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university.
    —How old is your wife?
    —Thirty-nine. Her name is Isabel. She also went to Leeds.
    Zaq nodded, staring at the picture. He saw no point in telling James that he had only gone to Leeds for a six-month journalism certificate course. He had never gone to university—he was an autodidact, everything he knew he had learned in the newsroom and on the streets and from books, but what he knew he knew well. He could quote from Aristotle and Plato and Tolstoy and Shakespeare and Soyinka and Fanon and Mandela and Gandhi and Dante in a conversation, casually, perfectly.
    —So far we’ve had over a dozen ransom demands by different groups: the Black Belts of Justice, the Free Delta Army and the—
    —The AK-47 Freedom Fighters.
    —It’s all so confusing. This is a chance to make contact with the real kidnappers. We’ll negotiate, as long as she’s alive, we’ll pay . . .
    —How do you know which group is the real one? Do they have a name?
    —No name. Here’s their letter: no signature. In the letter was some of her hair: I know her hair, it’s really distinctive. There’s a request for five million dollars. They want us to send five reporters to confirm she is alive and well.
    —Very professional.
    —There’s something more.
    —Yes?
    —Her driver, Salomon: we believe he’s had a hand in this. He hasn’t been to work since the day she disappeared.
    —Did they go out together?
    —No. But we can’t find him.
    Black Suit, at last wiping the surprise off his ruddy face, stepped forward.
    —Your job is simple. Just confirm she’s alive, take pictures and we’ll take it from there. It should be easy. You leave in two days, early, and by sundown you’re back. Of course, we’re willing to remunerate you quite decently for your trouble. And remember, make them understand that nothing must happen to her. She’s a British citizen—
    Zaq interrupted him, not raising his gaze from the picture. —So, does that make her more important than if she were, say, Nepalese, or Guyanese, or Greek?
    The man made to open his mouth, but the husband spoke first. —Simon, old chap, let me handle this.
    After the men left, Beke went over to Zaq and shook his hand, patting him on the back at the same time.
    —This is it, Zaq. Our big opportunity. Don’t forget to take our subscription form when next you meet them.
    —Come on, Beke. The man’s wife has been kidnapped.
    —But, still, an opportunity is an opportunity. How often does the oil company come knocking on your door, asking for a favor? We’re talking petrodollars here, and a major scoop! Come on. I can imagine the headlines already. This will be the making of us. Our circulation will hit the roof—
    —But first I have to survive the little trip to the kidnappers’ den, wherever it may be.
    —Well, yes. Everything will go well. God willing. They don’t harm reporters.
    —What about those two reporters shot in the back on a similar assignment just weeks ago? You have a short memory. Or would you like to go in my place?
    —You can handle it, Zaq. You’ve been in worse spots.
    —I’m already regretting this decision.
    Beke led Zaq back to his tiny windowless office and stood at the door watching as Zaq cleared his table and picked up his jacket.
    —You’re not going home, are you? The day’s still young. Who’s going to write the editorial, the Metro column, the book review?
    Zaq brushed past him. —Why don’t you write them yourself, just for a change?
    And that, he said, was how he was recruited.
    Early next morning, before we left Chief Ibiram’s house, I took the old man to one side and asked him if we needed to pay his brother for our board. The money would come out of our expense account anyway, and the Chief had been a perfect host. He hesitated, then he shook his round, hairless head.
    —No, no pay. Na my brother, Chief Ibiram.
    Last night, when we urged him to ask his brother if he had heard anything of the missing woman, or if he knew