by Todd Moss
“Yes, Papa,” lied Judd. “Well, um, maybe. What exactly do you mean?”
“Did your people tell you about the north? About Timbuktu? You remember when you were here last year and we spoke on the phone? I told you to watch out for Timbuktu. I told you to go there.”
“Yes, Papa, I remember. You told me,” said Judd, looking out the car window at the grand edifice of CIA headquarters. “You were right. Of course.”
“So if you knew, Judd, why are the Americans so confused about today?”
“I haven’t been getting the whole picture, Papa? I need your help to get Maiga back.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“Of course we do,” responded Judd, perhaps a little too quickly. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“If you say so, mon ami.”
“I do. But I need help from my friends.”
“Don’t we all, Judd. That’s a lesson I learned early on from BJ van Hollen. Today, I think you may need new friends. We all have to use what we have. Make the best of what we know. Just like that poem Jessica always recites.”
“Yeah, I know, Dickinson.”
“Oui, Emily Dickinson! I can still remember it, Judd. ‘Until the desert knows that water grows, his sands suffice. But let him once suspect that Caspian fact . . .’”
“‘Sahara dies,’” added Judd, finishing the poem. “I know it well.”
“Precisely. I have someone in Paris who you should know. You must make contact with the president’s office, the Élysée. Ask for Luc. He is a big man today. He is the one. He can help you get back to the beach.” And Papa slowly reads out a Parisian cell phone number.
“Thank you, Papa. What about Diallo? Should he be a new friend?”
“Call Luc.”
“Okay, I will. Merci, Papa.”
“And come back to Mali soon. You are missed.”
“Yes, Papa.”
10.
SAHARA DESERT, NORTHERN MALI
MONDAY, 5:18 P.M. GMT (GREENWICH MEAN TIME)
Three pickup trucks rolled along desert tracks, meticulously weaving their way through the sand dunes. Each truck was packed with armed men pointing their AK-47s menacingly at the desert. Heavy guns were mounted on tripods in the truck bays of the lead and trailing vehicles. The gunners swept the barrels side to side, searching for targets among the dunes.
The trucks paused when they reached a high sand peak and rested for several minutes. Then the vehicles roared to life again, driving in separate directions this time before taking positions along a ridge. Once the trucks halted, the men silently climbed down and fanned out in a well-scripted dance. They appeared alert, yet also to be guarding nothing more than a valley of sand.
A tall man exited the cab of the lead truck, his face covered by a scarf and sunglasses. He pulled a clunky satellite phone out from underneath his robe and used it to block the sun as he scanned the cloudless sky. Nothing.
After a moment, a faint buzz could be heard in the distance and the men pivoted their necks, searching for the direction of the sound. The buzz slowly grew louder, then faded. Then, like an explosion over their heads, a huge airplane swooped over the ridge, casting a dark shadow over the men. The plane banked hard to one side and then circled around before landing gently on the hidden airstrip.
11.
S/CRU DIRECTOR’S OFFICE, U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY, 1:25 P.M. EST
Serena was standing sentry at the front door to Judd’s office. “You have calls in from the Treasury, the State counterterrorism coordinator, and the refugee people. I’ve got Embassy London on hold. Our Africa watcher there has a name for you inside the Foreign Office. A Simon Kenny-Waddington.” Of course.
“Thank you, Serena. Is that all?”
“A Mrs. Valentine, from something called Global Child Relief and Rescue, is also here for you. She’s been squatting outside your office for the past hour.”
“Right now? A drop-in?”
“Yes, sir. I checked with the legislative affairs office and they strongly recommend you take the meeting. Mrs. Valentine has clout on Capitol Hill.”
“Christ.” Judd shook his head. I’ve got a coup to fix and I need to meet with every do-gooder with a project in Mali who knows some congressman? “What kind of clout?”
“I don’t want to say.”
“Does she play golf with the Speaker of the House or something?”
“Yoga. With Senator McCall’s wife.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Legislative affairs doesn’t joke.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No, not really.”
“Fine. Drop London, tell them we’ll get back to them in ten. Give me five minutes for a call, then send in the yoga lady, and interrupt after ten. No, make that five.”
Serena nodded.
“And I need you to check out a lobbyist named Mariana Leibowitz. Find out any information you can.”
“If she’s an agent for foreign interests, she’ll be registered with the Justice Department. I’ll start there.”
“Good.” Judd leaned in close and lowered his voice further. “I need another favor. It’s important.”
Serena leaned in, too.
“I need you to find out where Bill Rogerson is and when he’s coming back.” Serena backed away with a nod.
Judd mouthed a silent thank-you, then turned and walked briskly into the office, averting his eyes from the seating area. He settled down into his black leather high-backed chair behind his desk with a deep breath. Out of his pocket he fished a small scrap of crumpled paper, placed it on the desk, and attempted to smooth it out with his fingers. He squinted at the scrawl on the scrap, then dialed the phone.
Almost immediately came an answer. “Allo?”
“This is Judd Ryker in Washington. Is this Luc?”
“Oui.”
“Papa Toure gave me your number.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I am working the Mali situation for the United States. I’m calling you from the State Department.”
“Oui, I know that, too.”
“Papa said that we should be friends. He also said that you may have some useful information about what is really happening in Bamako.”
“What happened is Maiga fucked up. We told him this was coming. He didn’t want to listen. They never want to hear the truth, these presidents. Always think they are invincible. Now that bastard Idrissa is in Koulouba and Maiga is a prisoner at Wangara barracks.”
“What is the real issue? Is it drugs or guns or jihad?”
“It is none of those high-minded things, Judd. You Americans are overthinking this.”
“Is it uranium?”
“You give Idrissa and his coterie too much credit. This, it is a family squabble, une lutte familiale. Idrissa is still furious over what happened after the Diallo coup attempt. It was a debacle. His promotion to Chief of Staff wasn’t enough. Now he wants to be boss. Idrissa, he thinks he is l’grand homme, the big man.”
“So now what happens?”
“We will tell Idrissa that we understand Maiga fucked up, but that now he has fucked up, too. He must go. He will understand that soon. I think perhaps tomorrow.”
“Your ambassador in Bamako is reaching out to Idrissa tomorrow? To tell him to step down?”
“Ah, no. Our ambassador is useless. A useless bastard. The Élysée will do that. We will tell him.”
“You have confidence that will work?”
“We will make it work.”
“The United States also wants to get Idrissa out and Maiga back in the seat. What can I do to help you move this along?”
“We will be talking to him. Give us time.”
“I’m glad to hear the Élysée is engaged and
we are all on the same page. But we need to act fast, before Idrissa consolidates power and gets too comfortable in the palace.”
“I know all about your l’heure d’or, the Golden Hour, Dr. Ryker. Don’t be impatient. There are other actors in play. Not just impatient Americans.”
“Who? The British?”
“Ha! No. The British are not paying attention, Judd. There are others. And our own. You also need to get all your own people on board. You have work to do, too.”
“What?” asked Judd, slightly confused. “What are you hearing?”
“We all have our interagency issues, mon ami. We all have our own internal rivalries that we must fight. You work yours and I’ll work mine. Then we can crush Idrissa.”
“And get Maiga back in power,” added Judd.
“Perhaps. Peut-être.”
Serena appeared at the door. Judd nodded his head. “Thank you, Luc. Let’s speak again tomorrow. Au revoir.”
Judd put down the phone, brushed both shoulders of his jacket, and stood up to greet his guest. He walked into the waiting area and spotted a late-middle-aged white woman with long graying hair, wearing an earth-toned pantsuit and large beads around her neck. Peasant jewelry.
“Ah, Mrs. Valentine, what a great pleasure to meet you. I understand Global Child Relief and Rescue has a pressing interest in Mali. Please do come in. . . .”
12.
STUTTGART, GERMANY
MONDAY, 7:38 P.M. CET (CENTRAL EUROPEAN TIME), 1:38 P.M. EST
David Durham’s heart should have been racing. Through the tall grass, he made out the shadows of his pursuers. Even at seventy-five meters away and the sun sitting low, Durham could easily identify the stocky outlines of the Special Operations Forces combat assault rifles slung low on the front of the six soldiers hunting him. They’re carrying light 5.56mm versions, not like mine with the enhanced grenade launcher. As the long shadows moved in formation to the east, he crawled silently in a sweep to the northwest. Rookies.
After several minutes snaking his way through the grasses, he reached the edge of a small creek. Coiled and ready to strike. A quick look left, then right, and he jumped across with unexpected grace for a man of forty-two years, 220 pounds, known to most simply as “Bull.” On all fours, he was quickly back into the safety of the grasses on the other side. He stopped to take his pulse, still a steady sixty beats per minute.
From this spot he could just make out his target, a yellow fluorescent disk nailed to a post, about four meters high, at the northern tree line, the face of Osama bin Laden squarely in the center. Durham lay flat in the grass and lifted his torso to rest on his elbows. Up came the barrel of his gun. Left eye closed. Focused on the target. Steadied his hands. Focus. Slowed down breathing. Focus. Felt the trigger. Ready . . .
“Waaaaaaahhhhh!” interrupted a loud siren. Bull sat up straight like a prairie dog, dropping the assault rifle in his lap. “What the fuck?”
Over the monotone loudspeaker: “Colonel Durham, report to base. Team Zebra, restart at checkpoint Beta.” What now?
Bull pulled a small towel out from his rucksack and wiped the sweat off his bald head. The towel turned immediately green and black from the smeared camouflage paint.
He trudged back to the makeshift base, a small tent with a table and an overeager soldier, no more than eighteen years old, with bad teeth and worse acne. “Special reassignment message from the Pentagon, sir.” Then he whispered, “Office of the Secretary of Defense.”
“Thank you, Corporal.” Durham grabbed the folded sheet of paper from his hands. What kind of special assignment? I’m not due to rotate back to Afghanistan for six more months.
He unfolded the paper:
CONFIDENTIAL—DELIVER IMMEDIATELY
TO: Colonel David Durham/Special Operations Command/Stuttgart
FROM: Office of the Secretary of Defense/Washington, D.C.
MSG: Urgent reassignment for military liaison mission in Mali. Report to Patch barracks for full briefing at 20:00.
“Christ! That’s in half an hour,” he said out loud to no one. The teenager pretended not to be listening. “What goddamn part of Afghanistan is Mali, anyway?”
“Er, sir,” interrupted the corporal. Bull shot him a glare of disgust. “Mali’s not in Afghanistan. It’s West Africa.”
Durham blinked. Africa? He stood there for a few moments, hands on his hips, staring ahead. Then he read the paper again.
Africa? Who the hell did I piss off?
13.
S/CRU DIRECTOR’S OFFICE, U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY, 3:58 P.M. EST
Serena poked her head into Judd’s office and glared seriously at him. She was holding up a two-fingered victory sign. “Task force, two minutes.”
Judd stood at his desk, a phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear. He paced back and forth as far as the headset cord will allow him. A huge map of West Africa was rolled out on his desk. On top was a tall stack of classified CIA reports, bright red SECRET—NO FOREIGN DISTRIBUTION stamped on the covers. A half-eaten sandwich rested precariously on the desk’s edge.
Judd nodded gently, if dismissively, at Serena’s reminder.
“. . . yes, Simon, I understand London isn’t consumed by events in Mali and you’ve got problems elsewhere, but surely Her Majesty’s government is worried about spillover. The domino effect across West Africa could be devastating if we allow this coup to stand. We know what’s going on in Sierra Leone and Nigeria. We know the Foreign Office is watching that.”
“Indeed, Judd,” said Simon Kenny-Waddington, the West African diplomatic chief for the British government. “We are terribly concerned about this morning’s events. Dreadful business. We shall certainly put out a firm statement of condemnation once we understand exactly what has happened. All in good time.”
“We’ll look forward to that. I’ve got to run, Simon. At least tell me what your boys are hearing.”
“Our assessment is Libya.”
“Libya, really?” Judd shook his head.
“Yes, Libya. Those cheeky buggers from Libyan intelligence are trying to insert themselves into the Tuareg situation. Be the king makers, just like Khaddafi used to, we reckon.”
“Okay, Simon. I’d love to see your side’s full assessment. Can you ask your friends to pass anything through intel channels ASAP?”
“Very well. Might take a few days.”
“And what about General Oumar Diallo? I hope your people have eyes on him.”
“I’ll have to check on that one,” said Simon.
“Yes, please do. If you hear anything new, anything at all, give me a shout, Simon.”
“Cheers, Judd. Good luck with this one. Shame this had to happen. But that’s Africa, you know.”
Judd set down the phone and slumped into his chair.
Serena returned, unhappy. “Now you’re late. Task Force Mali is ready for you.”
“You find out anything about Rogerson?”
“Not much. Here are Mariana Leibowitz’s clients,” she said, handing him a one-page list. “I got it from DoJ’s Foreign Agents registry.”
Without reading it, Judd folded the paper in half and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “What about Rogerson? You at least have a location?”
“All I know is that he’s mediating peace negotiations. But I don’t know where. Apparently it’s sensitive, so they aren’t sharing any details.”
“What peace negotiations?”
“I don’t know.”
“And where is it?”
“I just told you I don’t know, Dr. Ryker. It’s all close hold. No one is talking about it. I also don’t know when he’s supposed to be back.”
“You don’t know or you don’t know yet?”
“Now you are really late. Let’s go.”
• • �
��
Judd slipped into the conference room and strode up to the sole chair at the head of the table. It felt cramped. Every seat was taken and several staff were standing along one wall. Task Force Mali was growing. It was starting.
Judd began, “Okay, everyone, thanks for coming back for Task Force Mali. This is meeting two and it’s eight o’clock in Bamako. I assume everyone has seen Idrissa’s statement. Before we go to Bamako, any updates from around the building?”
“The region isn’t saying anything yet, Dr. Ryker,” said one staffer sitting at the table. This sparked paper shuffling around the outer ring.
“Okay, thank you, Regional Affairs,” responded Judd, then turned to the long table. “Let’s keep feet to the fire for all our ambassadors in Ethiopia and Nigeria, and let’s see if our UN team in New York has anything to add. Probably too early, but if we don’t push them, no one will pay attention to Mali.”
“Dakar and Accra are reporting that the border is open and traffic is flowing as normal,” said another.
“Drugs and Thugs is picking up accelerated chatter,” added one staffer from the law enforcement bureau, using their nickname. They weren’t here before. “We have indications of a large shipment of narcotics moving across northern Niger and heading toward Mali. Might be Russians or Colombians, probably working with Nigerians out of Katsina State. The traditional smuggling channels are all showing signs of accelerated traffic. Our conclusion is that something big is brewing.”
“Not good,” added Judd, shaking his head. “What else have we got on a narcotics link?”
“Nothing.”
“Any connection to Idrissa?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Any link to arms trafficking?”
“Don’t know yet.”
