The harmattan winds that swept through Abuja in 1998 carried not only fine dust from the Sahara but also the chilling whisper of a nation suffocating under a dictator's grip. General Sani Abacha ruled from Aso Rock, an impenetrable fortress guarded by rings of loyalists and an elaborate surveillance network built by the very NSDI he now controlled. For the Originals, the decision had been made: Abacha, in his escalating paranoia, was threatening to expose all Watchmen secrets, both old and new, to consolidate his absolute power. He had to be removed. The method had to be surgical, untraceable, and undeniable a true ghost operation.
Silas, now a spectral figure moving through the shadows of the capital, had spent five years meticulously studying Abacha's routines, his fears, and his few public vulnerabilities. The General had stopped eating un-tasted food, refused most physical contact, and had tripled his personal security detail. The only remaining window for the Inheritance the legendary 1914 Watchmen toxin was a direct, skin-to-skin transfer. A handshake.
The opportunity came with the announcement of President Yasser Arafat's state visit. A high-profile diplomatic event, it would necessitate a brief public appearance by Abacha at the Abuja airport. Security would be unprecedented, but it also created a necessary breach in the General's usual isolation.
[SCENE START]
INTERIOR: WATCHMEN SAFEHOUSE - ASOKORO DISTRICT - DAY (FEBRUARY 1998)
The safehouse is spartan, the only light from a single window overlooking the dusty city. SILAS (mid-50s) sits at a plain table, meticulously polishing a pair of dark leather gloves. AGENT AMAKA (30s), a former biochemist now trained as a field operative, enters, carrying a small, intricate device.
AMAKA: The delivery system is complete, Silas. Micro-porous latex film, activated by skin oils. The Inheritance is a full two hundred milligrams. Enough to bypass even a highly resistant system. It'll induce an acute myocardial infarction within eight hours. Clinically untraceable.
SILAS: (Without looking up) And the placement?
AMAKA: Palm. Right hand. The General will be wearing his ceremonial gloves. But during the official greeting, with a foreign dignitary, protocol dictates he removes it for the formal handshake. It's the only window.
SILAS: (Slipping on the gloves)
Major Hamza will be watching. His instincts are like a rabid dog's. He knows the scent of a predator even when he can't see it. He smells the Originals everywhere.
AMAKA: Yusuf confirms Hamza will be personally overseeing the airport security. He's already doubled the perimeter and tripled the ID checks. He's looking for a bomb, a bullet, anything overt. He won't be looking for a handshake.
SILAS: (A faint, grim smile)
That's why he's merely Hamza. He understands brute force. We understand the unseen.
[SCENE END]
Three days later, the Abuja International Airport was a hive of frantic activity. Hundreds of NSDI operatives, distinguished by their dark suits and cold eyes, swarmed the tarmac. Major Hamza, Abacha's Chief Security Officer, was a man carved from granite. He moved through the throngs of security personnel, his gaze sharp, his mind a steel trap of suspicion. He had a sixth sense for trouble, an intuition that had saved Abacha's life on at least three occasions. He was the General's shield, and he took his duty with almost religious fervor.
Silas, disguised as a mid-ranking NSDI protocol officer, moved with practiced ease through the crowds. His uniform was impeccable, his ID badge precisely where it should be. The latex film, invisible against his skin, was perfectly affixed to his right palm. His heart beat with the slow, controlled rhythm of a professional. He was not a man rushing to kill; he was a man performing a necessary medical procedure.
[SCENE START]
EXTERIOR: ABUJA AIRPORT TARMAC - DAY (FEBRUARY 1998)
The presidential jet of President Arafat touches down, engines screaming. The air is thick with anticipation. GENERAL ABACHA (late 50s, sunglasses obscuring his eyes) stands at the top of the red carpet, flanked by MAJOR HAMZA (50s, imposing, vigilant).
MAJOR HAMZA: (Into his earpiece, voice a low growl)
Every face. Every shadow. If a fly lands on the General, I want to know its registration.
Yusuf, also in a suit, approaches Hamza, feigning an update.
YUSUF: (Whispering) Major, perimeter report from sector seven. Possible breach by local media, trying to get closer to the tarmac. We've dispatched a team.
MAJOR HAMZA: (Without taking his eyes off the plane)
Local media? In this perimeter? Yusuf, if this is another one of your ghost reports, I will personally ensure your retirement involves a cell in Kirikiri.
YUSUF: (Feigning offense)
Major, my loyalty is unquestioned. It's just... the atmosphere. It feels charged.
MAJOR HAMZA: (Eyes scanning the crowd near the receiving line, pausing as they fall on SILAS)
It's always charged when the vultures gather. And some vultures wear uniforms. You. Protocol Officer. Your section?
Silas turns, his face a mask of polite efficiency.
SILAS: (Voice calm, measured)
Section Eight, Major. Reassigned from logistics this morning to assist with diplomatic accreditation. Orders from Colonel Ajayi.
MAJOR HAMZA: (Squinting, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes)
Ajayi's orders? I don't recall approving Ajayi to reroute my staff. Your face is… unfamiliar.
SILAS: (Meeting Hamza's gaze unflinchingly)
Many new faces in the NSDI, Major. Our numbers have swelled to meet the growing threats to the General.
Hamza holds Silas's gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment. The wind whips Silas's uniform jacket. The smell of jet fuel and nervous sweat hangs heavy in the air. For a brief second, Silas believes he's been made. He readies himself to take down Hamza right here, right now, consequences be damned. But then, the ramp of Arafat's plane lowers.
MAJOR HAMZA: (Breaking the stare, his attention shifting to the plane)
Go. Do your duty, Protocol Officer. But I will be looking into Ajayi's reassignments.
[SCENE END]
The Palestinian delegation began to descend. As President Arafat reached the bottom of the stairs, the carefully choreographed chaos began. Amaka, disguised as a Palestinian security attaché, executed her part of the plan flawlessly. She stumbled near the receiving line, brushing against a Nigerian official, creating a momentary ripple of confusion. The slight disruption caused the receiving line to momentarily bunch.
In that fleeting instant, Silas moved. He extended his right hand, not just to a Nigerian official, but slightly past him, directly to Abacha. The General, momentarily distracted by the minor commotion, removed his ceremonial glove to offer a polite diplomatic hand to a Palestinian dignitary. His bare hand met Silas's.
It wasn't a gentle greeting. It was a firm, deliberate squeeze, held for precisely five seconds. The micro-porous film on Silas's palm, activated by the warmth and oils of Abacha's skin, began its silent work.
[SCENE START]
EXTERIOR: RECEIVING LINE - CONTINUOUS
ABACHA's bare hand meets SILAS's. SILAS applies firm pressure.
ABACHA: (A brief, almost imperceptible flinch, a frown creasing his brow)
Watch your grip, officer.
SILAS: (His voice a low, almost inaudible whisper, barely audible over the growing diplomatic applause)
Forgive me, Excellency. Just ensuring the dignity of the office.
Silas releases the handshake, his face expressionless. He steps back into the line, his duty done. Abacha, already moving on to the next dignitary, dismisses the minor discomfort.
[SCENE END]
As the official greetings concluded, the motorcade swept Abacha and Arafat away towards Aso Rock. Silas melted back into the crowd, his heart rate returning to its steady, almost unnerving calm. He found a secluded service exit, peeled the translucent film from his palm, and ingested it. It would dissolve, leaving no trace. He had delivered the final handshake.
Later that evening, in the Watchmen safehouse, Silas and Amaka watched the news. Abacha was seen smiling, shaking hands, seemingly in good health.
AMAKA: It will be slow. Six to twelve hours, as designed. A quiet end.
SILAS: (Looking out at the lights of Abuja)
Lugard said we were to protect the State from itself. Abacha had become a disease. We merely inoculated the nation. The NSDI will tear this country apart looking for the assassin. They'll look for a coup, a bullet, a bomb. They won't look for a hand.
AMAKA: Hamza will be relentless. He sensed something at the airport. He's not stupid.
SILAS: No, he's not. But he thinks in terms of power, not purity. He thinks his loyalty is a shield. It's merely a target. When Abacha dies, the true war begins. The NSDI will devour itself in the struggle for succession, and that's when we reclaim the Ledger.
The next morning, the call came. Major Hamza found General Sani Abacha slumped in his chair at Aso Rock. The official report would cite sudden cardiac arrest. But Hamza, looking at the General's right hand the hand that had shaken Silas's felt a cold dread. He knew, with an instinct born of years in the shadows, that this was no natural death. This was the work of ghosts. The Watchmen, fractured and hidden, had just struck the most powerful man in Nigeria. The war for the soul of the nation had just exploded.