CHAPTER 4: THE JOB OFFER
The numbness had a flavor.
It tasted like copper.
David sat on the edge of the king-sized bed in the Diplomatic Suite, staring at his left hand. The pinky and ring finger were pale, waxy, and utterly devoid of sensation. He could stick a needle through the webbing between them and feel nothing but the pressure of the skin stretching.
He picked up a silver letter opener from the hotel desk and pressed the dull tip into his ring finger. He watched the skin depress. He pushed harder. No pain. Just a visual confirmation that his body was reacting to physics, even if his nerves were on strike.
"Two fingers for a fortune," he whispered.
It was 6:00 AM. The sun was just beginning to bruise the purple sky over the Atlantic Ocean, painting the Lagos horizon in hazy shades of orange and grey. The city was waking up—the distant hum of traffic on the bridge, the low thrum of a thousand generators kicking on.
David hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Sarah's face. He saw the pity in her eyes. He heard Femi's laugh.
Is this 419? Are you doing Yahoo-Yahoo now?
Femi's insult had been crude, but it was dangerous. In Nigeria, unexplained wealth was a beacon for trouble. If David started buying properties and cars with cash that had no origin, the EFCC—the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission—would be knocking on his door within a month. And the EFCC didn't care about unwritten contracts with supernatural entities. They cared about receipts.
He needed a cover. He needed a reason to be rich. He needed a job that explained the suits, the hotel, and the arrogance.
But he didn't want just any job. He wanted Femi's job. No, he wanted the job of the man who owned Femi.
David stood up and walked to the window. He looked toward the shimmering glass tower of Stratton & Oakes in the distance. It was an investment firm that handled the portfolios of politicians, oil moguls, and warlords trying to go legit. It was the shark tank of Lagos.
Five years ago, David had applied for an entry-level analyst position there. He had made it to the final round. The HR director had looked at his cheap shoes, his mismatched belt, and his degree from a state university, and smiled that polite, devastating smile. "You don't quite have the... pedigree we're looking for, Mr. Kingsley."
Femi worked there now. A Senior Associate.
David turned away from the window. He went to the closet. He bypassed the suit he had worn last night—the one stained with the memory of his humiliation. He chose a charcoal grey three-piece suit. Italian wool. Severe. Authoritative.
He dressed slowly, ritualistically. When he tied his tie—a Windsor knot, tight and symmetrical—he felt a pressure in his head. A low buzzing sound, like a high-voltage wire.
Go to the top, the voice inside his head whispered. It wasn't the Benefactor speaking directly. It was more like an impulse, a sudden, jagged spike of intuition.
David grabbed the wallet. He checked it. Full.
He walked out of the suite. He didn't take the elevator. He took the stairs, five flights down, testing his legs, testing his wind. He felt lighter. Stronger. The ozone in his blood was acting like an amphetamine.
The lobby of Stratton & Oakes was designed to intimidate. The ceilings were thirty feet high, the floors were marble imported from Italy, and the air was kept at a freezing sixteen degrees Celsius to keep the occupants awake and alert.
David walked through the revolving doors at 8:45 AM.
The reception desk was a fortress of granite, manned by two women who looked like models and typed like stenographers.
"Good morning," David said. He didn't stop at the desk. He walked straight toward the security turnstiles.
"Sir!" One of the receptionists stood up, her headset rattling. "Sir! You cannot go through there without a pass!"
Two security guards in black tactical uniforms stepped in front of the turnstiles, crossing their arms. They were big men, ex-MOPOL, with eyes that had seen violence.
David stopped. He adjusted his cuffs.
"I am here to see Mr. Solanke," David said.
The receptionist blinked. "The CEO? Do you have an appointment?"
"No."
"Then you cannot see him. Mr. Solanke's schedule is booked for the next three months. If you would like to leave your card..."
David looked at the security guards. Then he looked at the receptionist. He felt the buzz in his head grow louder. It was painful now, a sharp migraine spike behind his right eye.
And then, the information came.
It didn't come as a thought. It came as a memory, but a memory of something he had never experienced. It simply appeared in his brain, fully formed, vivid and undeniable.
He knew the receptionist's name. He knew what she was hiding in her purse. He knew why she was sweating despite the freezing air conditioning.
David smiled. It was a shark's smile.
"Tolu," David said softly.
The receptionist froze. "How do you know my name?"
"Your name tag isn't on," David pointed out. "But that's not what matters. What matters is the text message you just received from your brother in London. The one about the tuition fees."
Tolu went pale. Her hand instinctively went to her pocket where her phone was vibrating.
David leaned over the granite desk. "I am here to fix problems, Tolu. I am the solution to the tuition fees. I am the solution to the overdraft. But I need to go up. Now."
He didn't threaten her. He offered her a lifeline.
Tolu stared at him. She saw the darkness in his eyes—the matte, light-absorbing quality he had inherited from his Silent Partner. She swallowed hard.
She typed something into her console. The turnstile light turned green.
"He is in the Penthouse," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Floor 40. But the executive security... they are different."
"Thank you, Tolu."
David walked through the turnstile. The guards, seeing the green light, stepped aside, though they watched him with deep suspicion.
David stepped into the elevator. He pressed '40'.
The car ascended. His ears popped. The buzz in his head subsided, replaced by a cold, crystalline clarity. He knew exactly what he was going to say. He knew the layout of the CEO's office without ever having seen it. He knew the painting on the wall. He knew the whiskey in the cabinet.
The 40th floor was silent. The carpet was so thick it swallowed footsteps. There were no cubicles here, only glass walls and mahogany doors.
David walked down the corridor. He passed a conference room where men in suspenders were yelling at a screen showing the Nikkei Index. He ignored them.
He reached the double doors at the end of the hall. A secretary—an older woman with glasses on a chain—looked up from her desk. She was the dragon guarding the gate.
"Stop," she said. One word. Total command.
David didn't stop. He kept walking.
"I said stop!" She reached for the phone. "Security!"
David reached the door and pushed it open.
Mr. Solanke was standing by the window, looking out at the sprawling chaos of Lagos. He was a legend in the Nigerian financial sector. A man who had survived military dictatorships, market crashes, and assassination attempts. He turned slowly as David entered.
Solanke was short, bald, and radiated a terrifying stillness. He looked at David, then at the secretary who had rushed in behind him.
"Get him out," Solanke said. His voice was quiet, bored.
"Mr. Solanke," David said, closing the door in the secretary's face and engaging the lock. The click echoed in the room.
Solanke raised an eyebrow. He didn't look afraid. He looked amused.
"You have three seconds before my personal detail breaks that door down and breaks your legs," Solanke said. "One."
"You are shorting the Naira against the Dollar using a shell company in the Seychelles called 'Blue Heron'," David said.
Solanke stopped. The 'Two' died in his throat.
David walked further into the room. He felt the power flowing through him—not the Command this time, but the Knowledge. It was intoxicating. It was like reading the source code of the man in front of him.
"You are also leveraged to the hilt on the Lekki deep sea port project," David continued, walking toward the wet bar. "And your partners in China are getting impatient. They sent you a letter yesterday. Red envelope. It's in your top drawer. Under the box of cigars."
Solanke's face went rigid. The amusement evaporated.
"Who are you?" Solanke whispered. "Did the EFCC send you? Are you DSS?"
David poured himself a glass of water from the crystal pitcher on the desk. He took a sip.
"I am not the police, Solanke. The police are affordable. I am... expensive."
David sat down in one of the leather guest chairs. He crossed his legs. He looked at the empty chair behind the massive desk.
"I want a job," David said.
Solanke stared at him. He walked slowly to his desk, keeping his eyes on David, his hand hovering near the panic button under the lip of the mahogany.
"You broke into my office, recited my darkest financial secrets, and locked the door... to ask for a job?"
"I didn't ask," David corrected. "I stated a desire."
"What makes you think I won't have you killed right now?" Solanke hissed. "You know too much."
"Because I can fix the China problem," David said. "And I can triple your returns on the Seychelles account. And because if I die, the email drafted in my cloud server goes to the press, the Central Bank, and your wife."
It was a bluff. There was no email. But the Contract made the lie taste like truth. It gave the words a weight that bent reality.
Solanke sat down. He slumped, actually. The legend of the finance world looked suddenly old.
"Who sent you?" Solanke asked. "Is it the Americans? The Russians?"
"A Silent Partner," David said.
"What do you want?"
"A title. legitimacy. An office. And a salary that reflects my... unique skill set."
"Which is?"
"I see things," David said. "I see the patterns others miss. I see the unwritten contracts."
Solanke studied him. He was a gambler at heart. He recognized a high-stakes player when he saw one. He saw the suit. He saw the deadness in David's eyes.
"Director of Special Projects," Solanke said after a long silence. "It's a ghost role. No direct reports. You answer only to me. You handle the things that cannot be written down."
"Perfect," David said.
"Salary?"
David waved his hand dismissively. "Pay me whatever the highest earner on this floor makes. Plus twenty percent. But I don't care about the money. I care about the access."
"And the China problem?"
"Consider it solved. Make the call at noon. They will agree to the extension."
David didn't know how he knew that. He just knew. The Benefactor would handle the mechanics. David just had to sell the result.
Solanke nodded slowly. "You start now. Office 4012. It's empty."
"Good."
David stood up. He walked to the door. He unlocked it.
"One more thing," David said, pausing with his hand on the brass handle.
"Yes?"
"Femi Adebayo. He works here."
Solanke frowned. "The Senator's son? Yes. He's in Mergers and Acquisitions. A bit loud, but his father is useful."
"He reports to me now," David said.
Solanke hesitated. "That's irregular. M&A is a different vertical."
David turned his head. His eyes caught the light, flashing that strange, matte darkness.
"He. Reports. To. Me."
Solanke swallowed. He nodded. "Done."
David opened the door. The secretary and three security guards were standing there, ready to charge.
"It's fine, Martha," Solanke called out from his desk, his voice sounding weary. "Mr. Kingsley is our new Director. Get him a badge. And get him coffee."
David walked past the stunned security guards. He walked down the hallway.
He felt a surge of triumph so potent it almost made him dizzy. He had done it. He had breached the castle. He was no longer the beggar; he was the kingmaker.
He turned the corner toward the elevators and almost collided with a man rushing out of a conference room.
It was Femi.
Femi was holding a stack of files, looking flustered. He looked up, ready to snap at whoever was in his way.
His eyes locked on David.
Femi stopped. He blinked. He looked at David's suit—the bespoke cut, the silk tie. He looked at the badge clipped to David's lapel. The temporary visitor badge had been replaced. David was holding the permanent access card Solanke had slid across the desk.
"Kingsley?" Femi breathed. "How... you were arrested last night. I saw them drag you out."
David smiled. He stepped close to Femi. He could smell Femi's cologne—expensive, cloying.
"Administrative error," David said smoothly. "It happens."
"What are you doing here?" Femi demanded, his voice rising. "Did you sneak in? Security!"
"Save your breath, Femi," David said. He reached out and plucked a piece of lint off Femi's lapel. The gesture was intimately disrespectful. "I work here now."
"You? Work here?" Femi laughed, but it was a nervous sound. "As what? The janitor?"
"Director of Special Projects," David said. "And according to Mr. Solanke... I'm your new boss."
Femi's face went slack. "That's... that's impossible. My father—"
"Your father is a tenant in a house of cards," David interrupted, his voice dropping to that dangerous whisper. "And I just bought the mortgage."
David leaned in, his lips inches from Femi's ear.
"I want the Q3 reports on my desk by lunch. And Femi? If there is a single typo... I will fire you. And then I will ruin you."
David stepped back. He tapped Femi on the cheek. twice. Pat. Pat.
"Welcome to the new world, Femi."
David walked away, heading toward his new corner office. He didn't look back. He listened to the silence he left in his wake.
He entered Office 4012. It was massive. Glass walls overlooking the ocean. A desk that cost more than his father's lifetime earnings.
David walked to the desk and sat down. The leather groaned softly.
He was at the top.
He reached for the phone to call the reception, to order his first official act as Director.
But his hand didn't work.
He looked down.
His left hand was curled into a claw. The numbness had jumped. It wasn't just the two fingers anymore.
His entire left hand, up to the wrist, was grey. Dead. Cold.
He tried to open it. The muscles twitched, sluggish and unresponsive. He had to use his right hand to pry the fingers open, like bending the limbs of a mannequin.
David stared at the dead hand.
The triumph of the last hour curdled in his throat.
I can fix the China problem, he had told Solanke.
The Benefactor had delivered the intel. The Benefactor had smoothed the way. And the Benefactor had taken his commission.
David opened the bottom drawer of his new desk. He shoved his dead left hand inside, out of sight.
He picked up the phone with his right hand.
"Martha," he said, his voice steady, hiding the terror. "Send Femi Adebayo in here. And bring me some ice."
"Ice, sir?"
"Yes. Lots of it."
He hung up.
He looked out the window at the city he now commanded. The sun was fully up, burning off the haze. But in office 4012, the air was freezing, and the smell of ozone was thick enough to choke on.
The ascent had begun. But David was starting to realize that he wasn't climbing a mountain. He was climbing a ladder that was being lowered into a pit.