer caught her breath.
“Obinna.”
She tightened the robe and opened the door. For a moment the world narrowed to the clean lines of his cream blazer, pale blue shirt which opened at the collar, his dark navy trousers and the quiet gleam of his silver watch.
Desire, long denied, rose through her with the force of a confession she had never spoken aloud.
“Hi.”
His gaze held hers, steady, unreadable.
“Can I come in?”
She stepped aside. As he passed, the faint scent of his cologne brushed her senses. Suddenly the apartment felt smaller. The soft grey sofa, the scratched coffee table, the ordinary curtains that never quite kept out the sun dulled into unmistakable plainness next to quiet luxury of his life.
They sat opposite each other. The silence between them was dense.
Obinna leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on his knees.
“Why did you leave?”
She held his gaze with effort.
“I needed to.”
His eyes that he knew the truth behind her vague answer.
She pressed again, determined not to be so easily read.
“I was tired of being a prop in your story. One moment you are ending things and the next I am sitting in Fraser, playing games with you.”
Something flickered in his expression, but he did not challenge the evasion. She turned the conversation to him.
“You ask me these questions but you never ever told me why you ended things.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then he said softly, “You remember what you said that night?” He paused for emphasis. The corner of his lips turned but it was neither a smile nor a sneer. “Fuck me like you don’t give a shit about me.’”
The memory returned with uncomfortable clarity. Embarrassed by her former wantonness, Rachel averted her gaze.
“That felt like a roundabout way of asking where we were headed,” he continued, voice low and controlled. “It felt sneaky. Manipulative. I have known manipulative women, Rachel. I have no desire to walk that road again.”
The words settled between them like ash.
“I saw you with her.”
“Yes. I know you did. Her name is Mina.”
“Why was she at Fraser that night?”
Obinna’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“That is not something I wish to discuss right now.”
Neither of them moved. The question hung in the air, unanswered, and with it everything else that remained unfinished between them. The only sounds were the distant traffic outside and the air conditioner above them.
Rachel’s fingers tightened on the edge of the robe. Obinna’s gaze stayed on her face, searching, as if he might still find the words that would make leaving unnecessary. Both of them felt the pull, the private knowledge that they had missed each other more than either had admitted, and that walking away now would leave the same ache intact.
The silence stretched, heavy with everything they were not ready to name. At last Obinna rose.
“I should go.”
Rachel stood as well.
“Maybe.”
She walked him to the door. The space between their bodies was suddenly too narrow. When she reached for the handle their shoulders nearly brushed. She lingered, the word goodbye catching in her throat. She had missed him. The admission rose unbidden, fierce and aching.
Obinna’s hand covered hers on the door handle. The touch was light, almost questioning.
Rachel hesitated. For a fraction of a second she almost stepped back, almost let him leave with the distance still intact. Then she turned into him with a soft, involuntary sound.
Their mouths met in a kiss that was immediate and devouring. He pressed her back against the door, one hand settling at the curve of her waist. She clutched at his shoulders; the fabric of the blazer was warm beneath her palms.
His lips left hers only to find the hollow of her collarbone, lingering and slow. A soft sound escaped her throat. She answered by pressing her mouth to the side of his neck, feeling the steady pulse beneath her tongue.
Their bodies moved against each other with deliberate friction. The thin robe parted slightly under his hands. His fingers traced the line of her spine, then the soft underside of her breast through the fabric, drawing a shiver that travelled the length of her.
She arched into him, feeling the hard evidence of his desire. The kiss deepened, tongues sliding, breaths mingling. Time loosened its hold.
Minutes passed in that charged intimacy.
A muted sound from his phone interrupted the moment. Obinna broke the kiss with visible reluctance. He glanced at the screen and answered.
“Ofer.”
Rachel watched the transformation in his face. The softness cooled into sharp focus as he listened.
“Understood,” he said at last. “I’m on my way home now.”
He ended the call and looked at her. The blazer was slightly disordered, the shirt open a fraction further at the throat.
“I have to go. A virtual conference. He’s found something in the latest investigation.”
Rachel nodded, still breathing unsteadily, the robe slipping from one shoulder. Obinna lifted a hand and touched her cheek once, the briefest caress, before he opened the door.
He stepped into the corridor without looking back. The door closed with a soft, final click.
Rachel remained where she stood, fingers pressed to the wood, the taste of him still vivid on her lips, the sudden emptiness of the apartment wrapping around her like a second skin.
***************************
Expressway
Central Area
Abuja
8:41 p.m.
The city unspooled beneath the low glow of streetlights as Obinna drove. The new house in Maitama waited ahead, its high walls, its quiet gardens, the clean lines of a place still half empty of furniture but already claimed. He had bought it only weeks earlier, a deliberate acquisition, another piece moved into position.
Tonight the roads felt almost ordinary. No dark SUVs lingering too long in the rear view mirror. No sudden changes of lane that suggested intent. The magnate had been neutralised for the moment. The immediate threat had thinned. The city, for once, offered him a rare and temporary silence.
Obinna’s hands rested lightly on the wheel. His mind returned to the chessboard he kept in the study of the Fraser suite, the pieces he moved late at night when sleep refused him. The bishop.
He had overlooked one person. The same person that once fed his ambition with an inherited but ruthless streak. He had watched and then taken his attention off them, but tonight, the pattern settled into place with the cold satisfaction of a correctly anticipated move.
They had been a double agent all along. Obinna’s mouth curved in a brief, sardonic smile that held no warmth. A muscle tightened along his jaw.
His phone rang. His mother’s name lit the screen. He answered on the car’s system, voice measured.
“Hi mum.”
Her voice filled the quiet interior, warm and familiar. She spoke of the evening, of small family matters, then of Mina. She had heard, somehow, that he had seen her. The questions came gently but with purpose.
Were they speaking again? Was there a chance of reconciliation? They had always been such a good fit, she said. The same circles, the same understanding of what a life should look like.
“No, we are not speaking. It was just a meeting,” Obinna said. The words were quiet and final.
There was a brief pause. Then his mother spoke in Igbo, the tone half hope, half gentle warning.
“Enwere m olileanya na ọ bụghị nwa nke onye ọkụ azụ ka gị na ya nọ ugbu a.”
Obinna said nothing. The silence stretched long enough for the weight of the words to settle. Outside, the lights of Maitama grew closer. When he spoke again his voice was calm.
“Do me a favour.”
“What is it?”
“Do not speak with Mina for the time being.”
She began to ask questions, but he cut across her gently.
“I have to go, mum. I will call you tomorrow.”
He ended the call before she could press further. The soft click left the car in silence once more.
Obinna’s gaze returned to the road. The magnate’s fall had removed one piece from the board, but others remained.
He decided then. The next move would not be subtle. No more measured responses. No more careful containment. The pushback would be brutal, decisive, and absolute.
The gates of the new house in Maitama rose ahead, tall and dark against the night sky. Obinna slowed the car, the sardonic smile long gone, replaced by something colder and far more resolved.
© Umari Ayim.
2026