The Golden Hour

by Todd Moss

  “VIP? Who?”

  “General Oumar Diallo.”

  56.

  SAHARA DESERT

  THURSDAY, 4:16 P.M. GMT

  “Go! Go! Go!” yelled Durham into his headset. The Special Operations soldiers threw ropes over the sides of the helicopter and rapelled to the ground.

  The Black Hawk was hovering just 120 feet over a small compound, but Durham watched the action via infrared satellite on a monitor on the helicopter’s dashboard. The screen showed red ghost figures in tight formation surrounding a small structure. Then, like a choreographed ballet, half the group fanned out to a perimeter and the other half, with an eerie combination of grace and extreme violence, entered the building in precise synchronization. On the screen, bright flashes showed live fire as the troops reached their target and destroyed any resistance. They grabbed a single body and exited the structure.

  “Chalk One, area is secure! We have the target, Chalk Two! Moving to the extraction zone now!” were the reports coming into Durham’s headset.

  His Black Hawk landed just east of the compound, while the other chopper set down on the west side. The doors swung open and in poured the soldiers, carrying the captured body, wrapped tightly in a gray blanket.

  Once Durham confirmed that all were on board, he gave the pilot an aggressive thumbs-up. “Go! Go! Go!”

  The Black Hawk elevated slowly, the engines whined louder, and then, like a cannon shot, it vanished over the horizon with its valuable cargo.

  57.

  K STREET, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THURSDAY, 12:22 P.M. EST

  “Darling!” bellowed Mariana Leibowitz. In a tight lavender gym outfit, full makeup, and dangling gold earrings, she paced impatiently around her office as she talked into her headset.

  “. . . I know, Derek, I know that the Washington Post doesn’t give two shits about a coup in West Africa. I have been reading the papers and the overthrow of President Maiga didn’t get more than a two-inch summary on A22. This was a major story, and you wedged it between a bus crash in El Salvador and another flood in Bangladesh. You missed the story, Derek!”

  Her stride accelerated. “This is me you’re talking to. It’s Mariana, remember? I know how your business works, but you can do better than that, Derek.”

  Through her floor-to-ceiling window overlooking McPherson Square, she could see Lafayette Square and, through the trees, the gates to the White House.

  “Yes, okay, well, what if the Pentagon was involved? What if there is a link to a drug kingpin? Is that sexy enough, Derek? Would that get your attention?”

  On the streets below, crowds of tourists intermingled with the white-collar suits of K Street, the lawyers and lobbyists. The worker bees of the American political machine.

  “No, I don’t have anything on paper I can share with you. You know that already. But I am sure an experienced professional like you knows exactly whom to call for confirmation. . . . Yes, I can get you someone, but off the record, of course. Not today. Soon.”

  58.

  PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, BAMAKO

  THURSDAY, 4:38 P.M. GMT

  “You have failed me.”

  “No . . .” said Oumar Diallo, spitting blood onto the dank stone floor. “It is not too late.”

  Mamadou Idrissa shook his head in pity. “You have failed. You were once great and powerful, but no longer.”

  Diallo stared up at his former protégé, in a freshly pressed navy blue banker’s suit, so out of place in the filthy prison cell. “No!” he screamed.

  “No one can hear you down here, Oumar.”

  “You were always the smart one, Mamadou,” he said, twisting his wrists to strain the ropes holding him to the chair. “Who is the one who found you when you were small and insignificant? It was me. Who promoted you above all the others? It was me. Who gave you the opportunity? It was me.”

  Idrissa turned away and angled his head sideways, his vision following long streaks on the grimy wall. He wondered if the stains were mold or dried blood.

  “Mamadou, it was me!”

  “Yes,” said Idrissa, turning back to his captive. “I was grateful. But that was long ago. Now you have failed. It is a shame.” Idrissa gazed tenderly at his former master, Diallo’s face barely recognizable with his eyes swollen nearly shut, his cheeks puffy and dark. “Now I am the big man.”

  “Yes, Mamadou.”

  “I am sorry. That is our fate. It cannot be avoided now.”

  “No . . .”

  “It can be no other way. Our deal is finished. You did not fulfill your part. There is nothing more I can do.”

  “No. It is not over. Please, Mamadou,” pleaded Diallo. “You can keep the money. The business, too. I will go back to Europe. I will be quiet. I know that my time has passed and your time has come.”

  “It is too late for that.”

  “I can fix everything.”

  “You promised me that you would handle the Americans.”

  “Yes.”

  “You assured me that you knew how to manage their fears.”

  “Yes.”

  “You and that Tuareg Bazu were supposed to take care of the girl.”

  “Yes! It is not too late, Mamadou!”

  “No.” General Idrissa calmly drew a pistol from inside his jacket, licked his lips, and fired a single bullet though the center of General Oumar Diallo’s forehead.

  “No,” he repeated softly. “No.”

  59.

  PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, BAMAKO

  THURSDAY, 5:00 P.M. GMT

  HOURS SINCE THE COUP: EIGHTY-FIVE

  Judd rolled down the window and tried to explain in simple, impatient English.

  “We are part of the American government delegation. Do you see that convoy? We are with them!” Judd pointed through the gate at the ambassador’s SUV. He could see Larissa James and Senator Bryce McCall walking through a reception line of boubous and military uniforms. It looked like the whole embassy was there, too. Cyrus, Colonel Randy Houston, and a train of protocol and security officers. A field of TV cameras were set up to one side to record their arrival.

  “You must let us through.”

  The soldier clearly didn’t understand English, but he was repeating, “No.” He was obviously nervous: His fingers tapped the AK-47 strapped across the front of his chest; his yellow eyes darted from Judd to Papa and back. Soldiers in desert camouflage and Red Berets were now emerging from behind sandbag barricades to surround the vehicle. “No.” He was shaking his head. “No.”

  Papa Toure leaned forward. “Let me try.” Papa looked directly at the soldier and took off his sunglasses.

  “Grand homme, mon ami . . .” and then switched to a local language Judd didn’t understand.

  He spoke softly and raised both hands, and then with one hand slowly opened the door. On the clack of the door, the soldier suddenly pointed the AK right at Papa. A circle of other soldiers leapt up, all guns pointing at the pickup truck. Papa continued to talk calmly, with his hands raised, and moved to the front of the vehicle to continue the conversation. The other soldiers were becoming increasingly agitated; some were shouting, one was talking nervously into a radio.

  Beyond the gate, Judd could see that the ambassador’s group had finished with the welcome party and was now entering the palace. “Papa, hurry. Tell him we’ve got to go. Now.”

  Papa nodded, but his eyes were locked on the soldier. The last of the entourage had now disappeared, but the standoff outside the gate seemed no closer to resolution. Hurry, Papa.

  60.

  U.S. EMBASSY, BAMAKO

  THURSDAY, 5:02 P.M. GMT

  Guards were nestled behind a wall of sandbags, two blocks away from the gate to the embassy of the United States of America. Their commander had positioned them to create an extra buffer zone around the embassy g
ate protected by U.S. Marines. They knew something was different tonight because they had been given live ammunition and were barred from sleep rotation. Their commander claimed the orders were because of a visiting American VIP.

  But the men were suspicious. Why would the world’s most powerful nation need them for protection? They also knew, despite the praise of their commander, that the outer security perimeter was less a first line of defense than a trip wire for an attack.

  As the soldiers traded cigarettes and complained about late paychecks, one of the men shared a rumor circulating among the troops: A new terrorist group, of Libyans and Egyptians trained in Saudi Arabia, was planning to attack one of the foreign embassies. Maybe even tonight. He’d heard they are fierce, fearless, and, a fact especially unsettling to the others, that they use Egyptian magic to turn invisible.

  A guard peered cautiously over the sandbag wall, aiming his .50 caliber gun across the street, sweeping his eyes and the gun back and forth for anything suspicious. So far, he saw nothing. Nothing to shoot, yet.

  61.

  PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, BAMAKO

  THURSDAY, 5:08 P.M. GMT

  Papa smiled and nodded. He exchanged an elaborate handshake with the soldier that ended with a snap. Breakthrough!

  Papa climbed back into the truck. “Yallah, let’s go.”

  “We’re in? How’d you do that?”

  “It’s okay, let’s go.” The soldiers stood aside, the gate opened, and they pulled into the circular driveway of Mali’s Presidential Palace at Koulouba. Judd and Papa raced from the car and headed through the elaborate front door, beelining for the salon. I’ve been here twice before; I know my way.

  When they reached the main room, Judd and Papa paused and made eye contact. They exchanged quick, knowing nods. Then in unison they pushed open the large wooden double doors, straining with both hands, the two of them bursting through the doorway.

  Inside, it was suddenly dead silent as all eyes turned to the intruders. General Idrissa, dressed in an immaculate blue business suit, was perched high on a throne, a faux-baroque table in front of him. Senator Bryce McCall and President Boubacar Maiga were also seated at the table, each with a pen in hand.

  On either side of them stretched a long line of chairs. Sweeping to the right was Idrissa’s new cabinet, with a wall of uniformed soldiers in red berets at attention behind them. To the left were the Americans: Ambassador James beside the senator; the defense attaché, Randy Houston; the CIA station chief, Cyrus; followed by half a dozen other embassy suits. Security men, all Oakleys and earpieces, stood behind them. Two perfectly symmetrical arcs of diplomacy and security. All in suspension. All staring at me.

  “Mr. President, you don’t need to resign.”

  “Judd, what are you doing?” Larissa was distraught.

  “What is going on? Who the hell is this?” demanded McCall.

  “Judd Ryker, Crisis Reaction Unit, U.S. Department of State. Do not sign anything, Senator.”

  General Idrissa stood up aggressively. “Security! Arrest this trespasser!” Several soldiers moved toward Judd and Papa. The ambassador jumped up and blocked their path, shielding Judd and Papa.

  “No! Let him speak!” The American security team rushed to her side, forming a perimeter around the three of them. A standoff.

  Larissa turned around. “Judd, you better be right.”

  “This is an outrage!” yelled Idrissa. “You are insulting Mali. You are endangering our security! We must have security!”

  “Senator,” said Judd, as calmly as he could, “you are today being asked to witness President Maiga’s resignation and General Idrissa’s installation, but it is a vast web of lies. The charges against the president are untrue. Our partnership with General Idrissa is based on a carefully constructed fiction. Virtually everything in your briefing book, everything that General Idrissa has told you, everything that he has told us, is a fabrication.”

  Now the American side was looking uncomfortable, too. Cyrus and Colonel Houston shifted in their chairs.

  “It’s all been too easy. Only today have I finally been able to figure out why. To put all the pieces of the puzzle together. With me here is Papa Toure from the Haverford Foundation. I picked him up in Bandiagara this morning and raced here so you can hear it straight from him. You can see what he’s found.”

  Papa stepped forward and held up a small brick, wrapped in burlap. “Heroin,” said Papa nonchalantly. He tossed the package onto the table in front of Idrissa, where it landed with a heavy thud.

  “And there’s more. There are hundreds of these bricks in caves in Dogon Country.” Papa bowed his head deferentially. “Mr. President.” He passed his cell phone to President Maiga, who looked at the image, shook his head in disgust, and then handed the phone to Senator McCall. On the screen was a photo of a small cave containing hundreds of identical burlap bundles. “Taken yesterday in Yaba.”

  “This shipment came in by plane from Pakistan. And it was unloaded and guarded by the Scorpion strike force,” said Judd.

  “What are you talking about?” asked a confused Senator McCall.

  “The poppies are grown in Afghanistan, collected from farmers by the Taliban, and then moved into Pakistan for processing into heroin. They then smuggle the heroin by plane, truck, and camel into weak states as a funnel into the streets of Europe and North America. Mali has become a major hub of the heroin pipeline. And the profits go directly to the Taliban. We built and trained the Scorpions to fight terrorism. But Idrissa has turned them into a private protection racket for his own drug smuggling. And it’s a business that is killing American soldiers.”

  “Lies!” roared Idrissa.

  Colonel Houston shook his head and leered at General Idrissa. “The Taliban, Mamadou?” he muttered. “How could you?”

  The Red Berets stood their ground.

  “Everyone in the village knows, even the children,” said Judd.

  “Who do you think showed me where to find the caves?” asked Papa coolly. President Maiga nodded gently.

  “Who is this stooge? He has no standing here!” growled Idrissa. “This man is the terrorist. We have proof. Arrest him!”

  “No,” said a deadpan Cyrus. “I have known Papa Toure for twenty years and vouch for him. He is highly credible.” Cyrus and Papa exchanged subtle nods of recognition.

  Judd shot Papa a shocked look. Papa raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment.

  “What about the terrorist attack?” asked Houston. “The Scorpions were ambushed yesterday by Ansar al-Sahra. And they are planning to attack the embassy today. That’s why we dispatched a Special Operations team today, to disrupt the cell.”

  Judd turned back to the crowd. “How could that massacre have happened in Timbuktu when the unit was in fact in Bandiagara? Has anyone seen the bodies?”

  “The Scorpions are from the same area of Dogon. I spoke with the families this morning,” said Papa. “No one knows anything about an attack.”

  “How could that be?” asked Judd. “Perhaps the attack never happened. It’s another fabrication.”

  “How is this possible?” demanded Senator McCall.

  “I’ve been asking myself the same question,” said Judd. “Then finally it all started to fit together. Everything, one way or another, comes from a single source. The terror attacks. The intel on Ansar al-Sahra. The corruption charges against President Maiga. The supposedly terrorist bomb that nearly killed Ambassador James and me eight months ago. The sniper who shot Colonel Durham yesterday. It all comes back to one person, and all the rest is just circular. That one source: General Mamadou Idrissa.”

  “I still don’t understand,” said McCall to no one in particular.

  “Ansar al-Sahra is probably not even real,” added Judd. “We’ve been buying everything that Idrissa has been selling us. That’s likely why our own military, through Gener
al Oumar Diallo in London, gave him a green light for the coup against President Maiga.”

  “Randy, is this right?” Larissa whipped around toward Colonel Houston, who was looking at the floor and still shaking his head.

  “Of course it’s right,” said Judd. “And I’m hearing from a friend back in D.C. that the Washington Post already has the story. They know the Defense Department was too close to the coup maker and they are ready to run the story once they get a government source off the record to confirm it.”

  “We can’t allow that,” said the Senator McCall. “We can’t let one loose cannon defense attaché undermine all our counterterrorism operations. It’ll be like the Church Committee in ’75 all over again. The press will have a field day. Congress will be forced to react. Probably to overreact. If our training and equipment unwittingly went to drug traffickers, then we have to stop it, but we can’t have this in the newspapers. I won’t allow it.”

  “It gets worse, Senator.” Judd held up his phone. “We’ve got new signals intelligence that proves your daughter’s kidnappers have been in direct contact with General Diallo. We thought it was initially a negotiation contact, but now the CIA can confirm that Diallo has long been in touch with a well-known gun and cigarette runner who has been holding your daughter. His name is Bazu Ag Ali. He’s a smuggler and a mercenary, not al-Qaeda. Cyrus can check with his colleagues back in Virginia if you need further confirmation. Diallo is the mastermind behind her disappearance and the ransom. Bazu is just a pawn in their game.”

  Judd paused to let that sink in. “And if General Idrissa is promising to recover Katie safely, then that means he’s also been in direct contact with his old mentor Oumar Diallo. He is presenting himself as her savior, but he’s obviously in league with the kidnappers.”