toward her, his expression still angry.
“Mike Vale,” he said, reflexively taking her hand. “ Observer .”
His face took on the engaging expression she sensed he used for pretty women.
He was tall and thin with black hair, hazel eyes, and a complexion dark enough to make her wonder about his ethnicity. He was dressed in the classic safari suit of light cotton pants and a matching shirt. He was handsome, Lindsay thought, a filmmaker’s idea of a foreign correspondent.
“Welcome to Lagos,” she said. “I knew your predecessor. I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before.”
“I just arrived. My last assignment was Washington and I had to go back to settle my family and tie up some loose ends for the move.”
“When does your family come?”
“They don’t. My wife’s decided to stay in D.C. with the kids.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t be. This is no place for children.”
Ken Abbot of the Telegraph chimed in: “I’ll drink to that.” He sidled up and put his arm around Lindsay’s shoulder.
“You’ll drink to anything.” She laughed. “What’s going on?”
“Goren just finished his ‘we ought to love Olumide’ speech,” Ken said. “He thinks he’s the best Africa hand in the business but he doesn’t know jackshit.”
“He did some time in the Congo before he came here,” Mike said.
“Yeah, that’s true. That makes him the only one in Nigeria who thinks he’s come up in the world,” Lindsay remarked.
“He’s a spook,” Ken said. “Who knows what he’s thinking? All you can be sure of is that whatever he does tell us is a lie.”
A veteran reporter who had worked for the Telegraph in posts from China to South Africa, Ken had been stationed in Lagos for five years. He was so burned out he rarely covered anything more than government releases.
Lindsay spotted Maureen across the room standing next to Vickie, who, true to her word, was decked out in a sexy black dress adorned with large amber beads. They were in an intense conversation with a man Lindsay didn’t know. Vickie caught her eye and gave a friendly wave, gesturing in the direction of the bar. Lindsay was about to join her but was stopped by Maureen, who was leading the stranger over to meet her. He was about forty, with sandy hair that touched his collar. As they approached, the man smiled at Lindsay with an easy grace. She smiled back. His intense brown eyes never left her face.
“Lindsay,” Maureen said, “I’d like to present an old friend, James Duncan. James, this is Lindsay Cameron, an even older friend.”
“Such an old friend, in fact, that I can’t believe Maureen has a friend that I don’t know,” Lindsay said.
“Well, he’s really an old friend of Mark’s,” Maureen admitted. “But we’ve both seen him several times in London. I had no idea he was coming to Lagos.”
Lindsay extended her hand.
He took it and held it just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I know and admire your work, but I’ve mostly seen a London byline. What are you doing here?”
“I’m here for the paper. And you?”
“I own an art gallery with branches in London and New York. One of my New York clients has developed a passion for West African art—ibejis. I’m looking for some good ones.”
“What are ibejis?” she asked.
“Now you’ve done it,” said Mike Vale, who was still standing at the edge of their little group. “James loves to impart information. Should have been a teacher, really.”
Lindsay smiled. She’d have been happy to listen to him. She liked the way he looked directly at her when he spoke, as though no one else was in the room.
“I see you are old friends too,” she said. “Am I the only one here who doesn’t know you?”
“Luckily that’s a loss that can be remedied very easily,” James replied with a smile.
“I did a piece on art fraud a few years ago and James was one of my expert
Glimpses of Louisa (v2.1)