The Golden Hour (12 page)

TERMINAL 5, HEATHROW AIRPORT, LONDON

TUESDAY, 12:20 P.M. GMT+1

Judd stepped off the plane, go bag in one hand, the other thumbing through his BlackBerry. His in-box churned like a slot machine as it downloaded hundreds of new messages coming in from all corners of the State Department.

Once off the jetway, he ducked out of the foot traffic and behind a pillar. He took a deep breath and dialed a number.

“Hello?” said a deep male voice.

“General Diallo, this is Judd Ryker, U.S. Department of State. We spoke last night.”

“Dr. Ryker. Yes, I knew you would soon be calling. Jolly good to hear from you.”
So English.

“I’m in London, General. Just for a few hours. Should we meet?”

“Ah, yes, very well. I agree. Brilliant idea. Brilliant. May I suggest Marble Arch? I will be at the Bull and Bear in the
Cromwell Mews, just off the Edgware Road. Shall we say half one, Dr. Ryker?”

“I’ll be there at one thirty, General.” Click.
Too confident.

Judd scanned the airport. Crowds of loud Italian tourists were swelling in the hallways. He receded farther behind the pillar and dialed another number.

“Hi, sweets,” answered Jessica. She was still groggy.
Her sexy morning voice.

“Hey, Jess.”

“Glad you called. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sorry I didn’t call last night. It got crazy and then it was too late. The boys all right?”

“Yes, sure. Except they got up at dawn. You can’t wake them for dead on a school day, but on vacation they’re up with the sun. Always the same. How are things in Mali? What’s happening?”

“About that, Jess. I’m on my way to Bamako now. I’m already at Heathrow. I’m calling you from London.”

“Now?” she said, with less surprise than Judd expected.

“Yeah. Don’t ask. The Secretary’s office is pushing for quick action, so I flew out on the last flight to Europe late last night.”

“Isn’t this exactly what you’ve been wanting? Rapid response, right? Isn’t this why you are at the State Department in the first place?”

“Um, yes. Of course it is.”

“Judd, what’s the hesitation? This is your chance. This is
your
Golden Hour.”

“Right. I know.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“What do you mean?”

“What is your game plan, Judd? First step is obviously to neutralize Idrissa’s moves to consolidate support. He’s probably already bribed the legislature and the newspapers. So, what’s your countermove?”

“We are working on it.”

“I sure hope so. You obviously need to scare him a bit. Threaten Idrissa with sanctions and maybe criminal charges and asset seizures. But you also need to give him an out. What’s the out?”

“We’re working on that, too,” said Judd unconvincingly.

“Good. I’ve got confidence in you. Obviously, so does the Secretary. It’s exciting that she’s asked you. Just do it quickly and then get back here to the beach. We miss you.”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Jess. I’ll try.”

“Sure.”

“You were right about Idrissa.”

“I know. You have a DoD ride-along, right?”

“A what?”

“A DoD ride-along,” Jessica repeats. Then, slowly, “Who is the Pentagon sending with you?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“They don’t just send a civilian professor to confront a junta. Everyone knows that.”

“Uh-huh. They have some colonel meeting me here in London.”

“Is he from public affairs?”

“Special Operations. Durham’s his name.”

“That’s good news. Use him. And let’s hope he’s big. It’ll help with Idrissa. He always struck me as a thug. An insecure thug. Which is the worst kind.”

“Uh-huh,” said Judd, slightly puzzled. “Have you ever met General Idrissa?”

“Me? Oh, no. Just what I’ve read. You must send my love to Papa. Make sure you see him this time.”

“I will. Hug the boys for me, okay?”

“Don’t forget you are in Africa, Judd. Even when you are talking to friends like Papa.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You are going to have to scratch below the surface to figure out what’s really going on. It’s never what it seems. And no one will want to tell you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You are still an outsider.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Everyone will tell you yes, even when they mean no.”

“I remember. I’m actually looking forward to being back.”

“Are you nervous?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Honey, it’s your first time back in Mali since . . . you know. The bomb.”

“I know. I . . . I’ll be fine.”

“And, Judd . . .” she said, switching to her deep, serious voice.

“Yeah, Jess?”

“Keep a close eye on Rogerson. Don’t play the rookie.”

“I know.”

“You better watch your back this time. Don’t let him cut you out again.”

Judd nodded to himself. “Love you.”

“You too.”

Click.

BAMAKO, MALI

TUESDAY, 12:14 P.M. GMT

Papa Toure pushed his way out of the overcrowded minibus onto the street.

“S’il vous plait! S’il vous plait, grand-père!”
implored a young boy, propping up an elderly blind man with one arm and extending a begging hand with the other. Papa, revealing neither annoyance nor sympathy, dropped a coin in the boy’s hand.

Papa weaved his way through the mass of people and darted in between two market stalls selling pineapples and mangoes. He cut through a narrow alley and, after several more deliberate turns, emerged into a large courtyard filled with stalls.

“Good afternoon, madam,” Papa greeted a young woman, sitting behind a tarp and tall piles of fabric typically used to make wraparound skirts. Lying on top was a traditional West African pattern with ovals where the president’s face was usually shown. As Papa stared down at this particular pattern, he recognized the face staring back: Mamadou Idrissa.

“Your wares are very beautiful today,” he said in the local Bambara language.

“Thank you,” she replied with a wide smile.

“This must be very new. I have never seen this pattern before. When did it arrive?” asked Papa.

“The price is very good,” she said, erasing her smile.

“Yes, I’m sure it is. Where did this cloth come from? Mopti? Timbuktu?”

“Special price for you,” she insisted with a serious look on her face.

“Yes, okay, how much?”

“Twenty thousand francs.”

“Ah, no!” said Papa, starting a familiar ritual. “That is too much! You think I am from France? That is too much! I do not even know where it comes from. How can I buy cloth if I don’t know who made it or where it is from?”

“Ten thousand,” she said.

“Still too much! How about four thousand, and you tell me who brought it and when it arrived?”

The woman shook her head and stared intently just over his shoulder.

“You think I am a rich man, that I can buy all these clothes?” Papa continued gesturing wildly, swinging his arms around and turning his head. Away from the woman, he identified the target of her attention. A tall, thin man in a cheap gray suit and dark sunglasses was smoking a cigarette and watching over the market, closely eyeing their transaction.

Papa turned back to the woman, nodding vigorously. “Yes, yes. I can see. I can see now why the cloth is so expensive. It is very good. Yes.” He handed her several bills and she folded the
cloth and placed it into a black plastic bag. As he reached to accept the bag, he whispered to her, “Soldiers? Are they coming to the market?”

She nodded ever so slightly.

“Please, you hold the cloth for me. I will be back tomorrow to get it,” he said, passing the bag back to her.

She shook her head. “No, no.”

“I will come tomorrow. You keep the money.”

“No!” she cried, standing up. Shouting could be heard in the distance, followed by screams. The market woman started to frantically gather her fabric. The noise grew louder. Suddenly soldiers flooded into the square, wielding batons over their heads and overturning tables, sending fruit tumbling across the alleys. The other women scrambled to collect their goods and run. An elderly woman at the far end of the square shouted, “No! No! No!” as a soldier cracked her on the head with a nightstick. She crumpled to the ground.

The man in the gray suit, ignoring the developing chaos in the courtyard, discarded his cigarette and walked directly toward Papa, who dropped the bag and scooted into a side alley. Papa quickened his pace but did not run. He turned crisply through the narrow alleys, following a pattern he knew well. Abruptly, he opened a blue door, slipped inside, and locked the door behind him.

A few moments later, Papa calmly exited the front door of a small café and emerged back onto the main street. He glanced left and right, then he slid on aviator sunglasses and melted back into the crowd.

MARBLE ARCH, LONDON

TUESDAY, 1:25 P.M. GMT+1

The road was lined on both sides by shops and cafés with signs in Arabic. The cafés were all full with Arab men—only men—sitting at small tables in groups of three or four; sipping thick, sugary tea; and arguing loudly. Many were smoking through tall, ornate glass-and-bronze
shishas
, sucking on the snakelike hoses.

Judd turned a corner and stepped from what felt like bustling contemporary Cairo back in time into quiet Dickensian England. Cromwell Mews was a mere cobblestone path of narrow Victorian town houses, marked only by a small black-and-white sign. Tucked tightly at the dead end of the mews was a small wooden door. A hanging sign above announced, with a whisper of local exclusivity, that the visitor had arrived at the
BULL AND BEAR.

Judd opened the door and ducked his head to enter the pub. Once inside, he could see diminutive elderly men sipping on large pints of coffee-colored ale. No one looked up or made eye contact with Judd. Scanning the dark room, he spied, perched on a stool behind a small table in one corner, incongruously, a husky
African man in a houndstooth jacket.
Diallo is positioned to watch the door.
Judd approached him.

“General,” Judd said flatly, extending a hand for a firm, formal handshake and trying his best to suppress his face’s natural instinct to smile.

“Dr. Ryker! Very good to finally meet you,” Diallo responded with a wide grin and vigorous nod. “I have taken the liberty of buying you a pint of Irish stout,” he gestured toward the glass filled with thick chocolate beer and a creamy foam top.

“Thank you, General. Guinness is my drink. How did you know?” Judd took his seat.

“It is good to meet our American friend. I know you have been a good friend of Mali for many years. You and your wife, Jessica,” he said, still smiling.

He was trying to impress Judd with his intel.
Or is that a threat?

“And Africa needs many friends, Dr. Ryker. Especially when we are going through difficult times, like Mali is experiencing today.”

“And you want to help, I am sure, General.”

“Of course. But there is time to come to that. The priority must be security. We cannot have insecurity. Mali and America are under great threat. There are forces that want to tear apart our partnership. To bring bloodshed and mayhem to our peace-loving peoples. We cannot allow that to happen, Dr. Ryker.
You
cannot allow that to happen.”

“What exactly are you saying, General? Do you have specific information?”

“I only know that there are bad men with ill intentions, and they are on the move. The threat is imminent and we cannot be weak. I do know this.”

“I thought you were now a private citizen, General. How can you be so sure, sitting here in London?”

“Check with your people, Dr. Ryker. They know, too. They can explain. I am just a helpful servant of the Malian people. Trying to save us both from a new crisis.”

“My people? Who do you mean?”

“I am a military man, Dr. Ryker. I have been in the army my entire adult life. It is natural for associates to get together. To have a beer like we are doing here in the Bull and Bear. It is very natural for friends to watch a Saturday football match together. Like my side Chelsea over Crystal Palace. And to help one another. To share information about weakness and vanity. To work together to fix problems. To overcome weakness with strength. To defeat the enemy together.”

Judd squinted and took a large gulp of beer to try to hide his confusion.

“Your man called it soccer, of course,” Diallo added.

Judd’s mind was racing, trying to put the pieces together. He took another drink to buy time. Had Diallo just revealed covert contacts here in London with American officials? Why was he disclosing this? Was he suggesting Americans had prior knowledge of the coup?
Did we give him a green light?

Switching tacks, Judd set down the glass and brightened his face, allowing a small smile to appear. “I see, General. Let’s look forward. Let us talk about how we can best overcome the current
situation. I know you do not want any harm to come to President Maiga. And the First Lady, your sister. Have you heard from her? Is she safe?”

Diallo reacted, as Judd hoped, with a wide grin and an exaggerated nod. “Yes, yes, my sister. Very good. You have done your homework, Dr. Ryker. She is safe, of course. She was unable to stiffen the backbone of her husband and get him to see clearly. That is why he is no longer president. Boubacar was too weak.” He was now shaking his head and tsking. “Shame, such a shame.”

“The United States government still considers President Maiga to be the rightful and legitimate head of state. That has not changed.”

“I am aware. We can find a resolution. That is why we are talking here now. Yes, Dr. Ryker?”

“I’m going to Bamako today to meet with General Idrissa. The United States cannot recognize an illegal coup, of course. It would be helpful if he heard from his mentor that our position is set in stone. It cannot be changed.”

“I see.”

“But we do want to find a safe and honorable way out for all.”

“I agree. Yes. I am glad to hear you say this. Mamadou needs advice. And a path. He has become greedy, but I can speak with him. I am still his elder. I am willing to talk to him. But he will need assurances about the future.”

The general paused to ponder how to say what came next.

“Dr. Ryker, you know we cannot allow Mali to fall back into the hands of the irresponsible. The dangers of insecurity are still
too great to permit that. We must find a strong and experienced leader for the nation at this critical juncture.”

Their eyes locked for a moment, broken by Judd’s wooden reply: “That is something we can discuss when the time is right, General.”

“Ask your British and French colleagues. I know they would all welcome my help. I am certain of it, Dr. Ryker. But we do not have much time. Every moment increases the risks.”

“Yes, General. I agree. We must be swift but also patient.” Judd drained the last of his beer and slammed the empty pint glass onto the table. “I’ll be in touch.”

•   •   •

Once safely in a black cab, Judd dialed the number for Simon Kenny-Waddington.

“Simon, it’s Judd Ryker from State.”

“Judd, nice to hear from you. What’s the news from Bamako?”

“Heading there now. I’m in London as I speak. Have you got a tail on General Oumar Diallo yet?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, I just saw him ten minutes ago at a pub off the Edgware Road and he said that London is backing him to return as the compromise replacement to Maiga. You know anything about that?”

“I’ll have to check.”

“When I get to Bamako, I’m going to tell Mamadou Idrissa
that his time is up, so it would be helpful if he was hearing the same thing from London. Can you make that happen?”

“I’ll pass that message to our high commissioner.”

“Thanks, Simon. And one more favor. Are you a Chelsea football fan?”

“No, no,” responded Simon with a slightly derisive chuckle. “Rugby is my game. I played at school and never miss a match at Twickenham. You know football is a gentlemen’s game played by hooligans, but rugby is a hooligans’ game played by gentlemen.”

“My mistake, Simon. We are soccer, I mean football, fans in my family. My son really loves Chelsea, but I’m a Crystal Palace man myself. Do you have any idea when Chelsea next plays Crystal Palace?”

Judd could hear low mumbling on the line, followed by. “Judd, you still there? The chaps here say you just missed it. Two-one Chelsea, I’m afraid. Maybe next time.”

“When was that?”

“Just last Saturday.”

Two days before the coup.