The Golden Hour

by Todd Moss

  “Hold on!” interrupted Judd. “Everyone knows the situation is highly fluid and early reporting is usually wrong. All these new reports need to be assessed. As of right now, our policy and the directions of the Secretary are clear: We are to restore the democratically elected president to office. That is official policy. Our job today is to break this coup. Let’s remember this is the same President Boubacar Maiga that sat next to the Secretary of State at the Jakarta Democracy Summit. He was fully vetted. So let’s not get ahead of ourselves with unconfirmed raw reports. We should allow the intel confirmation process to work before we do anything rash. Let’s stay on task here, everybody. Now, do we have anything further?”

  Silence.

  “Very well. This meeting is adjourned.”

  Judd pushed the button on his phone.

  Christ. Deep breath. Where is this flood of reporting coming from? It’s a fucking hatchet job. He rolled his thumb over the side of the phone, scrolling, scanning for Sunday’s name.

  u there?

  Judd took another deep breath. A hundred yards away, across the dead sea of sand, atop another stark dune, rested the old truck. A small fire flickered next to the pickup. Above him, the stars were so plentiful they appeared like fog. It was even more beautiful than watching the sky from the mountains in Vermont. . . . A welcome bong rang out from his phone.

  Sunday: Roger

  Judd: New reports on BM pouring in but r they true?

  Sunday: Unclear. 2 early 2 say.

  Judd: Suspicious?

  Sunday: Yes

  Judd: Why?

  Sunday: Sole source. Same source

  Judd: Meaning??

  Sunday: Don’t know. Still working on it.

  Judd: One more favor: your friends have any info on a PAPA TOURE? Very discreet please.

  Judd slid his phone into his pocket and gazed into the Saharan night sky. It was clear and the stars were a milky white, a bright sliver of the moon shone down like a spotlight on Judd, standing alone on the dune. Who is Idrissa really working for? What about Diallo? Papa? Luc? Houston? Durham?

  Come to think of it, who am I really working for?

  Judd’s contemplation was interrupted by his buzzing phone. It was too quick for a reply from Sunday. He drew out the phone, which was flashing “Jessica cell . . . Jessica cell . . . Jessica cell.” Shit. Deep breath, push.

  “Hey, Jess.”

  “I won’t ask where you are, but I do want to know how you are. You owe me at least that.”

  “You’re right. I’m fine. Please don’t worry.”

  “I won’t if you tell me not to. Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s nothing on the news about Mali. Nothing at all.”

  “I guess not much to report. How’s the beach?”

  “Toby has the flu. Been throwing up all day. You making headway with Idrissa?”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Who gets the flu at the beach?”

  “Your five-year-old son, apparently.”

  “I’m sorry I’m not there. Give him a hug for me.”

  “You’re not doing anything . . . dangerous, are you, Judd?”

  “Of course not, Jess. I’ve hardly seen the outside of the embassy. Don’t worry. Larissa and diplomatic security keep me wrapped tightly in the bubble.”

  “Hmmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Did you see Papa yet?”

  “No. He’s upcountry. In Dogon. But I did call him. He’s well. Keeping busy.”

  “Stay in touch with him.”

  “Jess, um . . .” He paused.

  “Yes, Judd? Are you cutting out?”

  “Jess, I’m still here. Have you ever had any reason to, um, to doubt Papa? Anything you’ve ever worried about?”

  “Never.”

  “Now that I’m in government, I need to be extra careful. What do we really know about Papa? Doesn’t he seem suspiciously well connected?”

  “No, no, no. He’s just a networker. Remember, he helped introduce us. That’s what he does.”

  “I suppose.”

  “That’s why he’s valuable.”

  “If you say so, Jess.”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “It’s nothing. Never mind.”

  “You know, people often say terrible things about successful people. Try to cut them down just when they are getting ahead.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You should know that as well as anyone.”

  “Right.”

  “You can trust Papa. He is our friend.”

  “Okay.”

  “Judd, I’m telling you. You know I’m a good judge. You. Can. Trust. Papa.”

  “Okay. I know, I know. You’re right. Jess, love to the boys.”

  “These things can quickly get complicated,” she said, ignoring his attempt to get off the phone. “You have to stick with those you can trust. Don’t go looking for new enemies. And watch your back.”

  “I will. I gotta go.”

  “How did that Colonel Durham turn out?”

  “Uh, yes, great guy. You were right about that, too.”

  “Of course I was. Judd, the Special Ops guys can be very useful. They can do things others can’t, you know.”

  “I’m learning that.”

  “You never answered how you were doing with Idrissa. Are you pushing him out?”

  “I’m trying my best. I’ve really got to go.”

  “That doesn’t sound very promising. Come on, Judd, let me help you. Have I been wrong yet?”

  Deep breath. She’s right.

  “Jess, it’s all moving too fast. I can see that something just isn’t right, but I don’t know what it is. What is crystal clear is that the tide is turning against Maiga. I feel like he’s losing. Like I’m losing.”

  “What did I just tell you? You have to stick with those you know you can trust.”

  “That’s part of the problem. I can’t even keep Washington on board. I’ve been trying to play it straight, trying to make the case, but I keep hitting a wall.”

  “Maybe you need a different strategy? If your data is all bad and the frontal approach isn’t working, maybe you need to try something else?”

  “Like what?”

  “You’re in Africa, you’re in the Sahara, Judd. How do people survive there? How have they lived through the droughts, the rise and fall of great empires, just making it through the hard life? How did Malians survive the French empire?”

  “How is that helpful now? I don’t understand.”

  “Think about it, Judd. You know about the scorpion and the snake?”

  “The what?”

  “Do you know what happens in the Sahara Desert when there’s a fight between a scorpion and a snake?”

  “I have no idea. The natural sciences were your thing.”

  “The snake is bigger and stronger, but the scorpion is craftier. A scorpion will play dead, it will make the snake believe that it’s winning, and then, when the time is right . . . the scorpion strikes. That’s how the scorpion wins.”

  Huh?

  “Got it, Judd?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “I knew you would. Good luck, sweets.” Click.

  Judd dropped the phone back into his pocket and scanned over the desert. Despite the serenity, his mind was racing. What’s my next move? Where are all the pieces?

  Judd suddenly felt very alone and self-doubt rushed back into his head. What did Jessica really mean? Am I supposed to play dead?

  He calmed himself and twisted his neck, cracking the vertebrae and clearing his head. He conjured up a mental list of the players and where they fit.

  Maybe I am?

  Judd retrieved his phone and dialed the direct line of Landon Parker, who answered on the f
irst ring.

  “Ryker, I understand you have yourself on a little adventure. I’ve been meaning to call you. The Secretary is concerned. She is preparing for the Euro–Near East Security Partnership summit in Istanbul next week, and the spotlight will be on counterterrorism cooperation. Mali’s not looking so good. We may need to adjust our strategy, Ryker.”

  “Mr. Parker, things have indeed changed here. That’s why I’m calling you. Now that I’m here, it’s definitely not what we initially thought. I know that Washington is anxious about the security situation, and things look like they are turning against President Maiga on the ground.”

  “I see.”

  “Mr. Parker, it may be time you directed Embassy Bamako to make a deal with General Idrissa. If he can deliver the McCall girl and work with the United States to prevent any new attacks, then we can live with new elections next year. Given what we now know and what’s happened over the past forty-eight hours, I believe this is the right course.”

  “I see. I’ll take that under advisement.”

  “And if the mandate is changing, sir, Task Force Mali should be transferred to Assistant Secretary Rogerson once he returns to Washington. He can decide how to best manage the new objective. I appreciate the Secretary’s vote of confidence in S/CRU, sir, but this case has become more complicated than the Golden Hour model.”

  “Yes. I appreciate that, Ryker. It was a good experiment. S/CRU was always a gamble. I think we all recognized that. Hell, maybe you’ll get another shot. Maybe you’ll get lucky and the Solomon Islands will blow up again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Secretary thanks you for your efforts on behalf of the country and the Department. I’ll take care of it.” Click.

  Judd scrolled through his recent calls to Diallo’s cell number, pressed select, copy, and then paste, and texted the number to Sunday.

  Judd dialed another number. “Larissa, it’s Judd.”

  “What the hell was that? The task force is steaming. I don’t think we’re going to be able to hold Washington after that performance.”

  “I know. I don’t understand where all this new reporting on Maiga is coming from, but it’s devastating. I don’t think we have a choice. I appreciate that you’ve been holding the line for me, but it’s time to change course. I think we have to accept Idrissa’s offer to recover Katie McCall. Can you relay that?”

  “Yes, I’ll handle it. But I don’t think that will stave them off. Houston is already assembling a Special Ops team to disrupt Ansar and the attack on the embassy. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but he’s got new information that Bazu Ag Ali is with the cell at a safe house outside Bamako. Houston wants to attack and destroy the cell and grab Bazu. He’s worth more alive. The wheels are in motion. Once he’s ready to launch the mission, I’m going to come under intense pressure to give him clearance.”

  “Give him the green light, Larissa. Let Houston and his Special Ops team loose on Bazu. Do it now.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re up to, but I hope you know what you’re doing. Be safe, Judd.”

  “I will. I’ve got to go. And thank you, Larissa. No matter what happens.”

  Click. Dial.

  “Luc, it’s Judd. Yes, you were right. We need Diallo’s help. It’s the only way to break the impasse. But things are moving fast. If we are going to pull this off, it has to be tomorrow. Relay to Diallo that the United States and France are now both on board. Tell him London, too. Better to come from you than me. But it’s imperative that Diallo is in Bamako tomorrow. He has to be at the Presidential Palace at Koulouba by seventeen hundred. Can you make that happen? I will be there, too . . . bonne . . . bonne . . . au revoir.”

  Judd’s small campfire was growing, the dancing light creating long shadows on the dunes.

  Another call.

  “Mariana, it’s Judd. . . . Yes, thank you, I got the message from Serena. Helpful as always. I’ve got a message for Tata Maiga to deliver to her father. You’re not going to like it, but you need to hear this. Things are moving very quickly, I can’t say what exactly, but the situation in Bamako has changed dramatically. The president’s life is in danger and I can’t protect him. I can’t say any more. He needs to agree to resign. Tomorrow. For the sake of the country . . . I know . . . I know . . . Mariana, this is me here. . . . You think I don’t know that? He needs to resign, but this part is very important, please make sure Tata understands this. The president must insist that any resignation is witnessed by an international guarantor. That’s the best I can do, but it’s essential. He should ask for immunity from prosecution and a pension and a house and cars and all the goodies. . . . Yes, I know he doesn’t care about that. . . . The only absolute redline is the witness. This is the deal breaker. For his safety, it must be a well-known international witness, preferably a high-ranking American. . . . I don’t know who, but Idrissa will figure that out. . . . Yes, I agree, it’s a leap of faith. . . . No, he’s got no other choice. . . . I can’t say why. . . . Mariana, this is the only option right now, and I know you are the only one that can make this happen. It’s got to be tomorrow.”

  Bong from an incoming text. Judd looked down to see it was from Sunday.

  “Good-bye, Mariana.”

  Sunday: Number traced & located. What am I looking for?

  Judd: McCall connection

  Sunday: Roger. Anything else?

  Judd: Papa Toure?

  Sunday: Nothing. Must have the wrong name. Anything else?

  Judd: Check on my DoD liaison, shot in TB2 today, airlifted to unknown location, name = David Durham.

  Sunday: Roger

  One more call before a few hours of sleep.

  “Papa, it’s me. Yes, yes, I saw the Imam. . . . Yes, I think I understand. What have you found in Bandiagara? . . . I see . . . I see . . . okay. . . . Papa, I’m coming to pick you up.”

  48.

  SAHARA DESERT

  THURSDAY, 5:05 A.M. GMT

  HOURS SINCE THE COUP: SEVENTY

  “Rrrrrhhhhhrrrrhhhrrrr!”

  Judd was jolted awake by the hollow elongated belch of a camel. The beast’s open mouth and quivering lips were just inches from his own face.

  “Rrrrrhhhhhrrrrhhhrrrr!”

  Judd jumped up quickly and escaped out of range of camel spittle. He had been sleeping on the roof of the truck cab, and his back was stiff and achy.

  “Shoo! Go away!” he said, flicking an indigo blue Tuareg blanket that was wrapped around him. The camel, now disinterested, wandered off.

  Judd slipped feetfirst from the vehicle’s roof through the open window into the driver’s seat. “Power nap over. Time to go,” he muttered to himself as he turned over the ignition. “Yallah.”

  After several hours’ driving, he finally passed a small piece of weather-beaten wood perched on a rock. Written on the makeshift sign: BANDIAGARA 5 KM.

  “Papa, here I come!” he shouted. Then he thought, You can’t be a radical. It makes no sense. You’re Papa. I’ve known you too long, right?

  A few minutes later, Judd pulled into a small courtyard, where Papa was waiting. At the sight of his friend, grinning from ear to ear and waving like an excited child, Judd’s anxiety evaporated.

  “Ah, Judd! Mon grand ami! My big friend! Bienvenue à Pays Dogon!”

  Judd exited the truck and gave Papa a bear hug. After a brief embrace, Papa held Judd’s shoulders and looked him up and down.

  “You have not aged a bit, my dear Judd. You still look like a graduate student. Of course, you are now a big man, yes. But you still look so young. No gray hair.”

  “It’s good to see you, too, Papa.” Judd noticed that the same didn’t apply to his old friend. Papa’s beard was ashen, his hair thinning, his stomach fat. “Let’s catch up in the car, Papa. We have to hurry. We have to be at the palace in less than twelve hours.”

/>   “And the Grand Imam?”

  “Yes, he was helpful. Thank you. A bit cryptic, given the urgency of the situation. But I think I got the message.”

  “You Americans always like things up-front and straight. It doesn’t work that way in the rest of the world. You know that, mon ami?”

  “I’m still learning, Papa.”

  “Africa is complicated. More than you know. Sometimes we have to make difficult choices. They won’t always be what they appear. It’s not always black and white.”

  “I know, Papa.”

  “It’s not always clear who is the angel and who is the devil.”

  Judd narrowed his eyes.

  Papa continued, “We don’t always know who is who, Judd. Sometimes we shake hands with the devil. We may know, we may not know.”

  “What are you saying, Papa?”

  “Sometimes we don’t want to know, Judd. That’s how to get things done.”

  “I want to know. Is there something you need to tell me, Papa? Are you in trouble?”

  Papa stared directly at Judd. “How long have we known each other?”

  “Eleven years. Since Kidal. With BJ and Jessica.”

  “Correct. That is why I am helping you. That’s why I always help you. And one day, if I need it, I know you will be here to help me.”

  Judd paused for a moment. “Yes, Papa.”

  “Good. Then let’s go to Bamako.”

  The two men climbed into the truck, Judd turned the ignition, and jerked down on the transmission handle, but held his foot on the brake.

  “Papa, I forgot to ask the most important question! Did you find it?”

  “Yes,” said Papa, holding up a small backpack. “Yallah!”

  49.

  CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  THURSDAY, 2:02 A.M. EST

  The lights were off in the cube farm that was the CIA’s Africa Issue office. It would have been completely dark if not for the faint glow from Sunday’s computer screen.

  Sunday pulled a small reporter’s notebook from inside his jacket pocket and read down the list of telephone numbers that he had scrawled. Carefully, he typed the numbers into the keyboard and watched as locations on a map were highlighted by blinking red lights. When he’d finished, he studied the screen, narrowing his eyes, puzzled. He rubbed his chin. “General Diallo, you have been a busy man,” he said aloud.