The Golden Hour

by Todd Moss

  Sunday: Us

  Fuck.

  Judd: Who = us?

  “Sir?” Judd didn’t look up. “Sir, you are holding up takeoff. I need you to turn your phone off immediately.”

  Sunday: DOD

  Fuck. Fuck.

  Sunday: MI may be theirs too.

  “Fuck!” said Judd aloud.

  “Sir! Do I have to call the captain?”

  “Okay. Sorry. I’m turning it off.”

  Judd shook his head, pushed the power button, and threw the phone into his lap in disgust. He sank back in his seat, the weight of the news pulling his shoulders down.

  Once the plane was up in the air and had leveled off, Judd stretched up and pressed the call button. The girl in the choker glided down the aisle toward him. She was still smiling.

  “You ready for that drink now?”

  21.

  BAMAKO, MALI

  TUESDAY, 8:05 A.M. GMT

  “Ahmed, can I get out here?” pleaded Larissa James.

  “No, ma’am. Not here. Not yet,” was the reply from the front seat of the ambassador’s black SUV.

  “Well, then when? I don’t like being trapped like this. It’s undignified.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The goddamn ambassador of the United States of America does not hide in the car. That’s not what I’ve been sent here to do.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s why we are on this drive in the first place. I’m here to see for myself what’s going on. To meet the people. To get the mood on the street. We’ve got to see what’s really going on.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t ‘Yes, ma’am’ me, Ahmed. I know what you’re doing.”

  “Just doing my job, Madam Ambassador.”

  “This is not what a superpower does! We don’t just sit scared inside an armored car! We don’t just live inside a bunker! I’ve served in Honduras and El Salvador and Congo. Even when things got really ugly, we were still out in the streets. If I’m going to be locked in the embassy, I might as well stay in Washington . . .” She trailed off, watching the bustling street scenes of Bamako.

  It may have appeared like utter chaos, but Larissa’s experienced eye could see the system outside was working in its own organic way. Cars and trucks dominated the middle lanes of the road. Motorcycles, two or three riders each, weaved in between. The next layer, the outer lanes of the road, was for pedestrians, jammed mostly with young men selling small items and women in bright multicolored dresses carrying large bundles on their heads. The final outer edge of the road, where an American might have expected a sidewalk, was stuffed densely with makeshift market stalls. Women lined the street, seated in long rows, showing their wares in woven baskets resting before them: tomatoes, mangoes, dried fish, onions, plastic buckets, batteries, red fleshy meat, Manchester United calendars.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the front seat again.

  After a few minutes, the crowds of people and minibuses grew thicker.

  “How about here? Let’s stop at the market.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Not yet.”

  “Goddammit, Randy. Let’s get out of here,” she said, turning her attention to the defense attaché, sitting in the seat next to her.

  Colonel Randy Houston had been quiet so far, staring out the window, scanning the passing crowds for anything suspicious. He was wearing a pale-blue golf shirt tucked tightly into freshly pressed khaki trousers. The logo on his shirt displayed a circular insignia with an eagle and UNITED STATES MARINE GUARD, EMBASSY BAGHDAD. Oakleys hugged his shaved head, the arms of the sunglasses digging parallel creases into his scalp above his ears.

  “Not yet, ma’am,” he said, turning to face her. “Too dangerous. Ahmed will tell us when it’s safe.”

  Larissa exhaled in frustration.

  After a few more minutes, the ambassador’s vehicle slowed to a crawl. “Sorry, ma’am, traffic ahead. Bus depot.”

  As her car came to a complete halt, street vendors converged at the window, holding up boiled eggs, fried donuts, phone cards.

  The truck’s door clicked open and Larissa stepped out. “I’m going to walk for a few minutes. You can come with me or you can wait here,” she said, slamming the door without waiting for a response.

  Randy Houston muttered, “Shit,” under his breath, then, “Ahmed, I’ll go. You stay with the car!”

  Larissa tiptoed back along the side of the road, navigating the crowd and a trail of slimy brown water. She stepped over a pile of trash on the street and then darted into the market. Houston rushed over to catch up.

  “How is business?” she asked in perfect Parisian French to a young woman sitting on the ground nursing a small baby and tending a meticulously arranged pyramid of bright red chili peppers. The woman stared at the ground and did not answer.

  “How is business, madam?” Larissa asked again.

  The woman looked up and said softly, “No good.”

  “Was it better last week?”

  The woman did not answer.

  “Because of the coup? Are things worse this week because of the problems in the palace? Are the police harassing you? Soldiers?”

  No answer.

  “How about if I buy some peppers?” asked Larissa, pulling out a roll of local bills. “How much?”

  The woman was staring at Larissa’s shoes.

  “Randy, how much are peppers these days? A thousand francs? Is that enough?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. This is a bad idea. You should put your money away. We should return to the vehicle.”

  Turning back to the woman, “Okay, here, one thousand,” she said and handed her the money. The woman grabbed the bill, folded it up tightly, and stuffed it into her bra on the opposite side of where the baby was still nursing.

  “Merci,” said Larissa, accepting a small plastic bag filled with chili peppers. She handed the bag to Colonel Houston. “Let’s try someone else.”

  She turned and darted deeper into the market.

  22.

  TERMINAL 5, HEATHROW AIRPORT, LONDON

  TUESDAY, 12:20 P.M. GMT+1

  Judd stepped off the plane, go bag in one hand, the other thumbing through his BlackBerry. His in-box churned like a slot machine as it downloaded hundreds of new messages coming in from all corners of the State Department.

  Once off the jetway, he ducked out of the foot traffic and behind a pillar. He took a deep breath and dialed a number.

  “Hello?” said a deep male voice.

  “General Diallo, this is Judd Ryker, U.S. Department of State. We spoke last night.”

  “Dr. Ryker. Yes, I knew you would soon be calling. Jolly good to hear from you.” So English.

  “I’m in London, General. Just for a few hours. Should we meet?”

  “Ah, yes, very well. I agree. Brilliant idea. Brilliant. May I suggest Marble Arch? I will be at the Bull and Bear in the Cromwell Mews, just off the Edgware Road. Shall we say half one, Dr. Ryker?”

  “I’ll be there at one thirty, General.” Click. Too confident.

  Judd scanned the airport. Crowds of loud Italian tourists were swelling in the hallways. He receded farther behind the pillar and dialed another number.

  “Hi, sweets,” answered Jessica. She was still groggy. Her sexy morning voice.

  “Hey, Jess.”

  “Glad you called. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry I didn’t call last night. It got crazy and then it was too late. The boys all right?”

  “Yes, sure. Except they got up at dawn. You can’t wake them for dead on a school day, but on vacation they’re up with the sun. Always the same. How are things in Mali? What’s happening?”

  “About that, Jess. I’m on my way to Bamako now. I’m already at Heathrow. I’m calling you from London.”
>
  “Now?” she said, with less surprise than Judd expected.

  “Yeah. Don’t ask. The Secretary’s office is pushing for quick action, so I flew out on the last flight to Europe late last night.”

  “Isn’t this exactly what you’ve been wanting? Rapid response, right? Isn’t this why you are at the State Department in the first place?”

  “Um, yes. Of course it is.”

  “Judd, what’s the hesitation? This is your chance. This is your Golden Hour.”

  “Right. I know.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What is your game plan, Judd? First step is obviously to neutralize Idrissa’s moves to consolidate support. He’s probably already bribed the legislature and the newspapers. So, what’s your countermove?”

  “We are working on it.”

  “I sure hope so. You obviously need to scare him a bit. Threaten Idrissa with sanctions and maybe criminal charges and asset seizures. But you also need to give him an out. What’s the out?”

  “We’re working on that, too,” said Judd unconvincingly.

  “Good. I’ve got confidence in you. Obviously, so does the Secretary. It’s exciting that she’s asked you. Just do it quickly and then get back here to the beach. We miss you.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk, Jess. I’ll try.”

  “Sure.”

  “You were right about Idrissa.”

  “I know. You have a DoD ride-along, right?”

  “A what?”

  “A DoD ride-along,” Jessica repeats. Then, slowly, “Who is the Pentagon sending with you?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “They don’t just send a civilian professor to confront a junta. Everyone knows that.”

  “Uh-huh. They have some colonel meeting me here in London.”

  “Is he from public affairs?”

  “Special Operations. Durham’s his name.”

  “That’s good news. Use him. And let’s hope he’s big. It’ll help with Idrissa. He always struck me as a thug. An insecure thug. Which is the worst kind.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Judd, slightly puzzled. “Have you ever met General Idrissa?”

  “Me? Oh, no. Just what I’ve read. You must send my love to Papa. Make sure you see him this time.”

  “I will. Hug the boys for me, okay?”

  “Don’t forget you are in Africa, Judd. Even when you are talking to friends like Papa.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You are going to have to scratch below the surface to figure out what’s really going on. It’s never what it seems. And no one will want to tell you.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You are still an outsider.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Everyone will tell you yes, even when they mean no.”

  “I remember. I’m actually looking forward to being back.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Honey, it’s your first time back in Mali since . . . you know. The bomb.”

  “I know. I . . . I’ll be fine.”

  “And, Judd . . .” she said, switching to her deep, serious voice.

  “Yeah, Jess?”

  “Keep a close eye on Rogerson. Don’t play the rookie.”

  “I know.”

  “You better watch your back this time. Don’t let him cut you out again.”

  Judd nodded to himself. “Love you.”

  “You too.”

  Click.

  23.

  BAMAKO, MALI

  TUESDAY, 12:14 P.M. GMT

  Papa Toure pushed his way out of the overcrowded minibus onto the street.

  “S’il vous plait! S’il vous plait, grand-père!” implored a young boy, propping up an elderly blind man with one arm and extending a begging hand with the other. Papa, revealing neither annoyance nor sympathy, dropped a coin in the boy’s hand.

  Papa weaved his way through the mass of people and darted in between two market stalls selling pineapples and mangoes. He cut through a narrow alley and, after several more deliberate turns, emerged into a large courtyard filled with stalls.

  “Good afternoon, madam,” Papa greeted a young woman, sitting behind a tarp and tall piles of fabric typically used to make wraparound skirts. Lying on top was a traditional West African pattern with ovals where the president’s face was usually shown. As Papa stared down at this particular pattern, he recognized the face staring back: Mamadou Idrissa.

  “Your wares are very beautiful today,” he said in the local Bambara language.

  “Thank you,” she replied with a wide smile.

  “This must be very new. I have never seen this pattern before. When did it arrive?” asked Papa.

  “The price is very good,” she said, erasing her smile.

  “Yes, I’m sure it is. Where did this cloth come from? Mopti? Timbuktu?”

  “Special price for you,” she insisted with a serious look on her face.

  “Yes, okay, how much?”

  “Twenty thousand francs.”

  “Ah, no!” said Papa, starting a familiar ritual. “That is too much! You think I am from France? That is too much! I do not even know where it comes from. How can I buy cloth if I don’t know who made it or where it is from?”

  “Ten thousand,” she said.

  “Still too much! How about four thousand, and you tell me who brought it and when it arrived?”

  The woman shook her head and stared intently just over his shoulder.

  “You think I am a rich man, that I can buy all these clothes?” Papa continued gesturing wildly, swinging his arms around and turning his head. Away from the woman, he identified the target of her attention. A tall, thin man in a cheap gray suit and dark sunglasses was smoking a cigarette and watching over the market, closely eyeing their transaction.

  Papa turned back to the woman, nodding vigorously. “Yes, yes. I can see. I can see now why the cloth is so expensive. It is very good. Yes.” He handed her several bills and she folded the cloth and placed it into a black plastic bag. As he reached to accept the bag, he whispered to her, “Soldiers? Are they coming to the market?”

  She nodded ever so slightly.

  “Please, you hold the cloth for me. I will be back tomorrow to get it,” he said, passing the bag back to her.

  She shook her head. “No, no.”

  “I will come tomorrow. You keep the money.”

  “No!” she cried, standing up. Shouting could be heard in the distance, followed by screams. The market woman started to frantically gather her fabric. The noise grew louder. Suddenly soldiers flooded into the square, wielding batons over their heads and overturning tables, sending fruit tumbling across the alleys. The other women scrambled to collect their goods and run. An elderly woman at the far end of the square shouted, “No! No! No!” as a soldier cracked her on the head with a nightstick. She crumpled to the ground.

  The man in the gray suit, ignoring the developing chaos in the courtyard, discarded his cigarette and walked directly toward Papa, who dropped the bag and scooted into a side alley. Papa quickened his pace but did not run. He turned crisply through the narrow alleys, following a pattern he knew well. Abruptly, he opened a blue door, slipped inside, and locked the door behind him.

  A few moments later, Papa calmly exited the front door of a small café and emerged back onto the main street. He glanced left and right, then he slid on aviator sunglasses and melted back into the crowd.

  24.

  MARBLE ARCH, LONDON

  TUESDAY, 1:25 P.M. GMT+1

  The road was lined on both sides by shops and cafés with signs in Arabic. The cafés were all full with Arab men—only men—sitting at small tables in groups of three or f
our; sipping thick, sugary tea; and arguing loudly. Many were smoking through tall, ornate glass-and-bronze shishas, sucking on the snakelike hoses.

  Judd turned a corner and stepped from what felt like bustling contemporary Cairo back in time into quiet Dickensian England. Cromwell Mews was a mere cobblestone path of narrow Victorian town houses, marked only by a small black-and-white sign. Tucked tightly at the dead end of the mews was a small wooden door. A hanging sign above announced, with a whisper of local exclusivity, that the visitor had arrived at the BULL AND BEAR.

  Judd opened the door and ducked his head to enter the pub. Once inside, he could see diminutive elderly men sipping on large pints of coffee-colored ale. No one looked up or made eye contact with Judd. Scanning the dark room, he spied, perched on a stool behind a small table in one corner, incongruously, a husky African man in a houndstooth jacket. Diallo is positioned to watch the door. Judd approached him.

  “General,” Judd said flatly, extending a hand for a firm, formal handshake and trying his best to suppress his face’s natural instinct to smile.

  “Dr. Ryker! Very good to finally meet you,” Diallo responded with a wide grin and vigorous nod. “I have taken the liberty of buying you a pint of Irish stout,” he gestured toward the glass filled with thick chocolate beer and a creamy foam top.

  “Thank you, General. Guinness is my drink. How did you know?” Judd took his seat.

  “It is good to meet our American friend. I know you have been a good friend of Mali for many years. You and your wife, Jessica,” he said, still smiling.

  He was trying to impress Judd with his intel. Or is that a threat?

  “And Africa needs many friends, Dr. Ryker. Especially when we are going through difficult times, like Mali is experiencing today.”

  “And you want to help, I am sure, General.”

  “Of course. But there is time to come to that. The priority must be security. We cannot have insecurity. Mali and America are under great threat. There are forces that want to tear apart our partnership. To bring bloodshed and mayhem to our peace-loving peoples. We cannot allow that to happen, Dr. Ryker. You cannot allow that to happen.”