Cross Country

the seat. The cuffs were roughly removed. Powerful hands pressed into the small of my back and pushed hard. “You go home now.
Go!
”
    I went flying through the air — but only for a few seconds of uncertainty and terror.
    Then I landed on stone or cement. By the time I’d gotten up and untied the hood, they were gone, out of sight, whoever had brought me here.
    They had dropped me on a side street next to an official-looking building, the sort of white stone box you might find in downtown DC.
    I could see through an iron fence and across a manicured front lawn to a gatehouse out front.
    An American flag flew above it, flapping in a light breeze.
    This was the American consulate
. Had to be. The embassy was in Abuja. That must be where I was now.
    But why?

Chapter 115
    SOMETHING WAS GOING on here at the consulate. Something big. And dangerous-looking. Hundreds of people were gathered in the streets outside the front gates. Actually, it looked like there were two separate crowds. Half of them were lined up like they were waiting to get in. The other half, on the opposite side of a concrete barrier, were demonstrating against the United States.
    I saw hand-lettered placards that read US PAYS THE PRICE, and DELTA PEOPLE, DELTA RULE, and NO MORE AMERICANS.
    Even from a distance, I could tell it was the kind of scene that could turn ugly, or violent, at any time. I didn’t wait around for that to happen.
    I walked around the corner, and leading with my good shoulder, I started pushing through the crowd. People on both sides grabbed at me, either because I was cutting in line or, maybe, because I looked like an American. The shouting on the street side blocked out any other noise around me.
    One guy got hold of my shirt. He ripped it all the way down the back before I knocked his arm away.
    The shirt didn’t matter to me. Nothing did anymore. Once again I wondered why I was still alive. Because they thought I was CIA? Because I had friends in Washington? Or maybe because they finally believed I was a cop?
    I made my way to the main gate. Standing there, filthy and barefoot, with no passport to show, I told the double-chinned marine who got in my face that my name was Alex Cross, I was an American police officer, and I had to speak with the ambassador right away.
    The marine didn’t want to hear it, not a word.
    “I was kidnapped. I’m an American cop,” I told him. “I just witnessed a murder.”
    Out of the side of his mouth the marine muttered, “Take a number.”

Chapter 116
    I WAS GOING more than a little crazy now, but I had to hold my emotions in. I had stories to tell someone, information to give, Adanne’s secrets to share with someone who could make a difference.
    I got several minutes of healthy skepticism at the gate before I finally convinced a marine guard to call in my name. The response came back right away:
Bring Detective Cross inside
. It was almost as if they were expecting me. I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. Given my recent history, probably not.
    The consulate lobby, with its metal detectors and bulletproof glass on all the windows, felt like an urban police station. People were lined up at every desk and window, most of them clearly agitated, waiting to be seen.
    All the American accents — and a portrait of Condoleezza Rice presiding over the room — played tricks with my mind about where I was, and exactly how I had gotten here.
    Once inside, I was met by a nonmilitary escort in an off-white suit. He was “Mr. Collins,” a Nigerian of some unspecified position here.
    Unlike the marine who’d brought me this far, Collins was friendly and animatedly answered a few questions as we walked.
    “There’s been at least one rebel attack in Rivers State today,” he explained, gesticulating the whole time. “Much bigger than we’ve seen before. The government won’t admit to it, but the independent media is calling it the beginning of a civil war.”
    The populist buzz on the first floor gave way to crisp officiousness and hushed conversations on the second.
    I was taken straight to the ambassador’s consular suite, where I waited outside his office for several minutes — until a dozen men, black, white, and four who looked Chinese, walked out all at once. Each of them appeared somber and nervous. No one met my gaze, or perhaps no one was in the least interested that I was sitting there barefoot and in rags.
    Mr. Collins politely held the door for me, and then he