Free Doing Dangerously Well by Carole Enahoro Page A

generous, ergonomically correct chair and put his flawlessly shined shoes on his perfectly polished desk.
    The phone rang. Mary bounded from the water cooler outside her office and picked it up on the second ring. “Y’ello?” she drawled. “Mary Glass.”
    “Yes, madam,” the line crackled. “Good evening.”
    Mary realized how late it must be in Nigeria. “Good evening,” she said slowly and loudly, as if her caller did not speak English. “Do you have any news for me?”
    “Yes, madam.” The voice was now shouting into the phone. “The general has had many visitors. The president has come eight times, Mr. Kolo three times—”
    “The minister for natural resources?”
    “Yes, madam.” The voice grew excited at its own resourcefulness. “Also minister for the environment, five times; minister for foreign affairs, two times.”
    “Do you know why they visited?” Mary articulated each word.
    “To discuss, madam,” the voice replied with a note of self-importance.
    “Did you hear anything?”
    “No, madam.”
    “Okay. Thank you. We’ll send your pay today.”
    With this information, Mary quickly discounted dealing with the president and the minister for foreign affairs—the latter was strongly allied to the president, from his hometown, and making speeches in his favour. Her father considered the president destined for the mortuary. That left the other two. She’d have to wait until 3 a.m. Santa Fe time to get them, so left work early.
    In the small hours, she marched back up to the building, now reflecting a clouded moon, and noticed other offices with lights on. Her eyes immediately darted to Sinclair’s corner. Only a faint glimmer—a lamp, perhaps? She quickened her pace.
    Her first call, to the minister for the environment, was not successful. He was too circumspect—he did not have the mind, the soul, of a businessman. He was so fearful, so nervous, it made her skin crawl. Mary put down the phone in disgust.
    Ogbe Kolo would have to do. Another call.
    “The residence of the minister for natural resources,” a voice answered.
    “Hello. Could I please speak to the minister?”
    “Who may I say is speaking?”
    “Mary Glass, from TransAqua International in Santa Fe, New Mexico.”
    “Mexico? Just a minute.”
    “No,” Mary snapped. “Not Mexico. United States.”
    “You are calling from the United States?” the voice asked in panic.
    “Yes.”
    “Just a minute. Just a minute.” The receiver was put down, though she could hear the voice–“Just a minute … Just a minute …”–still with the note of panic.
    Mary stood up, placed her foot on her chair and leaned towards it, stretching her hamstring. Classical music crackled through the receiver.
    “Ms. Glass, is it?” Mellifluous tones flooded the phone.
    Mary stopped in mid-stretch, astounded. “Yes,” she said, almost rudely.
    “How may I be of assistance, Ms. Glass?”
    This did not sound like a simple tribesman.
    “Minister Kolo, I am phoning from TransAqua. We have heard about the terrible events.”
    “Tragedy. Absolute tragedy. Terrible, terrible tragedy.” She could swear he was sucking on something.
    “I can’t tell you how sorry I was to read about it.” She did not sound convincing, but that was not her job. She had not been trained as a therapist. They must have relatives they could cry to. “I think there are ways in which our company can help.”
    “Oh! How kind of you to offer,” the notes slid out. “Now, please refresh my memory. Your company is involved in waterrights and licensing, hydroelectric power, desalination, water supply, sewage—”
    “Uh, waste management, yes,” she corrected.
    “… bottled water and filtration technologies, is that correct?”
    “Yes.” Mary adopted a tone of greater formality to cover her growing unease. “That is correct.” Had Sinclair already called?
    “What a fortuitous call! You are interested in rights acquisitions? To the Niger