The Golden Hour

by Todd Moss

  “So we are at an impasse? We can live without your aid. We do not need your charity. But there is no reason for our military cooperation to cease. We are working together against common enemies, and the enemy is gaining strength. Even right now as we sit here talking, we are gathering evidence of their plans, and tracking their activities. Our Scorpions, which we built together hand in hand, are ready to defend the country and attack the enemy that lies in wait, set to pounce.”

  Idrissa paused for dramatic effect. “Dr. Ryker, I know you have personally suffered from this threat. I must tell you that my intelligence service has reported a break in the investigation of the despicable bombing of you and the honorable ambassador. Yes. We have identified the culprits and they have close links to these same terrorists who have stolen the senator’s daughter. We are tracking them now and I am certain we will have them apprehended very soon.”

  Judd eyed Larissa. Idrissa knows who tried to kill us? He drops this now? I thought he was in contact with the kidnappers. Larissa returned a slight shrug.

  “You see, Maiga was too weak to deal with criminals and terrorists, but I am not,” continued Idrissa. “I am confident we can agree to let our brave soldiers work together for our common security. The operation can continue. Yes. I think you will want this, no? I think your people will want this.”

  “General, we would welcome any information about who is responsible for the bombing and the kidnapping. A team from our FBI is being assembled to assist the case. But that is not the issue today. We have to address our immediate problem. I have Colonel David Durham with me here. He was dispatched by the Department of Defense to join me, so there is no confusion about the position of the United States government. No ambiguity.” Judd turned to Durham, sitting in his full uniform, medals across his chest. “Colonel?”

  “General, I am here on the direct orders of the Secretary of Defense.” Durham stood at attention. “We have appreciated the cooperation with the armed forces of Mali. You have been a close and reliable ally of the United States in our war against the forces of chaos and terror. But the United States can no longer work with you after this illegal and immoral act. You have disgraced your command. You have disgraced our profession, sir.” Durham was physically growing larger as his speech reached a crescendo, ending with a booming, “As one proud soldier to another, sir, I urge you to stand down!”

  Judd and Larissa were both taken aback, but exchanged looks of satisfaction.

  Idrissa was even more shocked, his eyes widening. The room was hushed as Durham took his seat again.

  After a few moments, Judd broke the awkward silence. “General, we want to find a graceful and honorable way out of this for everyone. What can we do together?”

  Idrissa stared at his shoes, refusing to make eye contact. “When the time is right, we will organize new elections. But we cannot do this tomorrow. No. It will take time. We need to secure the nation first. We must first restore security. Security, yes,” he said, lifting his head to finally meet Judd’s eyes. “Perhaps elections can be held next year.”

  “General, you don’t want to drag this out for a year. That would be totally unacceptable. We must resolve this immediately. How can we find a way out of this problem right now? We can fix this, perhaps even today.”

  “There is nothing that can be done now. No.”

  “I urge you to rethink that. You can contact me through Ambassador James. When you know what you need, you can reach out to her. Let her know what we can do. I am hopeful we can find a way forward that is good for you and for Mali.”

  Idrissa stared ahead, through Judd. Does he hear me?

  “General, I also need to be clear on our firm expectations for the treatment of President Maiga. The president of the United States and the Secretary of State are personally concerned about his safety and well-being.”

  “I can assure you he is safe,” interrupted Idrissa.

  “Why not take me to see him? Let’s go right now. It would be a sign of good faith. Washington would view that as a positive signal of your intentions.”

  “I’m afraid that is impossible. We will deal with the former president when the time is right.”

  At that moment a uniformed soldier entered the room and whispered in Idrissa’s ear. The general nodded, then turned to Judd. “I apologize, Madam Ambassador, but urgent business of the state demands that I call our meeting to a close. As you are aware, these are precarious times. National security is our top priority. Mali is under attack as we speak. By enemies of the state and enemies of civilization. By criminals and terrorists and kidnappers.” Idrissa paused, snapped his fingers at his aide, and motioned for him to come. The aide handed the general a large brown envelope.

  “Before you go, Dr. Ryker, I have one more matter to raise with you. I’m afraid that we have detected a foreign plot on our soil.” He handed the envelope to Judd, who opened it to find a stack of grainy black-and-white photographs.

  On top was a photo of a plump African man with a salt-and-pepper beard, hugging an even larger man wearing a suit and aviator sunglasses. Judd flipped quickly to the second photo, which showed the same man sitting alone in a crowded restaurant, or perhaps a club, bottles of beer crowding a small table. The next photo showed a waiter approaching the man, an envelope clearly visible on the underside of his tray. The final picture was of the man tucking the envelope into his jacket. The man in the photos: Papa Toure.

  “These were taken just thirty-six hours ago here in Bamako by my special intelligence unit. We have been tracking this man for years as he has traveled between Mali and Nigeria. We believed he was a courier for Nigerian criminals expanding their business into Mali. But we now know he is in fact working for foreign jihadists based in northern Nigeria. You see the envelope?” Idrissa was pointing to the photo. “It is an envelope of money. The funds are intended for the north of Mali. For extremist Imams trying to radicalize our youth.” Idrissa stared straight at Judd. “Dr. Ryker, you know this man, yes?”

  Judd glared back at him, then down at his old friend Papa in the photos. He handed the photos back to the general with a shrug. “No. Never seen him before.”

  “Why don’t you pick him up?” asked Colonel Durham.

  “We were following him, but this morning he disappeared. We believe the culprit has fled Bamako to the bush. But we will find him. We will get him. Dr. Ryker, you can be very sure we will get him. And his accomplices.”

  Abruptly, Idrissa rose. “Madam Ambassador, Colonel, Dr. Ryker. You also know how to reach me. Please enjoy the rest of your visit to Mali.”

  Idrissa turned as the Americans were escorted out. Judd’s meeting with the coup maker, the reason for his hasty flight to Africa, was finished. It was over just like that, and he was no closer to resolution.

  Empty-handed.

  • • •

  Back in the car, Judd turned to Larissa. “What do you make of that?”

  “Well, I think he was genuinely surprised that you threatened to pull our military cooperation. Especially the advisors to his Scorpions. Colonel Durham, you hit him right between the eyes. I can see why they call you Bull.”

  Durham acknowledged the ambassador’s compliment with a slight tip of his hat.

  “But will it work?” asked Judd. “He called our bluff.”

  “Let’s wait and see. Let everything simmer. I suspect he’ll be in touch one way or another before the end of the day.”

  “So, what now, Larissa?”

  “We wait. I’ll ask Cyrus to follow up his claim of a break in our bombing case. And also about this Nigerian courier. Why would he think you know him?”

  “No idea. Probably just trying to rattle me. . . . Something’s not right.”

  “Let’s just sit tight and see what he does next. We’ll go back to the residence and wait.”

  “I can’t just sit.”

  “Be
patient, Judd.”

  “I can’t just sit here on my hands while Idrissa is calling the shots. Why can’t we shake things up?”

  “Let’s wait for Idrissa to move first.”

  “I don’t trust him, Larissa.”

  “Of course you don’t trust Idrissa. We shouldn’t trust anyone right now.”

  “‘Love all, trust a few . . .’”

  “What is that?”

  “Shakespeare,” said Judd, nodding to himself.

  “Of course it is,” she said, looking away. “I need you to be patient.”

  “How about Timbuktu? Let’s go.”

  Larissa spun around. “Why in the world would you want to do that, Judd?”

  “I’ve never been.”

  “Well, now’s not the time. I doubt diplomatic security would even let you go. God knows, I can’t have another hostage on my hands.”

  “What if I need to go? Can you make it happen?”

  “Absolutely not. They have suspended all internal commercial flights. Colonel Houston has put all his people on lockdown and prohibited travel. How am I supposed to then allow a civilian like you up there? It’s far too dangerous, Judd.”

  “I have a helicopter, Dr. Ryker,” interjected Durham.

  “What?” Larissa’s mouth was agape.

  “After we heard from Colonel Houston about the lack of air assets in the country, I thought we might need help, so I called a friend, pulled a few strings. An MH-60K can be here in two hours. The crew is standing by, waiting for the go order.”

  “You just found a Black Hawk lying around West Africa?” asked Larissa. She was both flummoxed and impressed. “Where on earth is it coming from?”

  Durham didn’t reply; instead his eyes were locked on Judd. “Two hours, sir. I can have it on the embassy roof for departure for Timbuktu. Are we a go?”

  Judd’s eyes darted from Larissa to Durham, then back to Larissa. She was shaking her head. Judd smiled.

  “Yallah.”

  35.

  MARBLE ARCH, LONDON

  WEDNESDAY, 10:55 A.M. GMT+1

  Retired General Oumar Diallo had been sitting in a plastic chair at the back of Fiona’s Café talking quietly on the phone all morning. The other customers gave the hefty African man a two-table buffer zone, leaving him ample space to conduct his business. Four different cell phones in a variety of shapes and sizes were displayed on the chipped Formica table in front of him. A fifth phone was pressed to his ear. At the end of another call, in a language that none of the other patrons could understand, he set down the phone and stared at cobwebs on the ceiling in contemplation of his next move. He thought to himself, Yes, after so much that has gone wrong, the pieces are starting to come together. I will soon be back where I belong, my honor restored. I must remain focused. If necessary, ruthless.

  “Sorry, love. Another cuppa?” The waitress had taken the break in calls as her opening. Diallo snapped out of his thoughts to notice he had indeed drained another cup of tea.

  “Yes. Extra sugar and plenty of milk. The usual.”

  “You want a sausage roll? It’s lovely with builder’s tea.”

  Diallo turned to the front counter, a greasy glass case held long cylinders of soggy pastry glowing under the red warming light. The thought of eating forbidden pork gave him a slight shudder. No point in explaining, he decided. “No, madam, thank you. Just tea.”

  He reached for a telephone, a deliberate signal that it was time for the waitress to leave. She took the hint.

  Diallo dialed a long number. After five rings he was about to hang up, but finally a click and the raspy voice of a woman who has been asleep. “Uhhh, hello?”

  “Tata, we need to talk.”

  “Uh, Bènkè? Is that you, Uncle?”

  “Have I woken you? What time is it in Washington, D.C.?”

  “Oh, no, Uncle. I am not sleeping.” A lie they both knew was polite and proper to ignore.

  “Tata, I have known you even before you were born.”

  “Yes, Bènkè,” she said deferentially, anticipating a line of questioning she had heard many times before.

  “Who taught you how to read, sitting under the baobab tree, for so many long, hot days?”

  “You, Bènkè.”

  “Who would take his small, small salary and save to buy for his sister’s only daughter her favorite food, fufu and groundnut soup?”

  “You, Bènkè.”

  “Who helped you with your schoolwork when he was home from patrols so that you could become educated and leave the village? So you could go to America, to your Georgetown University?”

  “You, Bènkè. I am grateful.”

  “Who introduced your mother to Boubacar Maiga when he was still a small, small boy working at the American bank?”

  “You, Bènkè.” Another unacknowledged lie.

  “Yes, you have always been a bright girl, Tata. I am very proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Bènkè. I am very grateful for all you have done for our family. I honor you, Uncle.”

  “I am worried about your father.”

  “So am I, Bènkè.”

  “Yes, I know. That’s why I am calling. Your father is now a big man, but he has made mistakes and put his family and our nation at risk. I am sorry to tell you this. I know you are a loyal daughter who loves her father. But you are also a woman now. You need to know the truth. You need to help your mother today. Together, we need to help your mother. Do you understand, Tata?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need you to pass a message to your mother, a very important message.”

  “Yes, Bènkè.”

  “Tell her that things in Bamako are becoming very dangerous. But I will look out for her, no matter what happens. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Bènkè. I will tell her.”

  “Very good, Tata. Do it now.”

  “Yes, Bènkè. I will call right away.”

  “I know you will. I am going to send you some money.”

  “No, Bènkè. I don’t need any money. I am fine.”

  “Don’t insult me. What kind of uncle would I be if I didn’t send money? I will send it. You will buy something nice.”

  “Yes, Bènkè. Thank you, Bènkè.”

  They both hung up.

  General Oumar Diallo slumped back in his chair, just as a steaming cup of tea arrived. He was feeling satisfied. Diallo plucked another phone off the table to put the next phase of his plan into action.

  Tata Maiga, some 3,600 miles away, was also dialing. After one ring, a voice on the other end answered quickly. “This is Mariana Leibowitz . . .”

  36.

  SAHARA DESERT, APPROACHING TIMBUKTU

  WEDNESDAY, 12:55 P.M. GMT

  Bull was sitting up front with the pilot, speaking to him through a headset. Judd, in the back, had lost the sense of hearing; all noise was obliterated by the whirring of the chopper blades. Encased in white noise, he sat in merciful silence, watching out the window.

  The Black Hawk, flying low, lifted sharply over a sand dune to reveal yet another dune. At their high speed, the desert appeared to be nothing more than an endless wasteland of nothingness. A sea of dead sand.

  But Judd knew from his experience around the world that there was far more than first appeared. The desert, just beneath the surface, was alive. The struggle for existence by animal and man. The unseen dangers. The ingenuity of survival.

  Alone with his thoughts, Judd suddenly had doubts about his decision to fly to Timbuktu. It all seemed so right, flying a phantom attack helicopter to a mythical city on the edge of known civilization. So adventurous.

  Or, he wondered, am I becoming a caricature of the outsider in Africa, living out romantic fantasies? Am I risking lives just to try to show that the Golden Hour is right? For the sake of self-v
alidation? Am I playing a self-indulgent game with a foreign country just to prove some arcane academic theory?

  He shook his head to reinforce himself. Focus. My job is get President Maiga back in power. Timbuktu is the key. Papa told me so, right? Maybe I will learn something about the missing girl, too. Yes, that justified the trip. The risk. The mission.

  Before Judd could conclude the debate inside his own head, the helicopter popped over yet another dune to reveal an unexpected sight: water. It was the great Niger River, wandering like a soft brown snake, lost in the desert.

  Judd imagined what seeing the river must have felt like for Mungo Park, the Scottish explorer who reached the Niger in 1796 and was shocked to find it flowed eastward, the exact opposite of what he and his philanthropic benefactors had confidently assumed. All the experts had had it exactly backward.

  Park returned to Europe with the news a hero, and quickly became a celebrity for his exploits. But, bored with the tedium of seminars back in Britain, he set out on a second expedition down the Niger from which he never returned. Mungo Park, keen to follow the Niger all the way to its mouth, died under mysterious circumstances, probably killed in what would nearly a century later become northern Nigeria.

  This part of the world had always been full of surprises for outsiders arriving with big heads and majestic ideas. Why should I expect to be any different?

  The helicopter pitched hard to one side, Judd suddenly staring straight down at the thick coffee-colored water. The Black Hawk leveled off, and followed the river like a floating highway. It’s the work, not the ego.

  As they approached town, the banks of the river awoke with activity. Fishermen sat in brightly painted dugout canoes, small boys herded scrawny cattle, women washed bright clothes, slapping them on granite rocks. This was the Mali that Judd fell in love with. This was where he and Jessica had fallen in love with each other. This is the real Mali, right?

  37.

  RUSSELL SENATE OFFICE BUILDING, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  WEDNESDAY, 8:58 A.M. EST

  Landon Parker sat in a hard-backed chair, fidgeting with his BlackBerry and trying not to be annoyed that he was there.