The Golden Hour

by Todd Moss

  The small reception area was full. Beside Parker were several military officers in full uniform. The rest of the chairs were taken by gray men in gray Washington suits. At the desk sat a young blond intern in a tight dress that was just inappropriate enough to make everyone else both pleased and slightly uncomfortable. All the men in the waiting area were pretending not to look at her.

  Everyone was also pretending they could not hear the profanity-laced tirade going on behind the closed door.

  After a few minutes, the shouting stopped and the door opened. A little man emerged wearing a dark gray pin-striped suit and sheepish face. Parker did not recognize him, but noticed an FBI badge hanging from his belt as the man brushed past.

  “Mr. Parker?” asked the intern. He stood without a word. “Senator McCall will see you now.”

  Parker took a deep breath, then pushed the door open.

  “Senator, pleasure to see you again,” he started, his hand outstretched.

  “Don’t give me that shit, Landon. I want to know what the fuck your people are doing to rescue my daughter. And, so help me God, don’t you dare give me some bullshit State Department line that ‘We’re doing everything we can.’ I want to know what’s going on. I want to know everything. . . .”

  38.

  YABA VILLAGE, DOGON COUNTRY

  WEDNESDAY, 1:04 P.M. GMT

  Papa Toure was resting under a tree, taking a break from the Saharan sun. The cheap molded plastic chair wobbled side to side, straining under his girth. Surrounding him, squatting in the sand, were a dozen or so young boys, all barefoot and wearing dirty secondhand American T-shirts: HILTON HEAD, MONROE COUNTY RECREATION DEPARTMENT, HELLO KITTY with butterflies. One of the boys brought Papa a cold beer, which he accepted without eye contact. As he sipped, he spied up the hill to the village, scanning the dotted cliffs.

  The Dogon, a minority group in Mali living along the Bandiagara escarpment near the border with Burkina Faso for the past five hundred years, built their homes right into the treacherous sides of the cliffs. Not unlike what BJ van Hollen had taken Judd to see at Mesa Verde in Colorado all those years ago. Just as with their American counterparts, the Dogon cliffs provided protection from attack and the caves built high up into the side of the mountains were ideal for storing—or hiding—food, supplies, weapons, or whatever you needed to keep secret.

  As Papa drained the last of his beer, another boy appeared and laid a bowl of meat in chocolate-brown sauce at his feet. As Papa leaned forward with a groan to pick up his lunch, he continued to gaze at the jumble of huts and mud walls of the village. He ate slowly and deliberately. The pack of boys sat quietly watching him. Even though this was his fourth visit to Yaba in the past year, the water man from Bamako was still a spectacle to the children. Once finished, Papa set down the empty bowl and examined his cell phone. Four bars, full coverage, but still no messages.

  “Combien, grand-père? How many more?” asked the tallest of the boys.

  “Two more wells, petit fils. Two more,” replied Papa.

  A buzz came over the boys as the French answer was translated through the group into the local language.

  Papa rose out of his chair with a grunt and the boys scattered like pigeons. He began to trek up the hill, into the heart of the village. The boys followed in his wake, and were joined by more small children. As he approached a well he’d installed last year, he motioned to the tallest boy to walk beside him, an honor the boy eagerly accepted.

  “The well near the house of the Hogon,” said Papa as he gestured toward a modest mud hut hugging the cliff where the village spiritual leader lives his entire life without leaving. “Is it working?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Is the village council maintaining the pump as I instructed last month?”

  The boy nodded again.

  “Are they charging twenty-five francs?”

  The boy didn’t answer.

  “Are they?”

  No answer again, then, in a whisper, “Cinquante. Fifty.”

  “Well done, boy,” said Papa. “How are your mother and father?” he asked as he handed the boy a coin.

  “They are very well.” He slipped the coin into a pocket.

  “Ah, that is good. Very good. Any other visitors today?”

  The boy nodded.

  “The soldiers?”

  Nod.

  “The foreigners again?”

  Another nod.

  “Good. Very good. Now run along and take this to your mother.” Papa handed the boy a rolled-up bill. “I have two more wells to inspect.”

  39.

  SAHARA DESERT, TWELVE KILOMETERS NORTHWEST OF TIMBUKTU

  WEDNESDAY, 1:08 P.M. GMT

  Waiting on a sand dune that overlooked the unmarked airstrip was a tall Tuareg man. He was wrapped in a cloak of rich indigo blue, a jet-black cloth coiled around his head, his eyes masked by oversized mirrored aviator sunglasses. He was covering what little of his face might normally be exposed because of the temporary tempest created by the helicopter’s landing. Resting behind him was an old nondescript Land Rover, the same color as the sand. Even though the spectacle of an American attack helicopter buzzing over the river announced to all of Timbuktu their imminent arrival, the façade of discretion dictated that their vehicle be low-profile.

  As the Black Hawk engines shut down, Bull nudged Judd and pointed to the Tuareg. “That’s our man today.”

  “Ours?”

  “Contractor. Ezekiel.”

  Judd and Durham ducked their heads and trotted toward the truck. Judd jumped into the back seat, Bull climbed into the passenger seat, slinging a small camouflage rucksack. The Black Hawk lifted off and, in an instant, disappeared over the horizon.

  The Land Rover skidded over a roller coaster of sand dunes before finding a flat track and then, eventually, what passed for a real road in this part of the world. As they approached town, the ancient settlement of Timbuktu grew denser. Scattered huts evolved into tightly packed streets. Judd sat up in his seat, anxiously scanning the outside. Finally, Timbuktu.

  After years of reading about the fabled, romantic city, yearning to be here and see it all with his own eyes, Timbuktu struck Judd as . . . ordinary. Everything was the color of sand: the roads, the houses made of packed mud, the dusty schoolchildren playing soccer in the alleyways.

  Once in the heart of the city, the Land Rover pulled into a public square and the driver tucked the vehicle into a shady wedge under a tree. He jumped out and opened the door for Judd, who could now see before him a massive mud building. The thirty-foot walls were topped with pointy peaks and accented by thick wooden logs sticking out along the corners and running across the top. In the middle of the great wall was a huge, fifteen-foot wooden door. The world’s largest sand castle?

  “Is this a fort?” Judd asked Ezekiel.

  “Great Mosque of Timbuktu. We are here.”

  Judd and Bull stared up, sweating in the oppressive heat, but still somewhat in disbelief that what was before them was no desert illusion.

  “The Grand Imam, through here. We go.”

  At the grand front door, the driver slipped off his shoes, removed his head covering, and motioned for Judd and Bull to do the same. They dropped their baseball caps and their boots by the entrance, and stepped barefoot into the mosque. Judd was jolted by the unexpected coolness of the air and floor. He was forced to squint in the dark. A cylinder of light streaked through the main door, revealed straight rows of thick columns every ten feet or so in each direction. Small rugs had been laid in between the pillars, but otherwise everything was made of cool brown mud. As they slowly felt their way down one corridor and Judd’s eyes adjusted to the low light, he could see men kneeling on prayer mats and hear them chanting softly.

  As they moved deeper into the maze, cutting right and left, and back again, Judd started to
lose his direction. Ezekiel was getting farther ahead and then disappeared behind a column. Durham, just behind Judd, poked him and froze. He yanked Judd with him and then pressed his back up against the pillar. Judd instinctively did the same. Bull held one finger in front of his mouth, then two fingers, pointed at his eyes, then down one row of columns. Bull looked up and down the rows, listening. Total silence. Then footsteps.

  Ezekiel suddenly appeared. “This way! Quickly!” and he grabbed Judd’s hand and led him down one row, Bull trailing behind. They zigzagged through the columns, Ezekiel darting his eyes left to right. Bull was doing the same, their movements suggesting, even to Judd’s civilian eyes, that they had similar training. They had done this before. Situational awareness.

  As they accelerated down one corridor, Judd saw a light ahead, probably a door. Safety? A few feet from the exit, they stopped short and Ezekiel pushed Judd behind a column. He felt the cool mud on his skin. Judd, suddenly confused, shrugged his shoulders. “What’s happening?”

  “Here,” Ezekiel whispered. “They are here.”

  Another shrug. “Who?”

  “Ansar.”

  Before Judd could react, a loud POP! POP! POP! and a suppressed scream broke the silence. “Ahhhh. I’m fucking hit!” Bull was holding his left shoulder, blood already soaking his shirt, as he dragged himself behind a pillar. Judd stared at Bull, frozen for a moment, before Ezekiel yanked Judd’s arm to pull him to cover.

  “Get down, Ryker!” hissed Durham. He pulled a 9mm pistol from under his jacket, pointing it up to the roof. Then, looking squarely at Ezekiel, he said, “Shots came from the south side. Three-shot burst from an AK.” He then pointed off to his left. Ezekiel, who had also drawn an identical gun, nodded knowingly and slipped away into the maze of the mosque.

  Durham wrapped his shoulder tightly with a cloth he pulled from his rucksack. He also drew a second 9mm pistol, slid in an ammo bolt, and nodded to Judd, who was crouching one pillar over. Me?

  After a pause, Judd held out his palms and Bull slid the gun across the floor. Judd snatched it with both hands and quickly pressed his back against the mud, trying to take cover like he’d seen in the movies. Bull raised one hand, showing his palm. Stay.

  Pinned down behind a mud column, hiding, holding a gun for the first time, his friend shot and bleeding, and a terrorist sniper trying to kill him, Judd was seized—not by the fear he expected would overwhelm him under such stress, but by one dominant thought in his brain that crowded out everything else: Jessica is going to be pissed.

  Muffled shouting could be heard in the distance. He listened for further gunshots. It seemed quiet inside the mosque. Could it be over? The door was just a few feet away, but Durham made no attempt to move, so Judd stayed put.

  Abruptly, a tall figure, a silhouette, appeared in the doorway. Bull and Judd both swung toward the shadow and pointed their guns, but the man’s hands were high up, his palms open. As the figure stepped inside, Judd could see he had a full gray beard and weathered skin, and was wearing a stark clean white boubou. Around his neck dangled a tether with a bright pink cell phone.

  Seemingly oblivious to any potential danger, the figure, calm and fully upright, approached Bull, helped him up by his good arm and escorted him out the door. Judd, because he couldn’t think of what else to do, followed outside, shielding his eyes from the sudden burst of sunlight. They limped through a courtyard and into another door off one side.

  Once inside, Judd could see this room was empty except for giant burgundy pillows around the perimeter. An Islamic salon.

  The old man gently lowered Bull onto a pillow and gestured for Judd to take a seat, too. Bull grimaced and gripped his shoulder.

  Their rescuer lowered himself onto another pillow, meticulously removed the tether around his neck, and softly placed the cell phone next to him.

  He gazed directly at Judd. “I’m very sorry about your friend. He will live. The man who did this is now gone. You are safe here.”

  “Who are you?” asked Judd, bordering on incredulous.

  Just then, Ezekiel materialized in the doorway, out of breath. “Dr. Ryker, Colonel Durham.” Deep breath. “This is the Grand Imam of Timbuktu.”

  40.

  S/CRU DIRECTOR’S OFFICE, U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  WEDNESDAY, 9:48 A.M. EST

  Serena arrived holding a thirty-two-ounce macchiato quad, the one with four extra shots of espresso. She was anxious to get to her desk and take the first sip, so she removed the plastic lid and blew on the steam. Then she noticed a familiar shape sitting restlessly in a reception chair, elbows out, hunched over, thumbs tapping away on a BlackBerry. A sliver of inappropriate cleavage caught her eye.

  “Hello, Ms. Leibowitz,” she said, deliberately failing to hide her annoyance.

  Ignoring Serena’s tone, Mariana said, “Oh, wonderful, you’re back! I need to speak to you. It’s about our Judd.”

  “Dr. Ryker is out. I don’t know when he will return.”

  “Oh, I know that, Serena. And please, call me Mariana. I know Judd’s gone to Africa. I have tried to reach him, but I just can’t seem to get through. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I don’t know anything, Ms. Leibowitz. I’m sure you know that.”

  “I’m not here to get anything. I’m here to share with you.”

  Serena cocked her head with suspicion.

  “Not here,” said Mariana, scanning the empty foyer. “Is there somewhere more . . . discreet?”

  Serena reluctantly led Mariana into Judd’s office and closed the door.

  “This is secure.”

  “I know Judd trusts you and that you are in constant touch with him. You must give him this very important message.”

  Mariana paused to wait for Serena to acknowledge with a nod before continuing: “Judd needs to know that the White House and the Pentagon are coming down hard on State. The White House counterterrorism czar called Landon Parker early this morning and I’m told ripped him a new one. Something about how ‘There’s no way we are trusting national security to some ivory-tower lab rat.’ That’s what he said! Isn’t it just awful?”

  She waited again for a response from Serena, but it never came.

  “Serena, you know what this means, right? They are coming after Judd.”

  “And you know about all this . . . how, exactly?”

  “That’s not the point, Serena. The White House and DoD are about to unleash the dogs. They will order the embassy to back off on Idrissa. They want Judd out of the way. I know Landon should have stood up for Judd, but he didn’t. Or couldn’t. I love Landon, of course, but sometimes I just don’t know what he’s really up to.”

  Serena finally broke her poker face, a hint of anxiety showing through.

  Mariana pretended not to notice. “Just this morning, Landon announced to senior staff that Rogerson will soon be en route and taking over Mali policy the minute he lands. Now, can I tell you a secret?”

  Serena glared at Mariana. “There’s more?”

  “You can’t even tell Judd, okay?” Without waiting for Serena to agree, she continued, “Bill Rogerson’s delays are no accident. My friend Bolotanga is one of the rebel leaders. He’s been delaying the talks at my request. As a favor. He’s been stalling to help me keep Rogerson at the table.”

  “Why tell me?”

  “Because I can’t stall any longer. Bolo is a doll, but he has a greedy streak. It’s one of his weaknesses. The bottom line is that negotiations will be wrapping up in a few hours and then Rogerson will be free to return. I expect him in Washington no later than tomorrow morning. We have just twenty-four hours until Bill Rogerson is back and Judd is replaced. You see why I had to come see you right now?”

  “Ms. Leibowitz, why exactly are you telling me all this?”

  “Serena, darling, I’m coming to you because they a
re abandoning President Maiga. We are about to lose. Judd is almost out of time.”

  41.

  TIMBUKTU, MALI

  WEDNESDAY, 2:15 P.M. GMT

  Bull Durham lay in the back of the stationary Land Rover. Blood seeped through the makeshift tourniquet around his shoulder. He was talking on a small handheld radio, trying to stay calm but becoming increasingly agitated. Ezekiel hovered over him and listened intently. Judd paced back and forth, trying to contain his nervous energy and do his best to decipher the codes Bull was shouting into the radio. “Negative, Sandstone Blue, negative! You have my coordinates!”

  The Imam waited serenely under a mango tree in the courtyard. He caught Judd’s eye and beckoned for Judd to join him. The Imam towered over Judd and in a soft paternal voice said, “It is a shame you came all this way to leave so quickly, Dr. Judd. We have not yet had time to speak. We have many things to discuss.”

  “You’re right. I know. I’m sorry. But Colonel Durham must be evacuated. He’s still bleeding and there’s a terrorist running around here trying to kill us.”

  “Your friend will be safe. You are now safe with me.”

  Durham interrupted with a shout. “The Black Hawk will be back at the extraction LZ in eighteen minutes. They’ll probably beat us there. Let’s roll.”

  Judd turned to the Imam. “I have to go. I’m truly sorry.”

  “Do what you must, Inshallah.”

  Judd paused, then nodded.

  “As-Salamu Alaykum,” said the Imam, closing his eyes.

  “Wa Alaikum As-Salaam,” replied Judd, and then he scurried into the Land Rover.

  As they exited the courtyard gate, Judd turned and watched the Imam standing still and alone, receding in the distance. There goes my best chance to figure out what the hell is going on.

  As the vehicle came up over a sand dune, they were buzzed by the imposing shadow of the American attack helicopter. After landing, two crew members in black uniforms, their faces covered by black helmets and shields, jumped out carrying a stretcher and beelined for the Land Rover. After a brief assessment, they rewrapped Durham’s shoulder, hung an IV bag, and prepared to move him.