The Golden Hour (13 page)

SAHARA DESERT, NEAR THE MALI-ALGERIA BORDER

TUESDAY, 1:34 P.M. GMT

Bazu Ag Ali’s camp had only been in place for one day, but he was already feeling jumpy. It was time to move again.

He stepped outside the three-sided tent, the same kind his ancestors had used when they trekked up and down these very same desert tracks by camel to trade salt and gold across the Sahara. Today, trucks had replaced the camels and the cargo was mostly cigarettes and guns. Counterfeit Marlboros and knockoff Eastern European AK-47s.

Bazu, like any respectable smuggler, wouldn’t think of going anywhere without his own AK companion. He’d acquired his eleven years ago, traded for two sacks of rice and a crate of Coca-Cola. The AK was his closest friend and they depended on each other. Bazu stripped and meticulously cleaned the gun every day. In return, the AK provided him with both protection and an honorable living.

Bazu looked to the north for any sign of the Harmattan, the seasonal sandstorm that turned the sky into a milky haze. All
clear. He gazed toward the sun, scanning the sky. Nothing, no clouds, no birds.
No planes.

Time to move. Quick check, three vehicles, all Toyota Hilux pickups stolen from the Malian military. Originally provided by the American government. Two of Bazu’s trucks were outfitted with mounted heavy guns in the back. The third was empty to allow for more cargo.

This day his twelve-man crew, mostly boys he had known since they were children, was hauling unopened crates, stamped with Russian words he couldn’t read. Bazu assumed they were filled with guns, but the price was good enough that he knew better than to ask.

Russians paid well. But they also would hunt you down if you failed to deliver. Knowing this had shaken Bazu’s usual confidence.

He checked the sky again, then called out to his men to load up and prepare to move. Their course was due north today, toward the Algerian border.

Just then his Thuraya satellite phone rang. It was a familiar number from the United Kingdom. He marched off to a far sand dune, out of earshot of the other men.

“Yes,” he answered in formal Arabic. On the line, a voice he recognized asked him about the weather and the direction of the wind. Instructions in code. Bazu listened intently to the series of questions, replied, “As you wish. . . .
Wa Alaikum As-Salaam
,” and then hung up.

Bazu stared off into the distance. It was a rolling sea of white
sand. No choice but to obey. He jogged back to the convoy, idling and ready to go. All the men’s eyes were on him.

Switching back into the native Tamasheq language, he announced, “New plan. Today, we will all earn extra!” Nods and smiles all around. “Yallah, let’s go!”

And they rolled off over the dunes, heading due south. Toward Timbuktu.

TERMINAL 5, HEATHROW AIRPORT, LONDON

TUESDAY, 3:15 P.M. GMT+1

Judd was now running late, but slowed his speedwalking to double-check his flight number up on the screen. As Judd neared the gate, boarding was still under way, so he slowed down and relaxed his shoulders. Standing off to one side and watching over the passengers was a burly and completely bald man in jeans and a tight golf shirt. He had a small navy blue gym bag by his feet. Judd approached him.

“Colonel Durham?”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Ryker, I presume?”

“Glad I found you. Thanks for flying up from Stuttgart.”

“Those were my orders, sir.”

“Well, I’m still glad the Pentagon sent someone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If we are boarding, then I assume this means the Bamako airport is open again?”

“Yes, sir. Our flight will be the first one allowed into the country after they shut it down at oh six hundred yesterday. Lucky timing for us.”

“Yes, lucky. We can talk about the game plan on the plane. General Idrissa is a real scoundrel, but this is going to be fun. You’ve been to Mali before, Colonel?”

“No, sir. I have been fully briefed by the Africa Command in Stuttgart. I am aware of the situation and our objective.”

“Well, I’ll be interested to hear what they’ve told you.”

“Not here, sir,” he said while tilting his head toward the other passengers. “So far, I’ve ID’d three groups. In the northern chairs facing the window are Eastern Europeans, probably Ukrainian or maybe Russian. Definitely ex-military and they know each other. They absolutely work together. I’ll try to get a visual on their passports when they board.”

Judd just nodded and noticed, for the first time, that all the passengers waiting to board were men. They were clustered in small groups and were unusually quiet. Of course.
Who flies into an African country the day after a coup?

Durham continued, “The group of men boarding now are British. They also know each other and, based on their rapport, I am confident they are Special Air Services. That is, British Special Forces, Dr. Ryker. Likely working private security now.”

“Mercenaries?”

“Contractors, sir.”

Judd nodded.

“The other group sitting in those chairs”—Durham was now
looking to his left with his eyes but kept his head steady—“are Americans.”

Judd leaned in close. “Colonel Durham, what Americans would be flying into Bamako today?”

“You mean other than us, sir?” said Durham, with a toothy smile.

A sense of humor.

“They don’t have official passports. Also likely private security. Contractors. Maybe for the mining companies.”

“Could they be undercover?”

“Not based on their tattoos. Recognizable body marks like theirs aren’t permitted in U.S. Special Forces.”

“Of course.”

“Dr. Ryker, if I may, I suggest we hang back, wait for last call, and board once all the others are already on. Keep your passport shielded from view. Last thing we need is to broadcast an American diplomat on the plane.”

Judd nodded, with a touch of satisfaction. Durham appeared calm and cool, but also emitted a hint of suppressed violence.

“You’ve been in Germany long, Colonel?”

“No, only a couple of weeks. Just in between Afghan tours.”

“Where were you stationed?”

“Bagram Airfield, sir.”

“Based on this assignment, I assume you are a special liaison and experienced negotiator with warlords?”

“No, sir,” responded Durham. “I’m a career Green Beret. I have no idea why I was selected for this. I’ve been running aviation teams on counternarcotics campaigns.”

“Airplanes?”

“No, sir. Helicopters. We use Black Hawks and Little Birds to disrupt the Taliban’s opium trade. The poppy fields are their main source of financing, so we patrol the trade routes by air and attack their couriers when we can.”

“Well, this is a very different kind of assignment. I don’t expect much action.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know, I hear the soccer team down in Stuttgart is pretty good. You a soccer fan, Colonel? You ever get to a match?”

“No, sir. No time for that kind of thing. Not my game anyway. I grew up in rural Minnesota. A Twins fan before I could walk. I’m a baseball man.”

U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

TUESDAY, 11:05 A.M. EST

“Who needs a triple cinnamon latte with extra whipped?” asked Serena, holding two tall coffee cups.

“Oh, you spoil me!” said the overweight secretary, squeezed into her chair. Sitting on her desk were a bouquet of plastic flowers, photos of three pudgy children, and a sign declaring
YOUR LACK OF PLANNING IS NOT MY EMERGENCY
. Behind her, on the wall, was a discreet engraving that read
OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF STAFF
.

“I was on my way up here to the seventh floor anyway.”

“That’s a lie, Serena, and you know it! But thank you anyway.”

“How is your mother doing?”

“Oh, she’s doin’ good. Real good. The stitches are supposed to come out next week.”

“That’s wonderful news. So hard to recover from a fall at that age. It’s terrible getting old.”

“Don’t I know it!”

“Are you able to get home at a decent hour and help her?”

“You think the State Department cares about my mother? Mr. Parker always said the right things. It’s all ‘Yes, dear, you go home and take care of your momma.’ But as soon as he’s workin’ late, I’ve got to stay, too.”

“Yep, that’s how it is in this building. Is Parker working late every night?”

“Uh-huh. And most Saturdays, too,” she said, pulling out a tissue and loudly blowing her nose.

“I’m so sorry. That’s just not right.” Serena added a sympathetic shake of the head. Then, quietly, “You hear anything new about Rogerson?”

“I already told you he keeps calling Mr. Parker from South Africa.”

“Has he called again?”

“Early this mornin’.”

“Right. Did he say how it’s going?”

“Doesn’t sound like it’s goin’ too well. That man’s always a grouch. But he was especially snappy today. He’s prob’ly been talkin’ all night.”

“Is he almost done? Is he ready to come home?”

“They keep gettin’ close, but then there’s always a last-minute hitch. I think he’s booked his return flight twice already and had to cancel both times. I don’t have a new return plan.”

“I see.”

“Rogerson sure is popular ’round here.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not the only one asking about him. Lots of people calling up here, asking when Rogerson’s coming back.”

“What people?”

“All kinds. Regional security, political, military. The terrorism people musta called five times. The White House even called over here last night asking about him.”

“Will you keep an ear out for me?” asked Serena.

“Don’t I always?” she replied.

“Yes, you do. Can I ask you about something else?”

“Of course. Shoot.”

Serena lowered her voice. “You know anything about a Purple Cell?”

The secretary’s smile disappeared. “No. I do not know anything about that. And you really should not be asking. You should know better.”

“Oh, okay. I’m sorry I asked. Never mind. I must have heard wrong. Let’s forget it.”

“That’s a good idea. You don’t want to be asking around about that. It doesn’t exist.”

BAMAKO AIRPORT, MALI

TUESDAY, 11:52 P.M. GMT

As Judd stepped out of the plane onto the roll-up staircase, a familiar wall of heat hit him square in the face. It was nearly midnight, but the gentle breeze offered no relief.
Welcome back to Mali.

His stomach twisted as it sank in that Jessica was right. It was the first time he’d been back to Africa in eight months.
The first time since the bombing.

The sky was jet-black, but the airport’s low concrete buildings were illuminated under large spotlights.
Looks the same.
The mobile-phone billboard and the handsome young man with the blue suit and sparkling white teeth were, comfortingly, still there, too. Judd squinted toward the grasses behind the sign. It was pitch-black over where the prefab white building should have been. No attack helicopter anywhere to be seen this time.

At the bottom of the steps was another familiar sight: Larissa James. She was surrounded by a crowd of beefy security men in dark suits. Behind them hummed a three-car train: Peugeot police
car with lights ablaze, white Toyota paramilitary pickup truck, and the ambassador’s black Suburban behemoth. The bumper flags were mercifully sheathed.
Low-profile protest or security measure?

Judd, trailed closely by Colonel Durham, descended the stairs.

“Dr. Ryker. Great pleasure to have you back in Bamako,” said Larissa loudly over the jet engines. Her hand was outstretched for a formal handshake. She was all business.

“Thank you, Ambassador,” he responded, trying not to yell.

She took Judd’s hand and pulled him in close, then into his ear said, “Judd, really good to see you. We will talk later. Just go along and smile. Tonight is all theater.”

Judd nodded emphatically, and then, loudly again, “This is Colonel Durham, our special liaison from the Office of the Secretary of Defense.”

Durham stepped forward, handshakes, polite nodding, and then everyone piled into the vehicles for the quick ride over to the lounge.

As they passed through the door, Judd leaned over to Durham. “Hope you’re wearing your long johns, Colonel.” Just as Durham crinkled his forehead in confusion, they were hit by a blast of arctic air. Judd gave Durham a satisfied nod, then turned back to the lounge.

Larissa was already working the greeting line of officials in white and blue boubous. Judd and Durham joined her for a succession of warm welcomes. “
Merci,
merci.
So nice to have you back in Mali, Dr. Ryker. . . .”

Once they reached the end, the men withdrew to the sofas and
their mobile phones.
Déjà vu.
The only thing different from his previous visit was the missing picture of President Maiga. In its place was a studio photo of General Idrissa, in full military regalia but clearly straining for his most paternal pose.
That was quick.

“Time to move, gentlemen,” interjected Larissa. “Ahmed will take your passports and bring your bags to the residence. You need to get a few hours’ rest, because we’ll be starting very early in the morning. Let’s go.”

•   •   •

Back at the ambassador’s residence, Judd closed the door to his room and dialed a number on his phone.

“Papa, it’s Judd. Sorry to wake you. I’m here.”

“You are welcome, Judd. You have come back to Mali at the right time.”

“I still need your help, Papa. I spoke with Luc and I have been pushing my people for information, but things are not getting clearer. Just the opposite. They are getting murkier.”

“Timbuktu. Judd, I have been telling you about Timbuktu since you were last here. You remember, yes?”

“Of course I remember, but I still don’t know what you mean. I’m trying to figure it out, but I need more clues. Papa, my friend, just tell me, what in the name of Allah is going on in Timbuktu?”

“Judd, we cannot speak of such things on the phone. You must go there to find out. I will send a message to the Grand Imam to expect you. He is very wise. He has tales to share.”

“The Grand Imam?”

“Go to Timbuktu. See the Imam. Listen to him. All will become clearer and the way forward will come to you.”

“I know we are old friends and I need your help, but I can’t just drop everything and rush off to Timbuktu on a whim. That would be crazy.”

“‘Love all, trust a few.’”

“What’s that? Are you quoting Emily Dickinson again? I don’t understand, Papa.”

“Shakespeare. Judd, you disappoint me.
All’s Well That Ends Well.
You should know that!”

“I still don’t get it.”

“I’m asking you to trust me on this. You have come to me for assistance and I’m advising you to go to Timbuktu.”

“Now? Are you saying I need to go to Timbuktu now?”

“Rest, my friend. Tomorrow. You go tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you come with me? I’ll come get you. We can go together.”

“I am not in Bamako, I am in Bandiagara, near the border with Burkina Faso.”

“In Dogon Country? Why?”

“I came today to inspect Haverford’s water projects. It is very beautiful here. You remember?”

“Now? To check on your projects? Mali’s in the middle of a coup, Bamako is a fiasco, and you choose now to tour the countryside? Come on, Papa. You are asking me to trust an old friend, and I do trust you. But I don’t buy that story for a second.”

“See, Judd, you understand more than you think. Van Hollen always had a good eye for talent. He was right about you.”

“What does that mean? What does BJ have to do with this?”

“Go see the Grand Imam in Timbuktu and then you will know what to do next.”

“I don’t know. I’m here to meet Idrissa. I don’t have much time.”

“Go to Timbuktu.”

“I’ll think about it, Papa.”

“Sleep well,
mon ami
. You have a lot on your shoulders. You have a big day tomorrow.”