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The Galadima Conspiracy
by Dan Abubakar   (Author)
Read First Three Chapters


London, United Kingdom
George Burlorf hated to be kept waiting. He had already had two bottles of Heineken and being that he had to reduce his alcohol intake, or as his doctor put it, stop it completely, he ordered water instead of a third bottle.
He sipped the water slowly. He couldn’t stand the thought of ordering another bottle of water. He hated to drink water, especially when he should have been drinking beer, and he hated it more that he was paying for it. He didn’t understand why water should be sold, no matter how well packaged it was. If, after his bottle of water Bob had not arrived, he was going to leave. The temptation to have another bottle of beer was getting stronger by the minute and, detrimental as it might have been to his health, if he waited in this pub any longer he would have to take another Heineken.
Bob walked into the pub in the nick of time. Burlorf’s water was reduced to half a glass and his patience had just about run empty. Bob easily saw him at his spot alone at the edge of the pub, away from the football fans who were celebrating an Arsenal victory. He walked over to him and sat opposite him.
Burlorf looked at his watch, then at Bob. “You’re an hour late,” he said in a thick Russian accent.
“Are you really drinking water?” Bob asked, trying to avoid an apology.
Burlorf nodded. “My doctor warned me. Says my liver is not too good anymore.”
“That’s a pity,” Bob said. He took Burlorf’s glass and drank what was left of the water. “I have something for you,” he said as he dropped the empty glass in front of Burlorf.
“Of course. That is why I waited for you for one freaking hour.”
Bob smiled. “I need a drink. You don’t mind, do you?”
Burlorf pointed to his watch. “I don’t have time for your bullshit today. What do you have for me?”
Bob put his arms on the table and moved his face towards Burlorf. “What do you know about Nigeria?” he asked.
“Nigeria?” Burlorf shrugged. “Oil-rich African country and girls with fat asses. I visited there twenty years ago on assignment.”
“Good. I almost got conned online by someone who claimed to be a Nigerian princess about a year ago. I actually think I would have fallen for it given a few more weeks,” Bob lamented.
“Sorry about that, but you obviously did not call me out here to talk about that type of bullshit.”
Bob laughed. “No. I called you out here because I have a job for you.”
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“Two hundred thousand euros to watch the president of Nigeria.”
“Watch where?”
Bob moved his face closer and reduced his voice to a whisper. “Apparently the Nigerian president is in Saudi Arabia undergoing treatment. Liver problems, but obviously worse than yours. The entire thing is very hush-hush. You are to find out what hospital he’s in, watch him and submit regular updates about his progress.”
“That’s it?” Burlorf asked.
Bob nodded.
“My fee is three hundred.”
Bob moved away from him. “Three hundred just to watch someone? What would you charge if you had to kill him?”
“Don’t forget that I need to find him first. That’s lots of work. Especially since it’s very hush-hush.”
“Yeah. Big deal.”
“You know how I work, we don’t need argue price. You gimme work and I deliver.”
Bob heaved a sigh of defeat. “Okay. Payment process remains the same.”
“Good. When would you like me to start?” Burlorf asked.
Bob looked at his watch. “The next plane to Riyadh leaves in three hours. You should be on it.”
“How long should I watch him?”
“Five days, and await further instructions.”
“Just so we are clear, further instructions means more money.”
Bob smiled. “Are you sure I can’t buy you a drink?”
Burlorf shook his head. “I have work.” He rose to his feet and tapped Bob gently on his shoulders. “Always a pleasure doing business with you.” He walked out of the pub.

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
George Burlorf hated to fly and had hoped to sleep through the entire trip. He had taken a pill that normally would have done the trick but on this trip he was sited next to a parrot of a woman. She was an Arabian woman who had spent most of her life in Britain and was returning to Saudi Arabia to start a not for profit organization that she hoped would liberate the Saudi women.
She was an attractive woman, in her early thirties, she had long flowing brown hair, black, long lashes, a hooked nose and high cheekbones. She had chattered away nonstop about her fears of being a modern Arabian woman in the kingdom. She spoke enthusiastically and had they been on land, Burlorf would have taken complete advantage of his knowledge about the Kingdoms history, politics and conspiracy theories to wow and then woo her, that was his style, he was sort of a ladies man but in the air, he was a complete wuss who just wanted to fall and stay asleep.
Burlorf had worked briefly with the KGB and if the KGB hadn’t been so infamous he might have gained international recognition for his tactics and skills. If he hadn’t come several years after James Bond it could have been argued that he was an inspiration for the fictional British spy; not only was he a great spy who had a way with women, he was tall and ruggedly handsome. Even now in his early fifties, Burlorf looked at most forty and had the stamina of someone much younger.
After the KGB, he became a freelance intel broker who worked strictly for money, and never for North Korea, Iran or mother Russia.
Once his plane landed in Riyadh, he checked into a cheap hotel where he paid cash and didn’t have to show any ID. Once in the room, he began his assignment. He made a few calls and in less than two hours was able to locate the Nigerian president’s whereabouts. Even though the president was well guarded, it then took him another four hours to create access to him by becoming a medical consultant recommended to him.
Though Burlorf didn’t know enough about medicine to cure a common cold, he became Dr. Joe Androv, a hepatologist from Russia visiting Riyadh and highly recommended by the Russian Ambassador to Nigeria. A signed memo from the Ambassador’s office in Nigeria was sent to the office of the president. The president’s Chief Security Officer received it and immediately forwarded it to the first lady who informed the president’s physician. Burlorf waited eight hours for the paper pushers to do their jobs and to put his operation in place. By the time he arrived the facility, they were eagerly expecting him.
The facility was called the Al Yamama Medical Center. It was probably one of the most private and most exclusive health centers in the entire world. It was where billionaire oil barons and tyrant dictators went when they wanted to keep their ailments on the low.
Burlorf was impressed by the hospital. It looked and felt more like a five star hotel than a medical facility. It also seemed modestly secure. Its entire parameter was surrounded by a three feet wall with a two feet electric barbwire above the wall and CCTV cameras at every corner. Though it could not keep people like Burlorf out, it was enough to avoid access from the press, the paparazzi and other obvious intruders.
When Burlorf arrived the gate, a huge Arabian in a suit checked a list to make sure his name was in it. Once the Arabian confirmed his name on the list and he was Dr. Joe Androv through his Russian passport, they scanned him to make sure he had no bugs, no cameras and no metallic items. The only piece of property he was allowed to go in with was his stethoscope. Burlorf had anticipated this. He had also come with a phone, one he had only just acquired and a camera, also for show. He needed to play the part of a visiting doctor. Only stupid spies traveled without any personal effects and he didn’t want to give anyone the slightest suspicion.
The stethoscope however was all he needed for this assignment. It wasn’t your everyday stethoscope. It had a nicely made miniature camera that could record up to 5 hours of footage inserted in it.
He was asked to drop his phone, his camera and his passport in a secured locker before he was allowed unto the premises. He was shown to the lobby. The lobby was large and beautiful. It had been designed to inspire trust and confidence. It had enormous high ceilings, glass that sparkled everywhere, polished marble floors that you could see your reflection in and over scaled Arabian arts screaming from the walls.
Burlorf walked over to the front desk. There was an Arabian lady behind the desk who covered a bit of her face with a veil and the other bit with tasteful makeup. She was short and had the warmest smile Burlorf had ever seen. He walked over to her and introduced himself as Dr. Androv.
“Oh. Dr. Androv. I would inform Dr. Saad that you have arrived. Please take a seat.” She said as she picked up an intercom and began to punch buttons. Burlorf found an arm chair not too far from her and sat in it. He picked a magazine from a coffee table beside him. It was an Arabian medical journal. He breezed through and in less than a minute, Dr. Saad, the Nigerian president’s personal physician walked up to him. He noticed then that it was Dr. Saad on the cover of the journal he had been looking at.
Dr. Saad was a tired looking middle aged Arabian man. He was pale skinned, tall, thin and broad shouldered. He slouched when he walked. He walked over to Burlorf with a smile.
“Dr. Androv, I’ve been looking forward to your arrival since I was told you were coming. I’ve heard so much about you.” He said in smooth flawless English
Burlorf smiled. He knew that was a lie. There was no Dr. Joe Androv. Once he became Dr. Joe Androv, he had his people build a complete and reputable life and medical career online for him. He knew the internet would be the first place anyone would check him up and he wasn’t wrong. Dr. Saad had Googled him and found out a lot about him. He was supposed to be a highly decorated Internist.
“I’m happy to meet you too.” Burlorf said shaking the man’s hand.
“I’m surprised we didn’t meet in Hungary last year. I understand you were at the International Medical Convention. I presented a paper there.”
“The power of medical meditation,” Burlorf said.
“Precisely.” Saad said with a glee.
“I enjoyed it but I had to leave the convention too early to socialize. Work, work, work.”
Saad chuckled. “I completely understand.”
Like Saad, Burlorf had done his homework. He knew everything there was to know about the man, even things that a Google search would not reveal, like his thirst for foreign prostitutes and his arrest in London a few years back for marijuana possession.
“So tell me about President Galadima.” Burlorf said.
“The man is as good as dead. He’s on life support and I honestly don’t think it would be able to carry him for much longer. His wife however is very hopeful.”
“Is there nothing we can do?”
Saad shook his head. “You can examine him but I honestly doubt there is any hope for him. I would take you to him.”
They walked over to an elevator. Dr. Saad produced an ID card and swiped it at the edge of the elevator and it opened. Burlorf walked in and Saad followed. Once in the elevator he pressed 4 and then with his ID swiped again.
“We are very particular about our patients’ privacy.” He said as the elevator door closed.
“Yes I noticed.” Burlorf said.
“If you think you would want to examine him for a few days, I could get you a temporary permit.”
“That not necessary. If I need to see him, I would see you first.” Burlorf wanted access to Galadima but knew that if he wanted this doctor to continue to like him, he had to make him know that he wasn’t here to take his job. He had to play slow but swiftly. He had also learnt that Saad could be arrogant and vindictive and didn’t take likely to other doctors trying to prove they were smarter than him.
“As you please.”
They arrived on the fourth floor and again Dr. Saad allowed Burlorf out of the elevator first. Dr. Saad then led Burlorf to a door and again used his ID to swipe. He pushed the door open and led Burlorf into a midsized but very elegant and tastefully finished living room, something completely out of place in any hospital.
Saad continued to lead Burlorf. They moved through the living room into a passageway and through the passageway into another room. In this room, a man lay in bed unconscious. IV bags dripped fluids to his body. A catheter carried waste into a canister under the bed and he was breathing oxygen through a cannula clipped to his nose. The rapid high pitch beeping of an alarm filled the room.
A woman sat beside him in a comfortable arm chair that slightly rocked. Burlorf concluded the man in bed was President Galadima and Saad introduced the woman in the chair as the first lady. In her seat, she raised her hand and shook Burlorf. He thought it was rude that she didn’t get up but also assumed it could be a culture thing.
“Thank you for checking up on us. I’m told you’re one of the best.”
“I might be but this man here is the best,” Burlorf said referring to Saad, trying to inflate his ego.
Saad smiled.
“How long has he been like this?” Burlorf asked. He was fondling his stethoscope and was able to press the record button on the miniature recorder in the device.
“Several weeks. He was brought in like this actually.” Saad said.
“Dr. Saad, I don’t think the kind doctor needs that information.” The first lady said.
Saad nodded in agreement. “I would give you his case file.”
Burlorf moved around him. “He is breathing through the machines?”
Saad nodded. Saad picked the case file from the bedside table and handed it to Burlorf. Burlorf pretended to go through it. He took his time even though he did not understand a single word in it. He was just about to return the file when President Galadima suddenly opened his eyes to the size of billiard balls. His mouth twitched like he was trying to say something. The monitor tracking his vital signs showed his heart rate spike to 190, drop to 60. He began to jerk violently.
“Doctors what is happening?” The first lady asked getting out of her seat.
“I think he’s going into cardiac arrest”, Saad shouted.
Burlorf managed to keep a safe distance but made sure his stethoscope was picking the action.
The monitor began to flat line.
“Quick! Hold him!” Saad shouted.
Burlorf hesitated. Remembering he was supposed to be Dr. Androv, he held the president.
“Call Nurse Aisha. Tell her he’s going into cardiac arrest,” he said to the first lady. She nodded and produced a phone and moved a good distance from the bed.
Saad produced a defibrillator and while Burlorf held Galadima down, he unbuttoned the gown Galadima had on and applied the pads to his chest. He allowed the defibrillator to analyze the heart rhythm then he pressed the shock button after shouting clear. Burlorf had gained some CPR knowledge from years on the field and knew he wasn’t supposed to be holding Galadima once Saad shouted clear. He let go of the man and waited.
They continued the process for almost fifteen minutes. By then, a nurse had come in and was now assisting Saad giving Burlorf a good excuse to stay in the background. At a point, not to seem completely hopeless, Burlorf asked, “Should we not take him to ICU?” and Saad responded, “This is the ICU.”
About thirty minutes later, Dr. Saad declared President Galadima dead.
Burlorf left the hospital about an hour after Galadima was declared dead and his body moved from the room. He felt bad for the man and his wife but he had seen enough deaths not to be shaken.
As he left the hospital, everything still seemed strange. Galadima dying on the first day of his assignment, was that a coincidence? The strangest thing however was how the first lady had taken him, Dr. Saad and Nurse Aisha into a room and made them sign confidential agreements stating that they would not tell anybody what had just happened. The president of one of Africa’s biggest economies had just died, how did she expect to keep it a secret?
As he moved away from the hospital, he called Bob on his new phone. After the line rang for a few seconds, Bob picked up at his end. He sounded like he was sleeping. “President Galadima just died and I have the last few minutes of his life on film.”
“Wait, what do you mean he just died? Did you kill him?” A confused and now wide awake Bob asked.
“No. He had cardiac arrest and I have it all on film.”


Brooklyn, New York
Dele Pearce sat down on his table gazing at a framed picture of his wife smiling back at him. This was the only place he had seen her smile in the past week or seen her at all in the past couple of days.
He looked away from the picture and rubbed his eyes as if preventing tears from rolling out. He had failed again. He had been a terrible husband. His father would be laughing at him where ever he was and his mother would be disappointed again.
Dele shook the thought away and pulled open his laptop. He looked at a blurred reflection of himself on the screen and it seemed like he had lost some weight.
Dele was not fat so the thought of losing any weight was always a bother. He was in his mid-thirties, five feet nine and slim, bordering on skinny. He looked good for his age, not because he was handsome but rather because he was well groomed. His hair line started a few inches away from his forehead but he wasn’t close to being bald, it had been that way for as long as he could remember and even though people had predicted he’d be bald by 30, it looked like it was still going to be a while if ever he went bald. He had large curious brown eyes, a small nose, scanty moustache and a fully grown goatee.
He had made a mistake by letting his wife discover he had been unfaithful again but he was willing to rectify the mistake if only she would take him back. He had been unfaithful several times in their four years marriage but she had caught him only four times and each time, she had eventually forgiven him. This time, it didn’t seem she was going to forgive him.
He wasn’t going to be faithful, he did not believe man was made to be monogamous. He wasn’t going to deceive himself into believing he could change. Next time however, he was going to make sure he was more cautious. If she would have him back, he was going to ensure that she would never catch him at it again.
He gazed at the screen of his laptop watching the cursor blink on a blank Word document. Was he having writer’s block or was the problem with his wife the reason he had been unable to type a single word for three days.
He needed to write something soon. His blog The Sahara Chronicles was fast becoming the number one source for Nigerian news online and if he was not consistent, he could lose the spot. He needed the spot. He needed to prove to himself that he was a writer and a darn great one. He needed to prove to the world that his numerous other failures was leading him here. He needed to be the best.
He picked his phone from beside him and dialed her number. He listened to her line ring knowing that she was not going to pick up. Her answering machine picked up and he smiled at the sound of her voice. He missed her so much. This had been his sixth attempt at calling her in the last hour, maybe it was time he gave it a rest and tried to focus on work instead. Maybe work could take his mind off her until she was ready to talk.
His phone rang. He hoped it was his wife calling back as he hurriedly picked it up. He looked at the screen. The caller ID revealed an international number, a +44 told him it was a U.K number. He was disappointed. He put the phone to his ears.
“Hello,” he noticed his voice was huskier than usual. He cleared his throat.
“Hello Mr. Pearce. I’m sorry about the situation with your wife.” The voice on the other end said.
“Who is this?” Dele asked.
“That is not important right now. What is important is the story I have for you.”
“And what story is that?”
“President Galadima died a few hours ago in a Saudi Arabia hospital.”
Dele looked around the room even though he knew he was alone. When he spoke again, it was barely louder than a whisper. “Is this some sort of joke?”
“I wouldn’t want to waste your time or mine with a joke that isn’t the bit amusing.”
“When did you say he died?” Dele asked.
“Six hours ago to be precise.”
“And why has nobody reported it yet?”
“Because nobody knows yet.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Because it is my job to know it, just like it is yours to report it.”
“I’m a professional writer, I don’t write based on other people’s hunches.”
“You’re an out of work stock broker turned blogger.”
Dele paused for a bit. “Who did you say you were?”
“I didn’t. Listen, this is no hunch, it’s the real deal. I think you should report this. It would be a great follow up to your last article on the president and the situation in your country.”
“So I see you follow my magazine.”
“I try to follow your blog. I think you’ve got what it takes to be a hit.”
“I appreciate your giving me this, but you can understand my reluctance.”
“No I honestly can’t. This is something you should be jumping at. You report this and you become a source, not just a blog.”
“The Sahara Chronicles is not a blog, it is an online news magazine!” Dele said almost shouting, slightly irritated that this stranger kept calling him a blogger.
“I apologize for the mistake. Regardless, this is a life changing story.”
“But what if your info is not accurate?”
“Trust me, it is.” The voice was dead serious.
“But I don’t know that for sure.”
“Listen, I would give you an hour start. If you don’t report it by then, I would give someone who would.”
“But if it is true, in an hour, the whole world would be on it.”
“This time, I seriously doubt that.”
The line went dead.
Dele tried to redial the number but a distinctively English feminine voice told him the number he was dialing did not exist.
He sat down to ponder but he didn’t have to ponder for very long. The Nigerian President had left the country without following due process, nobody knew where he was or how he was, the last the world heard from him was on radio. The entire thing seemed so odd, so unreal, it was not impossible he was dead. A number calls him and an attempt to dial the number back isn’t possible – not just any Tom, Dick and Harry could pull off that sort of phone call. It required skills, spy skills.
Dele decided that this was something he had to write. If the information was wrong, he was going to apologize to his audience and if the Sahara Chronicles lost its reputation, he would simply purchase another domain name and start another blog, or magazine or whatever his audience decided to tag it.
If the story was true, he could already visualize the flashing lights, the interviews on CNN, BBC and maybe FOX news. He was going to become a star. This was going to be a great start to a writing career.
He pulled his PC towards him and began to type.

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Price: ₦500 ($3)
Product Details
Author: Dan Abubakar
Publisher: Victoria Publishing
Publication date: 2/12/2014
Pages: 280
More About This eBook
When President Galadima of Nigeria goes AWOL, the entire world is curious about the situation.
When a former KGB agent ‘sees’ him die, the world wants proof.
When an aspiring New York based blogger reports his death, he becomes the target of a nefarious assassin who would stop at nothing to see him dead.
From Saudi Arabia to London, New York to Nigeria, former CIA agent Leah Givens and blogger Dele Pearce must stay ahead of a destructive plot of a powerful group of people while trying to stay alive and uncover an unlikely scheme to bring President Galadima back to office.
Inspired by actual events, this non stop action packed thriller would keep you at the edge of your seat till it's over.
"The Galadima Conspiracy is a fast paced thrill ride with a storyline all too real
for our times" - Simon Wood, author of TERMINATED
Editorial Reviews
About Author
Dan Abubakar started writing at an early age and for years writing remained just a hobby. After University and working in the I.T industry for over ten years, Dan decided to give writing a real chance. His debut novel is the political thriller The Galadima Conspiracy.
When not writing, Dan is an avid reader, a movie buff and sometimes a music fiend. His favorite movies include The Usual Suspects, Con Air, L.A Confidential, Inception, The Dark Knight and Casino Royale.
Dan loves espionage thrillers, and crime thrillers but is open to all genres.He is currently working on Hersassin and Yahooligans.
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