The Golden Hour (17 page)

S/CRU DIRECTOR’S OFFICE, U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

WEDNESDAY, 9:48 A.M. EST

Serena arrived holding a thirty-two-ounce macchiato quad, the one with four extra shots of espresso. She was anxious to get to her desk and take the first sip, so she removed the plastic lid and blew on the steam. Then she noticed a familiar shape sitting restlessly in a reception chair, elbows out, hunched over, thumbs tapping away on a BlackBerry. A sliver of inappropriate cleavage caught her eye.

“Hello, Ms. Leibowitz,” she said, deliberately failing to hide her annoyance.

Ignoring Serena’s tone, Mariana said, “Oh, wonderful, you’re back! I need to speak to you. It’s about our Judd.”

“Dr. Ryker is out. I don’t know when he will return.”

“Oh, I know that, Serena. And please, call me Mariana. I know Judd’s gone to Africa. I have tried to reach him, but I just can’t seem to get through. That’s why I’m here.”

“I don’t know anything, Ms. Leibowitz. I’m sure you know that.”

“I’m not here to get anything. I’m here to
share
with you.”

Serena cocked her head with suspicion.

“Not here,” said Mariana, scanning the empty foyer. “Is there somewhere more . . . discreet?”

Serena reluctantly led Mariana into Judd’s office and closed the door.

“This is secure.”

“I know Judd trusts you and that you are in constant touch with him. You must give him this very important message.”

Mariana paused to wait for Serena to acknowledge with a nod before continuing: “Judd needs to know that the White House and the Pentagon are coming down hard on State. The White House counterterrorism czar called Landon Parker early this morning and I’m told ripped him a new one. Something about how ‘There’s no way we are trusting national security to some ivory-tower lab rat.’ That’s what he said! Isn’t it just awful?”

She waited again for a response from Serena, but it never came.

“Serena, you know what this means, right? They are coming after Judd.”

“And you know about all this . . . how, exactly?”

“That’s not the point, Serena. The White House and DoD are about to unleash the dogs. They will order the embassy to back off on Idrissa. They want Judd out of the way. I know Landon should have stood up for Judd, but he didn’t. Or couldn’t. I love Landon, of course, but sometimes I just don’t know what he’s really up to.”

Serena finally broke her poker face, a hint of anxiety showing through.

Mariana pretended not to notice. “Just this morning, Landon announced to senior staff that Rogerson will soon be en route and taking over Mali policy the minute he lands. Now, can I tell you a secret?”

Serena glared at Mariana. “There’s more?”

“You can’t even tell Judd, okay?” Without waiting for Serena to agree, she continued, “Bill Rogerson’s delays are no accident. My friend Bolotanga is one of the rebel leaders. He’s been delaying the talks at my request. As a favor. He’s been stalling to help me keep Rogerson at the table.”

“Why tell me?”

“Because I can’t stall any longer. Bolo is a doll, but he has a greedy streak. It’s one of his weaknesses. The bottom line is that negotiations will be wrapping up in a few hours and then Rogerson will be free to return. I expect him in Washington no later than tomorrow morning. We have just twenty-four hours until Bill Rogerson is back and Judd is replaced. You see why I had to come see you right now?”

“Ms. Leibowitz, why exactly are you telling me all this?”

“Serena, darling, I’m coming to you because they are abandoning President Maiga. We are about to
lose
. Judd is almost out of time.”

TIMBUKTU, MALI

WEDNESDAY, 2:15 P.M. GMT

Bull Durham lay in the back of the stationary Land Rover. Blood seeped through the makeshift tourniquet around his shoulder. He was talking on a small handheld radio, trying to stay calm but becoming increasingly agitated. Ezekiel hovered over him and listened intently. Judd paced back and forth, trying to contain his nervous energy and do his best to decipher the codes Bull was shouting into the radio. “Negative, Sandstone Blue, negative! You have my coordinates!”

The Imam waited serenely under a mango tree in the courtyard. He caught Judd’s eye and beckoned for Judd to join him. The Imam towered over Judd and in a soft paternal voice said, “It is a shame you came all this way to leave so quickly, Dr. Judd. We have not yet had time to speak. We have many things to discuss.”

“You’re right. I know. I’m sorry. But Colonel Durham must be evacuated. He’s still bleeding and there’s a terrorist running around here trying to kill us.”

“Your friend will be safe. You are now safe with me.”

Durham interrupted with a shout. “The Black Hawk will be back at the extraction LZ in eighteen minutes. They’ll probably beat us there. Let’s roll.”

Judd turned to the Imam. “I have to go. I’m truly sorry.”

“Do what you must,
Inshallah
.”

Judd paused, then nodded.

“As-Salamu Alaykum,”
said the Imam, closing his eyes.

“Wa Alaikum As-Salaam,”
replied Judd, and then he scurried into the Land Rover.

As they exited the courtyard gate, Judd turned and watched the Imam standing still and alone, receding in the distance.
There goes my best chance to figure out what the hell is going on.

As the vehicle came up over a sand dune, they were buzzed by the imposing shadow of the American attack helicopter. After landing, two crew members in black uniforms, their faces covered by black helmets and shields, jumped out carrying a stretcher and beelined for the Land Rover. After a brief assessment, they rewrapped Durham’s shoulder, hung an IV bag, and prepared to move him.

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.

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
M
c
CALL 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.

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 about 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.’”