by Todd Moss
“Judd, Bryce McCall is going to have other concerns when he hears of the coup. His daughter is one of our Peace Corps volunteers. In a village up north. Near Timbuktu.”
• • •
Judd hunched over his desk examining satellite photos of the Mali-Algeria border. Across the top of each threatened a SECRET label. The photos, date-stamped that morning, were light brown, almost sepia, pictures of sand dunes, in succession of increasing amplification.
The last photo showed a cluster of darker-brown squares, with what were clearly three pickup trucks parked in a straight line. A bright red circle surrounded the encampment and vehicles, with a helpful arrow pointing to the center and a label: POSSIBLE TERRORIST CAMP. It looked like many other similar photos Judd had seen of mobile camps in the desert. It could have been Ansar al-Sahra. Or Tuareg. Or Malian military. It could be terrorists. Or nothing at all.
Serena interrupted, “Dr. Ryker, I have the other Dr. Ryker on line four.”
Push. “Hey, Jess, how’s it going? I’ve been meaning to call you. Sorry, it’s just gotten crazy.”
“I’m sure it is. What’s the news? Is it a coup?”
“Still trying to figure that out. Are you at the beach?”
“Sure. The kids are trying out those boogie boards you got them. You still don’t know what’s going on in Bamako? How is that possible? What did the embassy say?”
“They’re working on it, too. Look, it’s starting to get complicated. I don’t think I’m going to be back today. I’m sorry this is ruining our vacation.”
“I blame Mamadou Idrissa, not you, Judd.”
“Well, we don’t even know yet who is behind the coup. Or if it’s really a coup at all. Is it hot on the beach?” Judd imagined Jessica, lying on a towel, simple black bikini, hair up, dark sunglasses, reading the African Crop Science Journal.
“Yeah, but the breeze is keeping us cool. Come on. It’s gotta be Idrissa. What did Papa tell you?”
Uh-oh, thought Judd.
“I’ll take your silence as an indication you haven’t called him yet. Come on, Judd. You have no idea what’s going on and you haven’t called Papa Toure? No wonder. He’ll know the story even before the CIA will. He should have been your first call.”
“Yeah,” was Judd’s sheepish reply.
“Your guys should probably put him on the payroll.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll suggest that,” he said with a tinge of sarcasm.
“You know why Henry Kissinger was so powerful, Judd?”
“I have a feeling you are going to tell me.”
“Because he built his own private network to solve problems. He had his own parallel communications and intelligence systems. Diplomatic theater is one thing, but he did the real work away from the headlines and behind the scenes. Scheming is done in the shadows, Judd. Didn’t you read Kissinger’s Diplomacy?”
“You’re right, Jess. Of course. I know. I will call Papa. I just haven’t had the chance yet.”
“Judd, I’m sure you feel like you are drinking from a fire hose today. You must use what you have. Don’t let the rest distract you. What do I always tell you? ‘Until the desert knows that water grows, his sands suffice.’ It fits here. You can do this.”
“Yeah, I remember. Emily Dickinson. I will try to use what I have. I won’t let the Sahara die on me. Thanks, Jess. Um, what are you doing later? How late can I call you?”
Serena poked her head in with a look of urgency on her face. Judd cupped the handset and raised his eyebrows at Serena.
“Idrissa,” she whispered.
“What?”
“It is Idrissa. Ops just called. Idrissa is on Malian television right now. They are piping it into your screen in ten seconds.”
Judd nodded and uncupped the phone. Jessica was shouting at one of the boys. “No, put that down!” He could hear crying in the background.
“Uh, sorry, Jess. I have an urgent call. Let me take this and I’ll call you later. Give a hug to the boys.”
“I have to go, too. All hell is breaking loose on the beach,” she said. “Get cracking and fix this thing, Judd. And then get back here already.”
Jessica’s voice projected neither irritation nor disappointment. No read yet.
Judd hung up and pushed the button on his computer screen.
—
“. . . today, my people, Mali takes another step forward in its glorious history as a leader of Africa and a crossroads of the Sahara.” General Mamadou Idrissa was behind a large wooden desk with the Malian flag behind him. He’s sitting in President Maiga’s office. Jessica was dead right.
“We have had a long journey, from the Songhai Empire to the terrible suffering of our people under French exploitation, to the splendor of our hard-fought independence. The arrival of democracy to the republic in 1992 was a triumph of the people and set us on the course for peace and development.” Idrissa was in full military regalia. He appeared calm and spoke straight into the camera.
“But, my people, we all know, things have gone astray. Yes. The greed and corruption of the elite have stolen from the people and threatened our magnificent democracy. The gains from the blood and sweat of our fathers were on the verge of being lost to the gluttony of those who would sell us to foreigners and would eat food from the mouths of our children. We could not allow this to continue. No. We could not allow our democracy to be weakened by those who would steal from our own nation. No. We had no choice but to act against those enemies from within in order to save the nation. We must have security. Yes. We must have security,” said Idrissa. The words were bold, but the general’s fingers were twitching.
“As of today, parliament and the cabinet are hereby dissolved. The president has been relieved of his duties. The Council for the Restoration of Democracy has taken over the responsibilities of government. I, as commander in chief of the Malian Armed Forces, will chair the Council until we can organize new elections at an appropriate time.” Idrissa picked his cuticles as he spoke. “Security, security,” he repeated.
“This is not a step I take lightly, nor a role I want for myself. No. I am responding to the demands of the people as a humble servant of the nation. I accept their demands. The people can no longer be expected to merely accept the immoral ways of the past. This day has been thrust upon me, and the Council, and the people, by the fate of our history. I have no choice but to embrace this role, even if I did not seek it. I accept the demands of the people to lead us back to democracy and salvation.” More fidgeting. There is still time.
“Like Charles de Gaulle and Thomas Jefferson before me, I accept this mantle of history with a heavy heart and clear intentions. The burden of history can instead become wind at our backs.” Judd shook his head in disbelief.
“To our many friends in Africa and partners around the world, do not be alarmed. No. Do not be swayed by the naïve claims of the previous government and the minions of corruption. We ask for your understanding of the situation and why this action today was unavoidable. This will become even clearer over coming days. As commander in chief, I have appointed a new attorney general whose first task will be to unveil and correct the errors of the past.
“To my fellow Malians and our friends around the world, our beloved Mali was on a path to crisis and depravity. The global threats to civilization were on our doorstep, and the previous government was holding that door open. I tell you today, that we are firmly closing that door and restoring security. We are putting Mali back on the path of the righteous and the good. Long live the Republic.”
The screen went black.
“Serena! Get me public affairs and our statement right now. Call the Africa Issue team at CIA and tell them I’ll be at Langley in thirty minutes. I need to find out what the hell is really going on. Tell them I need the full briefing, no filters. And forget motor pool. I’m driving myself.”
&nb
sp; My moment.
9.
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
MONDAY, 11:52 A.M. EST
Judd cruised up the George Washington Parkway. Flashes of the Potomac River could be seen through the trees off to his right. The Potomac was calm and navigable all the way from the Chesapeake Bay . . . until Washington, D.C. Heading upstream, it was all smooth waters past Fort McNair, Ronald Reagan National Airport, the Kennedy Center, even the Watergate. But once past the Georgetown University boathouse, nestled under the Key Bridge, the serenity ended. The Potomac quickly, and unexpectedly, became treacherous white water.
Judd’s car, an aging silver Honda Accord that he’d bought off one of his Amherst College students, pulled off the parkway at an exit marked GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE and wound its way to the front security gates.
The first layer was an unmanned barrier. Judd recited his name and Social Security number into a large black bubble beside the gate. The barrier elevated and the vehicle rolled up to the guardhouse. An officer in an unmarked uniform stepped out from behind a blackened glass booth. “ID,” he said, more as a statement than a request. Judd handed over his government identification card, and the officer disappeared back behind the dark glass.
After a few seconds, he reappeared and returned the ID along with a large yellow VIP parking card, which brought Judd a small tinge of relief. The last visit to CIA headquarters left him driving around for twenty minutes looking for parking. Who knew CIA headquarters had a shortage of parking?
As the steel barriers sank into the ground and the Honda revved forward, Judd’s BlackBerry rang. A Washington number he didn’t recognize. Judd pushed the button. “This is Ryker.”
“Hello, Judd. This is Mariana. Mariana Leibowitz. You remember we met at the Council breakfast on post-transition reconstruction a few months ago. I’m sure you remember. We talked about the Kennedy Center gala for Congo.”
“Ah, yes, Mariana. Of course.” Judd couldn’t have forgotten Mariana Leibowitz. “The Congo gala. And also the McCall Drug Kingpin Amendment that was a problem for your client.”
A staple of the Washington disaster set, Mariana had a reputation for always popping up just when a crisis hit. The archetypal Washington player, she used smarts, connections, and beauty to dominate complicated situations. And, Judd had quickly learned, to pry information from the weak.
However, Mariana’s real skills seemed to be bringing people together and, for a hefty price, problem-solving for unusual clients. In her late forties, she was still able to turn the heads of younger men. And she knew it. But it wasn’t only her physical looks that attracted men like Judd. She appeared, from the first time he met her, to be oh so very good at her job.
“I understand you are working the Bamako situation and Rogerson is tied up in Africa somewhere,” she said. Yes, Mariana is very good.
“If you say so.”
“Well, that’s what my sources tell me. I want to make sure you have all the information you need. Also, I hear you are a hard-data man, so you should know there is a lot of terrible misinformation coming your way. I just hate rumor and insinuation.”
“Since when are you involved in West Africa, Mariana? What’s your interest?”
“Oh, Judd, darling, you haven’t done your homework. Boubacar Maiga has been a longtime client. I helped him when he was still an idealistic banker who wanted to return home as president and save his country. Those were some crazy days. He didn’t know the first thing about running a presidential campaign!”
“I see.”
“Today I have a new client, too. So new that I’m not obligated to reveal any names yet. But I’ll share this with you since I know you can be trusted, Judd. President Maiga’s daughter, Tata, called me this morning and I’m now advising her. She’s a senior at Georgetown University, you know.”
“Yes, I’m aware,” lied Judd.
“Tata is an extraordinary young woman with a bright career ahead of her. She has received word from Bamako that her father is being held at an army barracks on the outskirts of town. So far, the army is treating him well, but they have threatened him and his family if he doesn’t resign. She insists her father will never resign. So I now expect stories, awful lies, to start coming out about the president.”
“I see.”
“Don’t believe the lies, Judd. I’m sure you know that General Idrissa is a snake. And involved in all kinds of naughty business beyond his day job.”
“Mariana, I really can’t talk to lobbyists right now.”
“I know, darling. Idrissa hasn’t secured power just yet, and the political circles in Bamako are looking for signs from the United States before they line up on one side or the other. They are all looking to you, Judd. We are all looking to you. It’s critical that you send the right signals. You can’t abandon President Maiga. You can’t abandon Mali’s democracy.”
“Mariana, the only reason I haven’t hung up yet is because I know what great work you did with prodemocracy activists in Zimbabwe. I respect you for that. Most lobbyists just cash their checks, but I know you produce for your clients. So if you have information, you can send it to me. But I can’t discuss anything more with you. Especially on the phone.”
“I know. But, Judd, a seasoned scholar like you also realizes how useful friends can be. How useful I can be. I shall be in touch.”
“I am certain you will, Mariana.” Judd pulled into a parking space at the front of CIA headquarters. “I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t believe what you are about to hear.”
Click.
• • •
The main entrance of the original CIA headquarters looked and felt more like a college campus in the 1950s than the modern epicenter of America’s global intelligence-gathering and operations network. A pack of young women in identical gray tracksuits ran by, ponytails bobbing in sync.
Judd stepped inside the lobby and walked across the marble insignia on the floor, an eagle head and shield with a sixteen-point compass. Around the outside ring read CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. On the wall to one side was a stone engraving with the agency’s motto: AND YE SHALL KNOW THE TRUTH AND THE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE.
Judd approached the security desk, flashed his ID again and waited for his escort. There were clusters of young people, all casually dressed, rushing around.
Across the lobby, Judd eyed a statue honoring General William “Wild Bill” Donovan, founder of the original Office of Strategic Services, or OSS, the precursor to the CIA, during World War II.
After a few minutes, a stoic young man in khaki slacks and a button-down shirt appeared. Judd had never seen him before. “Dr. Ryker? I can take you up.”
Judd was led silently through a series of corridors and up an elevator. After another long corridor, they arrived at a door marked AFRICA ISSUE. Inside, rows of cubicles were stacked high with paper, the walls covered with maps, political posters, and head shots of African leaders. Their destination was a windowless conference room with several twentysomethings seated patiently around a table. The analysts. They could be my students.
As Judd entered the room, a woman stood up. Judd guessed that she was maybe thirty years old. “Good to have you here, Dr. Ryker. I’m Zoe, the new regional team leader.” Judd shook her hand and turned around to thank the escort and confirm that visitor custody had been transferred, but he was already gone. Judd would never see him again.
“Let’s get started.” Zoe was all business. “I’ve rallied all hands on deck. Political analyst, economist, military watcher, and a leadership profiler. But we haven’t had time to prepare a formal briefing. What would you like to know first, Dr. Ryker?”
“Thanks. I appreciate you pulling the team together on short notice. Let’s get an update of what we know.”
“Okay, politics. Sunday here is our lead Mali analyst.” She gestured
to a young black man with a closely cropped goatee sitting next to her. “Sunday, go.”
“Roger.” Sunday looked directly into Judd’s eyes. “This morning, about twelve hours ago, we had a classic coup d’état. It is a break in the data pattern, however. Aaay, yes, Africa has seen a steep decline in coups in recent decades. More specifically, my cross-country statistical analysis shows a zero-point-eight percentage-point drop per year in annual risk prediction metrics since 1985. Despite this trend, Mali’s risk metrics remain high relative to both its income and regional peer groups.” I like this kid.
Sunday continued, “Turning to this morning’s events, General Mamadou Idrissa arrested the president and has him in detention. Idrissa had been consolidating his power base for years, building loyalty among his special guard that operate in the Timbuktu zone number six against Tuareg insurgents. He recruited these elite forces mostly from his home area, near Dogon Country in the eastern belt along the border with Burkina Faso. The Scorpions are well trained and highly motivated.”
“Trained by us,” interjected Judd.
“Aaay. Trained by U.S. Special Forces. We suspect that Idrissa pays the Scorpions extra to maintain loyalty. He is now using sizable cash offers to secure the support for the junta of other military brass and members of parliament.”
“He’s not doing that on his army salary, so he has to be dirty. What’s his racket? Is he in mining? Running drugs?” asked Judd.
“Not clear. He’s certainly got access to funds and he associates with some known negative elements. There are cocaine pipelines running up from the towns all along the coast into the northern stretches of the Timbuktu zone. They are all operated by Colombian cartels that have bought their way into the region and tried to buy almost every army general in West Africa. It’s possible Idrissa is in their pocket.”
“Not good,” said Judd shaking his head.
