The Missing American Page 10

  Unlike most scam victims whose connection to the scammer generally does not proceed beyond the online space, G.T. took the step to meet Helena in person. Of note, G.T., a widower who lost his decades-long Ghanaian wife to ovarian cancer years ago, had been to Ghana before more than once, the first time being a Peace Corps mission in the 1980s.

  G.T. therefore had a feel for Ghana that few Westerners do, and now that he was in the country, G.T. was afforded the rare, potential opportunity to confront those who had conned him. Not the kind of person to take abuse lying down, G.T. has remained in the country to investigate his own victimization.

  Derek’s frown grew deeper as he read this online article, which included several stock photos of the “poverty-stricken” Ghana in contrast to the “wealthy less-than-one-percent.” He was baffled. From his perspective, the piece was out of left field. It was plainly the story of his father’s experience, but who had made the decision to publish it in the Washington Observer, and why hadn’t Derek known about it beforehand? Neither Gordon nor Cas had mentioned it before. Although initially opposed, Derek had come to accept his father’s rationale for staying in Ghana. Through March, Gordon had sent emails and text messages to keep Derek informed: Dad had moved out of Kempinski hotel to a bed-and-breakfast, he’d rented a vehicle with a driver who was taking him around Accra and the usual touristy places. All that was fine, but now, what in fuck’s name did “G.T. has remained in the country to investigate his own victimization” mean?

  Derek called Cas, but it went to voicemail. Several hours passed before Cas returned the call.

  “I saw your article called ‘Out of Africa,’” Derek said. “I mean, it was your article, right?”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” Cas said. “What did you think?”

  Derek was tempted to say “not much” but he refrained. “I’m confused,” he said instead. “When did we discuss writing a piece about my father in Ghana? Had you planned this beforehand?”

  “Your father and I talked about it and we decided to collaborate on a piece. My editor approved, so we went ahead with it.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last month sometime.”

  Why was his tone so vague? “Last month?” Derek said. “And neither of you mentioned it to me?”

  “I assumed Gordon had discussed it with you,” Cas said. “He said he would. He might just have been too preoccupied.”

  “When did he tell you he would talk to me about it?” Derek questioned, trying to nail this down.

  “Look, I don’t remember exactly, Derek,” Cas said with some impatience. “Hey, I’m an old man. I can’t keep all these dates in my head.”

  He was trying to pass it off as a joke, but Derek was far from amused. “Sorry, but something just doesn’t add up. What’s going on? Just level with me. Did the two of you plan this from the very beginning and decide to keep me out of it?”

  “It’s not like that at all,” Cas protested. “Please don’t think of it that way. We felt this would be an opportunity to explore the Internet scam phenomenon.”

  “So, he’s staying in Ghana to carry out some kind of investigation? This is ludicrous.”

  “Look, Derek,” Cas said, his voice tightening, “your father wants to get to the bottom of who did this to him, and I don’t blame him. Why should he lie down and take it? Why should these conmen assholes get away with this kind of shit?”

  Derek swore under his breath. He was angry and bewildered. Why hadn’t his father shared this crazy plan to remain in Ghana to investigate who had defrauded him? Derek found himself grimly answering his own question: because it’s crazy, that’s why. Crazy enough to make Derek smell a rat. And Cas was the rat.

  Derek took in a good breath and let it out quickly in a mixture of weariness and frustration. And now something else was troubling him. “Has Dad communicated with you in the past couple of days?” he asked Cas. “He hasn’t been answering any of my messages.”

  “If I recall, he emailed me at the end of March sometime. I expect he’ll drop you a line soon.”

  Cas said he had to go and ended the call. Derek returned to the Observer article and stared at it until the text and images blurred and his mind was brimming with suspicion. Had Cas manipulated Gordon into staying in Ghana in order to get a write-up in the Observer out of it? And an even starker, more cynical thought struck Derek and left him cold. Had Cas engineered this entire situation from the start?

  TWENTY-FIVE

  April 14, Accra, Ghana

  Emma returned home after a day at the mall selling Apple devices. It was almost ten. She cooked dinner with the TV news on in the background.

  Her phone rang, but she didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “Emma Djan?”

  “Who is speaking, please?”

  “My name is Yemo Sowah.”

  For a brief second, Emma forgot who that was, but then she remembered and her heart leapt. “Oh, yes, sir. Good evening, sir.”

  “Sorry to call so late, Miss Djan.” His voice was soft and a little husky, like wet leaves.

  “It’s no problem, please.” Emma sat down.

  “DCOP Laryea called me about three months ago. He said you had left the police service but he recommended you highly.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “At the time, I had no vacancy, but I now have an open position. Are you still interested?”

  Emma felt giddy. “Yes, sir.” Her voice came out hoarse, so she cleared her throat and repeated herself.

  “Good,” he said. “I’d like to see you tomorrow morning, if possible.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Do you have a job elsewhere?” Sowah asked.

  “No please,” she lied. She wasn’t going to let anything jeopardize her shot at this.

  “Excellent. Then I’ll see you at eight sharp.”

  At seven in the morning, Emma arrived at the Sowah Private Investigators Agency at 101 Limomo Walk in Asylum Down, a district named because it was a short distance downhill from the psychiatric hospital. She was so early it was no surprise the office wasn’t open yet. The front door had a frosted glass pane emblazoned with the agency’s name.

  Idly scrolling through the news feed on her phone, Emma hung around. At about seven-thirty, a smartly dressed woman with flawless braids and impossibly high heels approached the door with keys in hand.

  “Good morning,” she said, giving the visitor an inquiring look.

  “Good morning, madam. My name is Emma Djan.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember,” the woman said, unlocking the door. “The boss said to expect you. I’m Beverly, his assistant. You can come in and wait for him.”

  They entered a foyer and Beverly turned on the lights. “Please have a seat,” she said to Emma, pointing to the seating area at one end.

  A desk with a computer, printer, and filing cabinet in an alcove on the opposite side of the foyer turned out to be where Beverly did her work. It was comfortable but rather small.

  Apart from offering Emma some water, Beverly said almost nothing as she set up for the day. But at precisely 8 a.m., she beckoned to Emma. “Please follow me.”

  Beverly unlocked a second door which opened into an open area with workstations and computers. The five desks were laden with large envelopes and dog-eared folders. Beverly’s heels clicked precisely with her quick efficient steps as she led Emma down a short corridor. At the end of that was an open door where Beverly put her head in and announced Emma’s arrival.

  “Very good. Please let her come in.” It was the live version of Sowah’s phone voice.

  Emma was nervous, and she didn’t relax much when she saw Yemo Sowah. He reminded her of an uncle she had. Sowah was compact and dressed in a bright white shirt and dark tie. His crown was completely bald, leaving only trimmed, graying hair on each side of his head
.

  He got out of his chair. “Good morning, Miss Djan,” he said. “Sorry, is it ‘Miss’?”

  “Yes please. Good morning, sir.”

  They shook hands. His palm was small but rather rough. He gestured to a striking ruby-red sofa in the corner. “Let’s sit and talk, shall we?”

  He took a seat opposite her in an office chair with a straight back. She noticed how impeccably polished his shoes were.

  “Thank you for being on time, by the way,” he said with a smile. “It’s a good start.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Emma said, her hands tightly folded in her lap.

  Sowah read her body language. “Relax, Miss Djan,” he said. “It’s not that bad.”

  She laughed nervously.

  “Where did you school?” he asked.

  “Kumasi Wesley Girls High,” Emma replied.

  “Oh, nice,” Sowah said. “And your father was at Manhyia Headquarters in Kumasi, I understand. With the Homicide unit there.”

  “Yes please.”

  “When did you move to Accra?”

  “After he died about six years ago, I moved here to find better work and support my mother. I stayed with one of my aunts for a while. My mother remained behind. I tried to persuade her to come with me to Accra, but she loves Kumasi too much.”

  “Did you consider going to university?”

  “Yes please. But money problems.” Emma made a face of regret.

  “Understood,” Sowah said, nodding. “At any rate, here you are, a relatively recent police academy graduate. Congrats.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “How did you like working at the Commercial Crimes Unit at CID?”

  This was where it was going to become uncomfortable. “The work was a little bit tedious,” Emma said, but hurried to add, “the people were fine, just the work.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  She was dreading his next question. He’s going to ask me why I left.

  But Sowah didn’t. “I was with CID for about ten years,” he said. “DCOP Laryea was my very good mate and we have kept in touch all these years. But I left CID because I wanted the freedom to work without bosses constantly looking over my shoulder and curtailing my every initiative. So, I founded this agency. It will be thirty years this year. Older than you.” He gave a one-sided smile.

  “We do a lot of paperwork here,” Sowah continued, “but the foundation of our activities continues to be contact with people. In missing persons cases, we sometimes must go as far as the Northern or Upper East Regions not only to find someone, but to locate another person who knew or knows the missing person. You know, here in Ghana we haven’t quite reached the point where addresses are connected with driver’s licenses or voter IDs and so on—although we are headed in that direction. But we Ghanaians move all over the place and sometimes never inform anyone. When we do background checks for banks, we talk to people in person or on the phone. Sometimes you’ll be calling them every single day and they won’t even mind you. You must go to find them. So, patience and curiosity are two qualities you need to work here.”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “As is punctuality and honesty,” he went on. “We have five detectives—you make six—and they all know that second to lying, what I hate most is lateness. I know people always say GMT means ‘Ghana Mean Time’ and you can therefore show up whenever you please, but we don’t go by that system here. I hope that’s clear. If you ever must be late due to unforeseen circumstances, you need to let me know as soon as you can.”

  “Yes please.”

  “Now, you will want to know about salary.” Sowah leaned to the side and took a sheet of paper from his desk. “Take a look at the breakdown.”

  Emma studied the neat tables in the document. The remuneration was so much greater than what she had been getting at GPS—or working in an Apple store for that matter—she had to make sure she wasn’t reading it incorrectly.

  “Please,” she said haltingly, “excuse me, this number here—is that per month?”

  “No—every two weeks,” he said.

  She tried not to let her jaw drop but he must have sensed what was going through her mind. “Don’t get a wrong picture,” he said. “You are being paid for very hard work. Sometimes you may be here till nine or ten at night as well as the weekends.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “Oh, I forgot something,” he said. “In regard to what DCOP Laryea told me about you and your keen interest in homicide, I must be honest with you, murder cases don’t even remotely comprise the bulk of our work. Those tend to go over to CID. The world over, that is generally the case with private investigator agencies. That might be a disappointment for you, and I will understand if you would like to seek other opportunities.”

  She shook her head. “No please. I want to work here.”

  “Good,” Sowah said, looking gratified. “One of the reasons I want you to join us is that we have no female detectives, which is embarrassing in this day and age.”

  Emma smiled with some pride. She was something of a pioneer, then.

  “Now, do you have any questions for me?” he asked.

  “Please, will I be with one of the other detectives to understand how everything works?”

  “Good question. I will have you shadow all of them for a few weeks, but I will always be supervising and keeping a close watch. If you have any problems, come to me.”

  “Yes please.”

  “Last question. Can you start tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  April 17

  After church on Sunday, Nii joined a group of sakawa friends to hang out and work on their scams. They had a small place in the sprawling suburb of Dansoman. Except for an ancient, battered swivel chair with a wheel missing, and a desk with uneven legs, the room had no furniture, and the young men lay on the floor along with their phones, laptops, power banks, and a tangle of wires and connectors.

  They chatted, joked around, and poked fun at each other even as they surfed and typed, trying to entrap potential victims. Bruno was here this time, staying close to Nii to learn sakawa fundamentals. One of Bruno’s first lessons was mastering the art of creating a fake person with the combination of a sham Facebook profile, a designated WhatsApp phone, and judicious use of fake webcam software on Skype. The profile pictures on Facebook, WhatsApp, and Skype all had to match, of course. The skill was in getting the mugu to believe what he or she was hearing, even if suspicious at the beginning. Most important was to be armed with the spiritual power bestowed by the traditional priest, in this case Ponsu, so that even the smartest oburoni would never be able to resist sending more and more money. That’s what started to happen with the white man, Mr. Gordon, before he traveled to Ghana. He thought he was conversing with a beautiful Ghanaian woman. Nii Kwei, with the spiritual powers invested in him, made Gordon believe he was seeing and hearing what he really wasn’t.

  Nii instructed Bruno how to use Skype with ManyCam, which replaces a real webcam. ManyCam can use either an Internet image or a prerecorded video. Nii recommended the latter. Easily available in Ghana, they save the scammer the time and trouble searching the Internet. Professionals make these short videos that appear to show someone on webcam talking to you.

  “So,” Nii continued, “I get plenty plenty videos I upload to ManyCam and I name the files so not to get confused.” He and his sakawa colleagues almost invariably used the accepted pidgin English of the streets when talking to each other. “When I call the man on Skype, what he go see is some fine woman smiling at him. I tell him say my computer microphone no dey work well, so make we type instead. And I tell him say because of Ghana network the image make slow compared to the typing. So, for example, if the mugu say something serious but the woman on the Skype is smiling, he go ask why she make smile when
he dey tell her something serious.”

  “Oh, okay,” Bruno said, nodding.

  “Make you no spend plenty time on Skype”—Nii warned—“like maybe just some five minutes, then you cut the video and text the mugu tell him say the network is bad so you can’t do Skype or WhatsApp video. But you can still send him some pictures. If he want naked pictures too, we have to send them. Also, we get women who can answer the phone for us, or if not, then we don’t pick the call and later we text him to say the network is down.”

  “But for that man Mr. Gordon, why you no put white girl for profile instead of Ghanaian one?” Bruno asked.

  Nii shook his head. “Dat one be different kind target. This mugu no dey want white girl, you understand me? He like black woman, African woman. If you want to catch a dog, you bring meat, not grass. Wait, make I show you something.”

  On his Samsung—the latest model—Nii pulled up a Facebook page called BWWM—Black Women, White Men. He scrolled. A white American man and his Ghanaian wife were decked out in kente outfits. All the couples were beautiful in some way, and their children even more so.

  “This is how you can use Facebook,” Nii explained. “Look at the likes for this pic. Click on the men who have liked the pic and see if you go get one who is single and looking for a woman. That’s who you will try your hand, but first you go check his profile to see what kind of job he has. He should be someone who get plenty money. Then, you go message him—not as yourself, oo. I mean using the fake profile you made with the photo of a beautiful African woman. You take a screenshot of the same woman you use for the Skype. Then, you get to know him, and then after some small time pass, you start asking for money, and then more and more.”

  “He won’t suspect?” Bruno said.