The Golden Hour

by Todd Moss

  Durham stepped forward, handshakes, polite nodding, and then everyone piled into the vehicles for the quick ride over to the lounge.

  As they passed through the door, Judd leaned over to Durham. “Hope you’re wearing your long johns, Colonel.” Just as Durham crinkled his forehead in confusion, they were hit by a blast of arctic air. Judd gave Durham a satisfied nod, then turned back to the lounge.

  Larissa was already working the greeting line of officials in white and blue boubous. Judd and Durham joined her for a succession of warm welcomes. “Merci, merci. So nice to have you back in Mali, Dr. Ryker. . . .”

  Once they reached the end, the men withdrew to the sofas and their mobile phones. Déjà vu. The only thing different from his previous visit was the missing picture of President Maiga. In its place was a studio photo of General Idrissa, in full military regalia but clearly straining for his most paternal pose. That was quick.

  “Time to move, gentlemen,” interjected Larissa. “Ahmed will take your passports and bring your bags to the residence. You need to get a few hours’ rest, because we’ll be starting very early in the morning. Let’s go.”

  • • •

  Back at the ambassador’s residence, Judd closed the door to his room and dialed a number on his phone.

  “Papa, it’s Judd. Sorry to wake you. I’m here.”

  “You are welcome, Judd. You have come back to Mali at the right time.”

  “I still need your help, Papa. I spoke with Luc and I have been pushing my people for information, but things are not getting clearer. Just the opposite. They are getting murkier.”

  “Timbuktu. Judd, I have been telling you about Timbuktu since you were last here. You remember, yes?”

  “Of course I remember, but I still don’t know what you mean. I’m trying to figure it out, but I need more clues. Papa, my friend, just tell me, what in the name of Allah is going on in Timbuktu?”

  “Judd, we cannot speak of such things on the phone. You must go there to find out. I will send a message to the Grand Imam to expect you. He is very wise. He has tales to share.”

  “The Grand Imam?”

  “Go to Timbuktu. See the Imam. Listen to him. All will become clearer and the way forward will come to you.”

  “I know we are old friends and I need your help, but I can’t just drop everything and rush off to Timbuktu on a whim. That would be crazy.”

  “‘Love all, trust a few.’”

  “What’s that? Are you quoting Emily Dickinson again? I don’t understand, Papa.”

  “Shakespeare. Judd, you disappoint me. All’s Well That Ends Well. You should know that!”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “I’m asking you to trust me on this. You have come to me for assistance and I’m advising you to go to Timbuktu.”

  “Now? Are you saying I need to go to Timbuktu now?”

  “Rest, my friend. Tomorrow. You go tomorrow.”

  “Why don’t you come with me? I’ll come get you. We can go together.”

  “I am not in Bamako, I am in Bandiagara, near the border with Burkina Faso.”

  “In Dogon Country? Why?”

  “I came today to inspect Haverford’s water projects. It is very beautiful here. You remember?”

  “Now? To check on your projects? Mali’s in the middle of a coup, Bamako is a fiasco, and you choose now to tour the countryside? Come on, Papa. You are asking me to trust an old friend, and I do trust you. But I don’t buy that story for a second.”

  “See, Judd, you understand more than you think. Van Hollen always had a good eye for talent. He was right about you.”

  “What does that mean? What does BJ have to do with this?”

  “Go see the Grand Imam in Timbuktu and then you will know what to do next.”

  “I don’t know. I’m here to meet Idrissa. I don’t have much time.”

  “Go to Timbuktu.”

  “I’ll think about it, Papa.”

  “Sleep well, mon ami. You have a lot on your shoulders. You have a big day tomorrow.”

  29.

  MALI BORDER WITH BURKINA FASO

  WEDNESDAY, 5:19 A.M. GMT

  HOURS SINCE THE COUP: FORTY-NINE

  The line of gray trucks sent scattering a flock of vultures feasting on the rotten remains of a bushrat. As the convoy rolled up to the border post, it fell dead silent as the drivers simultaneously cut the engines. The roadblock was no more than two dented oil barrels filled with rocks and a board of exposed two-inch nails laid on the road.

  The post commander woke up from a nap in the small guardhouse and, as he emerged, annoyed to be roused, wiped his face with his hand and slipped on a black beret. Another soldier asleep under a tree jumped to attention and snatched his rifle that had been lying in the dust. They circled the half-dozen dark green GAZ-66 off-road trucks with OKTYABRSKY SUPPORT SERVICES printed on the side in small white letters.

  The commander was excited to see them but didn’t show it. This was the third day in a row that Russian trucks had appeared at the border. The drivers were all Indian, or maybe Arabs? But it was always the same. After completing a full circle, he approached the driver of the lead vehicle.

  “What are you hauling?” he demanded as the other soldier pointed his gun menacingly at the cab.

  “Mining equipment,” responded the driver in a thick accent with a bored look on his face.

  “Where are your passports and import papers?”

  “Right here,” said the driver, handing over a fat roll of CFA francs, the local currency, bound by a rubber band.

  He exchanged glances with his partner, then accepted the money and deposited the roll into his breast pocket.

  “Oui. Everything seems to be in order. On your way. Bon voyage.”

  The soldier set down his gun, slid the nail board off the road, and rolled one of the barrels out of the way. The trucks roared back to life, belching muddy clouds of smoke into the air.

  The two soldiers stood in the middle of the road and watched the convoy rumble away. Once the trucks were out of sight, they lazily replaced the barrel and nail board. The commander took off his beret and returned to the guardhouse. The other sauntered back to his tree, dropped the gun in the dirt, and lay down to return to his nap.

  The vultures, abandoning their roadkill, took off into the air and followed the convoy of trucks, high above in wide sweeping circles.

  30.

  U.S. EMBASSY, BAMAKO

  WEDNESDAY, 6:05 A.M. GMT

  Judd Ryker and Bull Durham woke early, but Larissa James was already dressed and ready to go by the time they came downstairs.

  “We can have coffee at the embassy. The briefers are waiting for you. You are here to hit the ground running, right?” She didn’t bother to look up from her BlackBerry to see them both nod. “The car is ready. Let’s go. Yallah!”

  Security at the embassy was tighter than normal. At one hundred yards from the fence was the first perimeter. A contract guard checked the underside of the SUV with a mirror on a long pole. Another inspected under the hood, while a third led sniffing dogs around the vehicle.

  Once they were through inspection and the first gate closed behind them, IDs were checked. Then a second gate opened to the compound. Inside were manicured lawns, colorful tropical plants, and men with automatic weapons.

  As the party of three passed through the embassy’s main foyer, Larissa acknowledged the staff with a noble nod but no introduction of the visitors. No explanation. At the end of the lobby, they ascended a set of stairs to an unmarked door.

  “You’ll need to remove the batteries from your cell phones.”

  “What?”

  “Your battery. For security. If you want to bring your cell phone in here, you’ll need to take it out.”

  Judd shrugged, then he and Durham remov
ed the cases from the back of their phones. They placed the battery in one suit pocket and the rest of the phone in the other.

  Satisfied, Larissa inserted her ID card into a slot next to the door and punched in an eight-digit PIN. The door opened with a release of air.

  “This is the secure classified area of the embassy. Americans with top secret clearance only.”

  They stepped through the door, leaving Mali behind and entering the sterile inner sanctum of U.S. national security.

  “Coffee?”

  “Hell yes, Larissa,” answered Judd. “A strong one.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Durham.

  “Someone will bring it to you,” said Larissa, now pointing down a long hallway. “At the end is the office of the station chief, Cyrus. Judd, you met him at the hospital in Germany, remember? The defense attaché, Colonel Randy Houston, should be in there, too. It’s the black door. They will give you a briefing. Judd, I’m going to make some phone calls. When you are done with Cyrus and Randy, come back to my office so we can chat and catch up. I want to hear about Jessica and the boys.”

  Once they were alone, Durham asked, “You two know each other?”

  “We survived a car bomb last time I was in Bamako, eight months ago. I guess that makes us lifelong friends.”

  “Yes, it does,” said Durham, in a way that suggested Judd wasn’t the only one with that particular experience.

  Judd knocked on the black door. He was greeted stiffly by Colonel Houston, whom Judd recognized from the video briefing. “Dr. Ryker. Welcome back to Mali,” he said, deadpan.

  Inside, Cyrus was wedged behind a large desk crammed into a tiny office. Tall piles of papers surrounded him. The office walls were floor-to-ceiling with photographs. Most were satellite pictures of desert camps, shots of crowds of young men, or of mosques with labels of the major towns around Mali: Bamako, Segou, Kidal, Mopti, Gao, and Timbuktu. Cyrus was wearing the same rumpled tan suit from yesterday.

  “Gentlemen,” said Cyrus. “Please shut the door, Colonel.”

  “Thanks for getting to the office so early to meet with us,” said Judd, trying to break the ice and squeezing himself down into a chair.

  “I’m here every day at oh five hundred, Dr. Ryker.”

  “Okay, so what can you tell us?” said Judd, shooting a look at Durham.

  “We are tracking several active hostiles moving through the northern sector and along the border with Algeria,” said Cyrus, pointing to one of the photos. “The chatter is accelerated and likely indicating some kind of attack on Malian installations, with a nontrivial probability of targeting U.S. interests and personnel. We have reports that an Ansar al-Sahra cell crossed over from Algeria late last week and is seeking a rendezvous with another element that will provide instructions and explosives for an attack. We’ve got the birds keeping an eye out for new movement, but we expect with a high degree of probability some kind of assault within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Colonel?”

  Houston began, “DoD elements in-country have additional monitoring capacity. We have eyes on the border, Dr. Ryker. Russian trucks have been transshipping material up from Nigeria, from the swamps of the Niger Delta, into Burkina Faso, and then across the border into northern Mali, up past Timbuktu. The Russians are disclaiming any official knowledge of this, but quietly they are acknowledging an oil exploration project that they would rather people didn’t know about. They claim they want to keep it low-key to avoid unwanted attention from bandits or terrorists operating in the area. The quantity of goods they are hauling suggests heavy equipment, but this could also be cover. Small arms smuggling is one possibility. Could be anything. Victor Chelenkov has ties to the Russian oil companies as well as the Russian army.”

  “What about the coup?” asked Judd. “That’s why we are here.”

  “Nothing new since yesterday,” answered Cyrus. “Idrissa has taken charge and is putting his people into place. We do know that Maiga is at the Wangara barracks and he is alive.”

  “Let’s not get distracted with complicated local politics. Not today,” broke in Houston. “Idrissa is cooperating. His people are providing intel, and he is ready to countermove Ansar.”

  “He is supposedly making progress on the missing Peace Corps volunteer, too,” added Cyrus. “The Malians know how to make contact, so they currently are our best lead for getting the girl back safely.”

  “You mean Idrissa is already in direct contact with the kidnappers?” Judd was incredulous, but Cyrus was steely calm.

  “I can’t reveal any more than I have already. I’m sure you understand.”

  Durham turned to Houston. “Colonel, what is the status of Operation Sand Scorpion? Where are your men who were embedded with the OSS strike teams?”

  “The ambassador ordered a no-exceptions withdrawal from all counterterrorism strike forces until further notice, so they are no longer in barracks with the teams. But she understands that we still need eyes and ears if we are going to know what’s happening. So we have left a handful of Special Ops guys in the field. They are on standby in Gao and Timbuktu, just not living with the Malian teams right now or providing advice on their exercises. It might be wise at this critical juncture to consider letting them go back in. At least a temporary lift, until this Ansar thing blows over. For security. We need the Scorpions up and running ASAP.”

  “What are you hearing about Diallo?” asked Judd, ignoring the attaché’s suggestion, and turning back to the station chief. “Is he involved with the coup? Is he planning on coming back?”

  “We do not know,” replied Cyrus. “Idrissa would like to think that he is asserting himself now and has moved out from under Diallo’s shadow.”

  “But Diallo could very well come back,” said Houston. “I’m guessing he may want to return. He’s in London, you know.”

  “Yes, I’m aware,” said Judd. “How long have you been the DATT, Colonel?”

  “Three years.”

  “So you were here when Diallo’s coup attempt failed?”

  “Yes, sir. I was the liaison with the Malian military leadership. General Diallo was our primary contact.”

  “Diallo was our guy then?”

  Houston paused, meeting Judd’s gaze. “Too bad he threw it all away. His mistake. Perhaps he sees the current situation as a chance at redemption.”

  “What are the pressure points on Idrissa?” asked Judd, changing the subject again.

  “Idrissa is looking for American assurances, and some kind of recognition,” said Cyrus. “I think he’s smart enough to know you won’t say anything in public just yet, but he’s going to want some signal from you on American acknowledgment.”

  “Idrissa’s fighting for his life and he’s got Ansar al-Sahra breathing down his neck,” said Houston. “We trained the Malians for just such an encounter. This is his big moment.”

  No, thought Judd. This is my moment.

  “Where are the French on all of this?”

  “Active. We are in close contact,” said Cyrus.

  “Is there a connection to Niger here? Are they worried about security of their uranium supplies?”

  “You will have to ask them,” said Cyrus abruptly. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “Um, okay,” said Judd, taken aback by the change in Cyrus’s tone. He turned to Colonel Houston. “After my meeting with Idrissa this morning, I may want to head up north. Can you get me up to Timbuktu if I need to go?”

  “Sorry, sir. We have no air assets at this time. Since the coup, they have shut down internal commercial flights. You can drive there in about two days, maybe do it in one day if you really push it. I wouldn’t recommend it, but that’s the only way to get up there right now.”

  A knock on the door and in popped a woman’s head. “Gentlemen, the ambassador has asked me to pull our visitors. The palace called and
General Idrissa is ready. The ambassador asked if Colonel Durham could take the rest of the briefing from Colonel Houston and Cyrus. She needs Dr. Ryker for five minutes before the convoy leaves.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  On his way out the door, Judd stopped and turned. “Cyrus, I believe we have an old friend in common, Professor BJ van Hollen from Ibadan.”

  “I am sorry,” he responded, giving Judd an expressionless stare, “I have never been to Ibadan. I don’t know anyone named van Hollen.”

  31.

  KITTY HAWK, OUTER BANKS, NORTH CAROLINA

  WEDNESDAY, 2:09 A.M. EST

  Tucked among the sand dunes and high grasses of the Outer Banks were small holes that were this evening suddenly stirring. There was no wind. The only movement was tiny flippers clawing away the sand. After a moment, several dozen loggerhead baby sea turtles, having squeezed their way out of their spongy shells and wriggled from their underground nest to the surface, began a desperate dash to the sea. Whether they would live for sixty years or sixty seconds was decided by fate, right at that moment. Seagulls, sensing their moment, dove and swooped overhead, squawking in the night.

  Resting up on the dune, just behind this struggle of nature, was a modest bungalow, oblivious to the life-and-death action down on the beach. The cottage was entirely dark, except for the soft glow of light in one window up in the top attic room, the master bedroom.

  Sitting up in bed, reading glasses low on her nose, scanning her laptop, was Jessica Ryker. She searched the French and Arabic news websites for information on Mali. She wasn’t finding much. She clicked again to open a program, logged in as EMILYD.

  Jessica sipped lemon tea from a mug on her bedside table, then typed brief messages to several addresses, requesting information. She finished her tea, closed the program, and turned back to the news sites.

  “I must have missed something,” she mumbled to herself. “Judd, my dear, what are you doing?”