by Todd Moss
Projected on another screen were satellite photos. They were light brown, highlighted with bright red circles and arrows. Familiar satellite photos. I saw these already.
“We have a series of camps and convoys along the border. We now have confirmed information from eyes on the ground that these are Ansar, and the pattern of movements suggests purposeful migration in a southwestern direction, toward the population center of Timbuktu.”
Several more nods around the table. Judd raised his eyebrows in disbelief. What eyes on the ground?
“The local authorities have agreed to allow accelerated reconnaissance overflight, and they have several strike teams, trained by us and with embedded advisors, positioned in strategic garrisons. A complicating factor is a coup in the capital early this morning that deposed the president. The terrorists may be taking advantage of the political uncertainty to strike now. The coup does not, however, appear to be impacting our counterterrorism operations. We are being assured, through confidential channels, of continuity of cooperation across the board.”
Judd’s stomach twisted into a knot. What channels?
The suit continued, “This includes Operation Sand Scorpion, our search-and-destroy elite strike force teams based in Timbuktu. The embassy is confident that we can continue counterterrorism operations, even as State works the diplomatic angles on the coup. Is State here?”
Judd sat up straight. “State is here.” Goddamn right. “We’ve got State Task Force Mali activated. We are in constant contact with the embassy and still establishing the facts. But it is confirmed that President Maiga was arrested and detained this morning and that General Idrissa, who had recently been promoted to army Chief of Staff, is claiming power and in the process of installing a junta. As with all coups, things are still very much in flux and the information can change quickly. Once we have a better idea what exactly has happened and why, then we will be formulating a strategy. The Secretary’s instructions are to reverse the coup and reestablish President Maiga’s authority as soon as possible. Once we have a plan, we’ll come back to the interagency for execution.”
“Thank you for joining us,” the still-nameless chair responded, with no attempt to hide his condescension. “Our priority today is Ansar al-Sahra and to keep our people safe. There is a grand arc of terrorism growing that starts in Yemen and sweeps across Somalia, through the center of Africa, then up across the Sahara Desert. It’s a dagger pointing through Europe and into the United States. Smack in the middle of this arc of terror, the heart of this thing, is Mali. I will not allow Mali to become a new front in the global war on terror on my watch. We are going to kill this baby in the cradle.”
“State agrees. We have to stop the spread of al-Qaeda or AQIM, if that’s what this is. As a close ally, Mali is the locus of our strategy to contain extremists across West Africa,” responded Judd, trying to stay cool. “Reinstating President Maiga as soon as possible is the best means to keeping our people safe. That’s how we keep this thing from spreading.”
Judd noticed eyes around the table averted. His stomach knotted again.
“And State has reports that elements of the Scorpions may be missing,” Judd added.
“Who is chairing the State Task Force? Bill Rogerson? Where the hell is Bill?”
“No, I am.”
“Okay, well not everyone shares State’s enthusiasm for Maiga. We’ve got credible reports that he is going soft. And possibly getting in bed with some very dangerous individuals.” The rumpled suit turned away from Judd, toward the group.
“We have another complication, people. Our CIA station chief in Tripoli received this via e-mail. Go ahead and run it.”
One of the screens lit up and a fuzzy still photo appeared showing a pale young woman, on her knees, blindfolded and hands bound behind her back. She was wearing a simple white T-shirt and her head was loosely covered with a scarf, but a crescent of fire-red hair was still visible. American.
Standing over her were three tall men, all in black robes, their faces covered. Behind them was a black flag with white Arabic lettering. The two men on either side of the girl held AK-47s across their chests. The one in the middle, directly behind her, held a long sword.
Oh, shit.
The video began.
“Uh, hello?” said the young woman. She was sniffling. “My name is Katherine McCall. I am a Peace Corps volunteer in Bangoro. I am being held . . .” The sound crackled and the wind thumped. Her voice was trembling. She was terrified. The man with the sword reached down and grabbed her head. A collective gasp swept across the Situation Room.
The man removed the girl’s blindfold. She squinted and blinked, adjusting to the light. She continued, “Immoral American crusaders are not welcome in the Great Sahara. They must leave.” She spoke slowly and haltingly, obviously reading off something to the side of the camera. The three men stood motionless as she spoke. “I will not be released until all imperialist infidels leave Mali and Niger, and . . . and Pakistan. They will send further instructions.” More crackles and wind, then the screen went blank.
“Okay, people. That’s the whole clip. The National Security Agency confirms the voiceprint and the image are that of Kate McCall. For those of you not paying attention, she is not just anybody. The woman kidnapped by radical jihadists is the daughter of Senator Bryce McCall, chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Diplomatic security is informing him now. We should all expect a mother lode of pressure to get her back.”
Judd instinctively grabbed for his BlackBerry, which was still sitting in a cubbyhole outside the Situation Room.
“I want CIA liaising with Special Operations Command in Stuttgart on possible rescue scenarios in the next fifteen minutes. Make that ten minutes. I want a full intel team on this up and running by the end of today. And tell Langley I want their best crisis manager running this. I want the Purple Cell team leader. I won’t accept anyone else.”
“Sir, CIA has already activated the Purple Cell. She is aware and mobilized.”
“Good. Let’s get ahead of this, people. Let’s go.”
16.
U.S. MILITARY HOSPITAL, LANDSTUHL, GERMANY
SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER
Larissa James pushed down with both hands on the crutches and took a deep breath. She knocked on the open door and tentatively peeked inside. “I’m not waking you, am I?”
Judd slowly opened his eyes and squinted. He was staring straight up at the dull fluorescent lights of his hospital room, which smelled of Lysol and chicken soup. Not the comforting nostalgic scent of his grandmother’s house, but the sour chicken–like odor of his grade school cafeteria. His stomach twisted.
“Oh, I did wake you, Judd. I’m so sorry. “
“I’m not really sleeping,” he said, his voice still froggy. “I can’t sleep.”
“Come in, Larissa,” said Jessica, sitting in a hard-backed chair next to Judd’s bed. “Judd’s doing much better. Wonderful to see you up and around.” She set her book down in her lap and removed her reading glasses.
Judd groaned as he arched his back and squirmed in the bed.
“Thank you, yes. I came to tell you both that today’s the day. My medical clearance just came through,” said Larissa. “Judd, I’m going back.”
“Already? You sure you’re up to it?” he asked, smoothing his gown as Jessica tucks the sheet under his legs.
“What else can I do? I can’t stay here. If I’m ready to go, I’ll go.”
“You don’t want to take medical leave and go home? To see your family?”
“No. I’d rather not. Plus, Embassy Bamako needs me.”
“They’ll be fine,” said Judd. “The beast will run without you.”
“Okay, so maybe I need to get back for me,” said Larissa. “I am going crazy sitting in this damn hospital. I haven’t read my classified e-mail for three weeks.”
“What are the doctors telling you, Judd? What’s your timeline?”
“As soon as possible,” answered Jessica. “Once he’s cleared for medevac, we’ll transfer to Georgetown Medical. We’ve got to get him home.”
“They keep saying soon,” added Judd.
“Good. I’m sure you’re anxious to see your kids, too.”
“And Grandma is ready for us to get back.”
“Madam Ambassador,” interrupted a gruff voice. A balding man in an ill-fitting suit appeared in the doorway, holding both handles of an empty wheelchair. “I’ve been cleared to take you down to discharge.”
“Thank you, Cyrus. You didn’t have to come all the way to Germany to get me.”
“I wanted to make sure you get back safely, ma’am.”
“Cyrus, this is Judd Ryker,” said Larissa, gesturing to the hospital bed. “He was the other casualty.”
“Hello, sir. I’m sorry about the incident. How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“And, this is Jessica Ryker, Dr. Ryker’s wife. She’s come from Washington to help nurse Judd back onto his feet. Jessica, this is Cyrus. He works with me at the embassy in Mali.”
“Hello, ma’am,” said Cyrus coldly to Jessica, who returned the gesture with a minimal nod. “The car is waiting, Madam Ambassador. I’ve already gathered your things.”
“Well, I need to give Judd a hug good-bye first,” she said, hobbling over to the bed and bending down for an embrace. “We almost died together. That means we are tied to each other for life.” She wiped a tear on Judd’s shoulder. “I can’t just leave without a real good-bye.”
As Larissa settled into the wheelchair and gathered herself, Judd turned to Cyrus. “Is there any progress in the investigation? Any news on who set that bomb and why?”
“There is some new information, but no hard answers yet.”
“What new information, Cyrus?” asked Larissa, snapping back to her work persona.
“I can’t share that here.”
Larissa looked confused, then looked at Jessica. “Because she’s here?”
Cyrus didn’t reply.
“I need to know,” said Judd, sitting up in bed.
“For fuck’s sake, Cyrus. She’s his wife. Just tell us,” insisted Larissa.
Cyrus turned, closed the door, and then faced the three of them. “The bomb material is the same type that Malian security forces recovered when they raided a terrorist safe house outside Timbuktu a few months ago. The trigger also suggests professionals with access to military-grade equipment. This was no accident, and these were no amateurs.”
“But were they targeting us?” asked Judd.
“We still don’t know, but we can’t rule it out.”
“How would they know we were going to be on that road at that time?” asked Larissa.
“Good question, ma’am.”
“Maybe the terrorists have a mole inside Idrissa’s Red Berets?” proposed Jessica, drawing startled looks from Judd and Larissa.
“Yes, maybe,” replied an unfazed Cyrus.
“Anything else, Cyrus?” asked Larissa.
“There is one more thing, but it’s sensitive,” he said, turning again to Jessica. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Fine, I’ll step out,” she said, turning to leave the room.
“Sorry, sweets,” offered Judd.
Once the door had closed again, Cyrus, in a low voice, reported, “We now know that Idrissa had a Scorpion unit ready to raid a terrorist safe house in Bamako, not far from the palace road. They are almost certainly the group that planted the bomb. But, without explanation, President Maiga ordered the operation canceled and Idrissa was forced to stand down.”
“When was that?”
“One day before the bombing.”
17.
S/CRU DIRECTOR’S OFFICE, U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY, 6:56 P.M. EST
In front of Judd sat three tall, empty coffee cups. Stacks of papers mounted the edges of the desk like the defensive walls of a castle. Well-thumbed copies of CIA leadership profiles on Maiga, Idrissa, and Diallo laid open with key passages highlighted in fluorescent yellow. Sitting on top of the mess was a one-page fresh-off-the-presses assessment of Ansar al-Sahra that was decidedly, irritatingly noncommittal. Several maps, with suspected extremist camp locations circled in bright red, were taped on the wall behind him.
Judd leaned forward, elbow on the desk, with his forehead resting in his open outstretched palm. It was a pose—Jessica called it Judd’s Thinker—that he used to keep working during all-nighters. Positioned like this, in the middle of the night immersed in reading material and his head swirling with data, had been how he came up with the Golden Hour.
Tonight was starting to smell like an all-nighter, too.
Judd turned his attention to a diplomatic security report on kidnapping patterns. Kidnapping risk was high in Latin America, where it had become big business to seize, and to protect, wealthy businessmen. Colombia used to be the epicenter for ransom seekers, but Mexico became the world leader of kidnapping for cash. The Middle East was where political hostage takings occurred most often, with Iraq still the most dangerous.
But Africa had been relatively quiet. Other than swashbuckling Somalis off the coast of East Africa, the report sitting on Judd’s lap suggested kidnapping had not yet taken off as a full-scale venture industry in Africa. Al-Qaeda terrorists operating out of Algeria had kidnapped a few European tourists, and one Australian diplomat. But these hadn’t yet fit into a pattern. There was no evidence that Ansar al-Sahra had ever kidnapped anyone. The numbers couldn’t explain if the McCall kidnapping was for money or notoriety. There was no way to know. Why target an American senator’s daughter in the midst of a coup? Were they even connected?
Judd’s thoughts were interrupted by Serena. “Dr. Ryker, you’ve got a call from London. You’re going to want to take this.”
“Simon Kenny-Waddington? Awfully late for the Brits to be in the office.”
“Not the Foreign Office. An Oumar Diallo is on the line.”
Judd dropped the report in his lap. Diallo?
“Have him hold for one minute, then put him through.”
• • •
“This is Ryker.”
“Hello, Dr. Ryker, this is General Oumar Diallo. You know me, yes?”
Judd paused. Make him wonder.
“How can I help you, General?”
“Actually, Dr. Ryker, I am calling because I can help you.”
Judd said nothing.
Diallo, undeterred, continued, “I am very concerned about the events in Mali today. I have been watching with dismay from my home in London. I am disappointed that our democracy turned out to be so fragile. I am disappointed with Mamadou. What he did today was not proper. I want to help you resolve this problem.”
“What can you tell me about what happened this morning, General?”
“Dr. Ryker, I am retired from military service. I’m a civilian now. A private citizen. I am here in London working on my next career.”
“Very well. What do you think happened?”
“Maiga made a mistake. Mamadou Idrissa is very powerful and has many friends. You cannot just fire a man like that and expect him to go quietly.”
“Are you suggesting President Maiga is to blame for bringing today’s coup on himself?” asked Judd as calmly as he could.
“No, no, Dr. Ryker,” said Diallo. “Democracy is a beautiful thing. It is a flower. It must be watered. It must be protected. Idrissa stomped on that flower with his unacceptable actions. I’m only saying this to you to help you understand. Maiga was too rash. There are proper ways to handle these problems. Perhaps Boubacar learned too much
from New York City. Perhaps my sister was unable to make him see the right path.”
“Your sister? You mean Mrs. Maiga?”
“Yes, she is my sister. We grew up together. I love her dearly, but she was not able to control her husband’s foolishness. She is now in trouble, too. Safe, but in trouble.”
“What about General Idrissa?”
“Ah, he was my deputy. I trained him. He is like a brother. He is a hard worker and a patriot. But he got greedy. He was a good man but also petty and insecure, you know. He has become corrupted by outsiders. Very corrupted.”
“So why exactly are you calling me, General?”
“I want to help. I am told you are a clever man. I am told you are the big man for the Americans. Is this true?”
“What precisely are you offering?” asked Judd.
“Whatever you need from me,” said Diallo.
“And what do you want in return?”
“I only want to restore democracy to my beloved country. I want nothing for myself.”
“Okay,” said Judd. And?
Pause. Pause.
“If the people of Mali call me back, I would, of course, be willing to serve my country again. In whatever capacity.” There it is. “We will soon need a neutral party to step in to fill the void. I know your friends, our friends, in Paris and here in London are welcoming my assistance. All of you will need me, if not today, then very soon.”
“Are you suggesting you have official support from the French and British governments to negotiate an end to the coup?” asked Judd. Let’s see how bold you are.
“Oh, Dr. Ryker. It’s much too early for anything like that. These things come with time.” He’s got nothing.
“Well, thank you, General, for your call. We’ll take your offer of assistance under advisement.”
