The Golden Hour

by Todd Moss

  Judd looked down at Durham. “You’re gonna be all right, Bull.”

  “Yeah, I know. Don’t look so nervous. I’m not gonna die. Not my first time getting shot.”

  “If you say so,” said Judd, eyeing the shirt saturated with dark red blood.

  “Fucking hell of a way to see Timbuktu.”

  “Damn shame. We got so close.”

  “You get anything from the Imam?”

  Judd shook his head. “We’ll have to figure out another way.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Time to go, sir!” barked one of the crew. “We’ve been on the ground too long. This perimeter is insecure and there is an active hostile in the area.”

  “Maybe . . . I should stay,” said Judd.

  Bull’s eyes widened in momentary disbelief, then narrowed. “Ambassador James and the station chief?”

  “Tell them you were in shock.”

  Durham nodded, and the two gripped forearms as the crew lifted Bull away.

  In a moment, the Black Hawk was up in the air and then it accelerated, the dark shadow disappearing over the dunes.

  42.

  JOINT BASE ANDREWS, MARYLAND

  WEDNESDAY, 10:42 A.M. EST

  Bryce McCall, the silver-haired four-term United States senator from Pennsylvania and chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, was resting comfortably in the reclining leather VIP seat at the back of the Air Force Gulfstream C-37B. He was sitting in a top-of-the-line corporate jet that the Pentagon had on standby for just such occasions. On the mahogany side table was a Philadelphia Phillies coffee cup, the senator’s preferred mug when he traveled.

  The official reason for the secret one-man congressional delegation was a firsthand inspection of counterterrorism cooperation in the Sahara by the Senate’s most senior foreign policy leader. At least that’s what the flight order listed.

  On the senator’s lap lay a thick binder, teeming with information about U.S. military and civilian activities designed to contain the threat of violent extremism across West Africa. A red tag highlighted a page about Ansar al-Sahra, the latest jihadist group that U.S. intelligence was actively tracking. The next page explained in short simple sentences the role of a General Mamadou Idrissa and Operation Sand Scorpion, the U.S. train-and-equip program for counterterrorism strike teams. It reported that cooperation had already yielded the interception of several planned attacks and the detention of nineteen probable terrorists. A helpful multicolored bar chart displayed data showing an increase in terrorist disruptions since the beginning of the program. Results.

  Behind that page was a short summary of the coup d’état against President Boubacar Maiga that had occurred just two days earlier, but Senator McCall, irritable and distracted on the best of days, was already tired of reading.

  He leafed through the rest of the pages, pausing on a set of sepia, light-brown satellite photos that caught his eye. Bright red circles and arrows identified trucks and tents, the labels clarifying this as an active terrorist cell. He shook his head. “Bastards,” he muttered to himself.

  An Air Force escort interrupted. “Sir, we are wheels up in ten minutes. Our flight time to Stuttgart is in eight hours and forty minutes. We’ll arrive in time for a quick dinner and some rest. You will have breakfast at oh six hundred with the Africom commander at Kelley Barracks, then receive a briefing from the staff before our flight down to Mali. Our arrival in Bamako will be sixteen hundred local time and the ambassador—her name is Larissa James—will meet you at the airport. We’ll have you cleared and on time for your meeting at the Presidential Palace at seventeen hundred. General Idrissa has asked to welcome you personally. Any questions, sir?”

  McCall shook his head and waved the escort away. The senator spent the next few minutes mindlessly flipping through the pages. He arrived at a thick section labeled McCALL DRUG KINGPIN AMENDMENT COMPLIANCE, which detailed in bland noncommittal language the annual assessment of Mali’s cooperation on stemming the flow of narcotics. “The GoM is making forward progress in institutional capacity building with the drug enforcement units. . . .”

  Despite the section bearing his name, McCall was merely pretending to read, the words rolling through his mind but their meaning not registering. He stopped and closed the file. The senator pulled a small picture of a young girl from his wallet and cradled it in his palm.

  The airplane’s engines revved up, so McCall tucked the picture into his briefing book and buckled his safety belt. The escort returned to the back to explain safety procedures, but the senator was staring right through her. He clearly had other things, more precious things, on his mind today.

  Unexpectedly, the engines then shut down. The door seal popped like the sound of opening a fresh can of tennis balls. A youthful black man in civilian clothes, out of breath, leapt into the cabin and strode down the aisle toward the senator.

  “Sir”—deep breath, hands on his knees—“I have been sent by Langley to relay new information.”

  “Young man, you are delaying my flight. It better be goddamn important.”

  “Yes, Senator. We have new reports just in from the Agency’s station chief in Bamako that indicate a heightened risk of terrorist attack. We have credible information, supported by an increase in electronic chatter, that an attack on U.S. interests may be imminent, possibly within the next twenty-four hours. The embassy therefore recommends against your trip to Mali at this time.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “I can’t say, sir. Raw intelligence, backed up by data. The assessment by the station and the embassy concludes it is credible. Or I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Who are you, young man?”

  “My name is Sunday, sir. I’m the Mali analyst at the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “My parents are Nigerian. And I was born on—”

  “Sunday. Right, I get it,” interrupted the senator. “Well, young Sunday, this plane is mine today, and you can tell Langley, your station, and Ambassador Marisa Jamison, or whatever her name is, thank you for their concern. But I’ll be arriving as planned. Tomorrow at four o’clock. You can tell them I told you that directly. And then I threw you off my fucking airplane.”

  Sunday barked out a quick “Yes, Senator,” spun, and headed for the door.

  43.

  TIMBUKTU, MALI

  WEDNESDAY, 3:32 P.M. GMT

  Judd sat in the Imam’s salon, alone on a vast ornate pillow, shoes off, a tray of thick black tea and small round lemon biscuits on the floor in front of him. He was trying to be calm, but the events of the past hour were racing through his head. So many questions. What is going on? How will I get home?

  The room was austere; except for the pillows and a patchwork of carpets, there was no decoration. No Saudi money pouring in here.

  After a few minutes, the Imam entered, apologizing for having had to attend to another visitor. He gracefully sank onto the pillow beside Judd.

  “You are very welcome to Timbuktu. Papa Toure has told me many things about you and your good work. I know you are a friend of Africa and a friend of Mali. You are most welcome here. As-Salamu Alaykum.”

  “Wa Alaikum As-Salaam, Grand Imam. I am happy to be here, and thank you for making time for my visit. I know we have much to discuss. But I must first know about the sniper who shot Colonel Durham. He tried to kill me and he’s still out there. How do you know I am safe to be here?”

  “I am very sorry about your friend’s troubles.” The Imam nodded. “But I am very sure that he is now in good hands. You should not be afraid, Dr. Judd. You are safe here with me.”

  “How do you know? Who was the shooter? Was he trying to stop me from seeing you? Is he Ansar al-Sahra?”

  “No true Muslim would fire a weapon inside a mosque. But I will come to that. First, I must know abo
ut your family. Are they all well? Papa tells me you have two strong sons. That is very good.”

  “Yes, thank you. They are well. They are strong.” Judd took a deep breath. Be patient. The ritual matters. “And how is your family, Grand Imam?”

  “They are very good. Thank you. My children are now all in Bamako. Except one daughter, who is studying in Paris.”

  “Wonderful,” replied Judd. “I am sure you are very proud of her. It’s a shame she has to go so far from her father for education, rather than stay here. I know things are difficult here. Can we talk about the situation in Timbuktu?”

  “Yes, yes, we will. I first want to thank you and the United States of America.”

  “You are welcome, but what for?”

  “The manuscripts. The ancient library of Timbuktu was once lost, but the manuscripts have been recovered, Alhamdulillah. And they are now being restored with the help of America. With the support of the Haverford Foundation. We are very grateful. The manuscripts record Timbuktu’s glorious history, our stories, and our advancements in mathematics and astronomy. They are very precious to our culture. To Mali. To the world. We are grateful that they will never be lost again and will live forever, Inshallah. They are now quite famous, I believe. Would you like to visit the library?”

  “Yes, I would, thank you. I am a student of Mali’s history. But I think we need to first discuss the situation in Timbuktu today. Papa Toure assured me that you could illuminate what’s going on here. Grand Imam, what can you tell me?”

  “Dr. Judd, do you know Anansi?”

  “Anansi the spider? From children’s folk tales?”

  “Yes. Yes, you know Anansi, Dr. Judd. Very good, yes.” The Imam chuckled and smiled broadly. Then he became serious again. “But do you know the ancient story of Anansi and the missing yams? That is the important story for us today.”

  Judd shook his head.

  “Very well. Please be patient and allow me to tell you.”

  Judd nodded and reclined into the large pillow.

  “Anansi the spider was feeling strong. He was fat and he was happy. The rains were good and he had plenty of his favorite yams. They were keeping him very satisfied. But one day he noticed that some of his yams were missing. What was happening? he thought. Hyena was watching Anansi and saw that he was looking puzzled.

  “Hyena whispered, ‘Someone is stealing your yams, I think.’

  “‘Are you sure?’ asked Anansi. ‘Why would anyone steal my yams?’

  “Hyena shook his head. ‘Yes someone is stealing them and I have a good idea who it might be. You must be very careful.’

  “Anansi was now growing angry. ‘Who? Who is stealing my yams?’ he demanded to know.

  “‘I really shouldn’t say,’ said Hyena, ‘but I did see Monkey eating yams this morning. Perhaps it is Monkey.’

  “Anansi thought for a moment and then walked off to search for Monkey. Hyena trailed, out of sight.

  “When Anansi found Monkey, he approached him. ‘Excuse me, Monkey, have you been eating my yams?’

  “‘Why, no, of course not,’ replied Monkey.

  “‘Someone has been eating my yams. Whoever it is, they should know I will be watching closely,’ said Anansi, and he turned and went home.

  “The next day, Anansi went out to check on his yams. More were missing. Hyena walked up to him, said, ‘Tsk, tsk,’ and shook his head at Anansi. ‘Monkey was just here eating your yams.’

  “Anansi ran off to find Monkey. Hyena came, too, this time trotting just behind Anansi. When Anansi found Monkey, he immediately confronted him. ‘My yams are missing, and you have eaten them! I know it is you! If you do it again, I am going to bite you!’ Monkey acted surprised by the threat but said nothing.

  “As they walked away, Hyena turned to Anansi and said, ‘Well done. If he eats your yams tomorrow, I will help you, and we will both bite Monkey.’

  “Early the next morning, Hyena woke Anansi. ‘Hurry! Monkey has done it again. This time he has stolen all your yams! We must get him!’

  “Anansi jumped up and ran out to find Monkey, Hyena skipping alongside, urging him on. When Anansi found Monkey resting under a tree, he ran up to him and, without warning, bit him. Monkey yelped in pain and ran off crying.

  “‘You have done well,’ said Hyena. ‘You tried to warn him, but he didn’t listen. Monkey won’t be stealing anyone’s yams now.’

  “Anansi nodded.

  “‘You can grow more yams, and I will keep watch for you in case anyone else tries to steal them,’ said Hyena. ‘I will see you tomorrow.’

  “Anansi felt proud. He walked home thinking about how he and Hyena had taught Monkey a lesson and how the two of them would protect his yams.

  “On his way, a whisper came from behind a tree. ‘Anansi . . .’ called Tortoise. He was very old and his voice was soft, so Anansi had to come very close to hear.”

  The Imam was also whispering in this part of the story, so Judd had to sit up and lean in close.

  “‘Anansi, I have some very bad news for you, I’m afraid.’

  “‘Yes, Tortoise?’ answered Anansi.

  “‘Monkeys don’t eat yams.’

  “‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  “‘I have lived in the forest for four hundred years, and I have never seen a Monkey eat a yam.’

  “‘So . . . who does eat yams?’ asked Anansi.

  “‘Only two creatures. Spiders . . . and hyenas.’”

  44.

  CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  WEDNESDAY, 11:35 A.M. EST

  Sunday kept typing on his keyboard, but he was getting the same rejection:

  Access restricted.

  This can’t be right, he thought. To clear his head, he exited his cubicle and took a walk down a long corridor. I’m the CIA analyst for Mali. Who would be denying me access to primary intelligence reports?

  He rode the elevator to one of the CIA’s subbasements, arriving with a gentle thud. The doors opened to another long, well-lit hallway. At the end, a receptionist and two security guards were stationed, blocking passage to a heavy steel door.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” he asked the middle-aged woman sitting at the desk.

  “Hello, Sunday,” she replied, revealing a glint of affection.

  “This heat wave is making me wish we were back in Mexico City.”

  “I wouldn’t know about the weather. I’m down here,” she said, gesturing at the windowless hallway.

  Sunday nodded in sympathy. “How’s Albert?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, either. They’ve sent him off to Ulan Bator or somewhere like that. He can never tell me.”

  “Aaay.” Sunday nodded again. “Listen, I need a favor,” he said, lowering his voice.

  “I figured. Why else would you be down here in the tomb?”

  “I need to access the primary records for something I’m working on. Can I get in?” he asked, holding up the ID badge around his neck.

  “I can’t let you in here. You know that. You should be able to see everything you need on the network.”

  “It’s not working. I’m getting the summary reports, but I can’t get into all the core files I need. I can’t cross-check the sources.”

  “Well, there’s nothing I can do. You know that. You have to call the central network administrator for that. I’m sorry.”

  “Aaay, I did, but it’s going to take a few hours, and I just need a few minutes to check the sourcing for a handful of reports. It’s urgent. I’d really appreciate it.”

  “I’m really sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  “Listen, I’m not supposed to tell anyone,” said Sunday, leaning in closely. “I am doing a special project for Senator Bryce McCall. Very hush-hush. Very urgent. He tasked me to run down some information before he lands in Afric
a, but his office didn’t send the formal request upstairs before his flight took off, and now he’s somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. You know those Hill staffers. Some kid who couldn’t care less about intelligence protocol. But if I don’t have that data for the senator when he lands, I’m going to be in a heap of trouble.”

  She looked up at him, a hint of sympathy on her face.

  “I can’t.”

  “I’m also not supposed to tell you, but his daughter has been kidnapped. By al-Qaeda.”

  “How terrible,” she stammered, touching a locket around her neck.

  “Aaay. You can’t tell anyone.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I just need ten minutes inside.”

  She took a deep breath, and anguish washed over her face. “You have four.”

  “Thank you. How do I find the right files quickly?”

  “Depends. What exactly are you looking for?”

  “I need the raw reporting in from Station Bamako, with source codes. Everything from the last six months.”

  After a moment and a few swift keystrokes, the woman wrote a code on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Try this. You can narrow the list by adding keywords in the search field.”

  She nodded to the two guards, who obediently stepped aside. Sunday positioned his head in front of a small camera in the wall that scanned his face. He widened his eyes, and a green light dropped like a curtain across his iris. A loud buzz, and a clack, and the steel door opened with a rush of air.

  Once inside, the all-white room was empty except for a bank of computer terminals, also white. Sunday took a seat in front of one at the far end. He typed in the code and the screen revealed a list of reports, all in from Bamako. The top of the list said “Total Found: 214.” He typed “Ansar al-Sahra” into the search field and a new list appeared. “Total Found: 19.”