The Golden Hour (4 page)

“What about a terrorist connection?” interrupted a staffer from the counterterrorism office. He was so young that Judd assumed he was seated at the table only because his superior was too busy to deal with a small West African country. “Could Mali be under terrorist attack?”

“We don’t think so,” quickly responded the ambassador.

“But Mali does have active al-Qaeda affiliates in its territory. We have been tracking increased activity along the Algerian border and a recent change in smuggling patterns by Tuareg nomads along routes from Niger and Burkina Faso,” the staffer continued.

“Yes. That’s all true,” said the ambassador slowly, failing to hide her annoyance. “But there is no indication whatsoever that there is any terrorism link to the unfolding events of today. Until we have a clear indicator, we are not jumping to conclusions.”

Judd interrupted, “Okay, thank you, Madam Ambassador. Do you need anything from Washington?”

“Not right now. We are hunkered down. I hope to know more soon.”

“Very good. In that case, we will reconvene in six hours. Thank you, Embassy Bamako.”

Without giving anyone else the chance to object, Judd hit the disconnect button on the remote control and the large screen went blank.

“Thanks, everybody. See you all back here at four o’clock. Who’s here from public affairs? We need to get a statement out. General boilerplate, expressing concern and that we are closely monitoring the situation, is good enough for now. All offices here on Task Force Mali are on the clearance list for the public statement. Let’s try to push this out quickly, folks.”

And with that, Judd stood, turned, and hustled out the door, anxious to get back to his office.

Mali,
he thought. And the memories rushed back. . . .

BAMAKO AIRPORT, MALI

EIGHT MONTHS AGO

Judd exited the Senegal Airlines Boeing 737 and paused at the top of the truck-mounted stairs. The Saharan heat seared his eyes, forcing him to squint through his slightly crooked sunglasses.
Africa hot.

Two sandy beige single-story concrete buildings stood a few hundred yards away, with a simple black-and-white sign reading
BAMAKO SENOU INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. BIENVENUE À MALI
.

Off to one side was a shiny, obviously new billboard with a handsome African man in a sharp blue pin-striped suit smiling broadly while talking on a tiny mobile phone. Beyond the Malitel sign, toward the far edge of the airport, was a low white prefab building with no markings or signs at all. Beside it Judd could make out the top of a black attack helicopter resting in the tall grass.

On the tarmac stood a small posse waiting for Judd. Several large men in suits and wraparound Oakley sunglasses surrounded a petite woman with short gray hair and tan weathered skin.

Behind them a train of three vehicles idled: a small Peugeot police car with flashing lights, a new white Toyota Hilux pickup truck with
GENDARMERIE NATIONALE
stenciled sloppily on the side, and a shiny black Chevrolet Suburban. The SUV had tiny American flags on small poles attached to each corner of the front bumper.

The other passengers snaked around the group to make their way to the arrival bay of the airport. When Judd got to the bottom of the steps, the woman stepped forward and extended a stiff hand. “Welcome to Mali, Dr. Ryker.”

“Good to meet you, Ambassador James. You didn’t have to come out to the airport. I could have met you at the embassy.”

“No, no, I’m happy to. Plus, it’s protocol. The Malians are very excited to have a special American envoy visiting. Let’s go.”

And with that she spun around and climbed into the Suburban. Judd ambled around the other side, where one of the men was holding the door. The police siren wailed and the rest of the security guards clambered into the back of the pickup. Judd ducked his head and hopped into the car. The door slammed shut with a slight creak and an unexpectedly heavy thud.
Armored car.
The caravan lurched forward, and the little American flags on the truck’s bumper sprang to life.

Beats the death-trap minibus I rode in last time I was in Mali.

Ten seconds later, the cars abruptly halted in front of a concrete building. “VIP lounge.” The ambassador shrugged. Judd followed her out of the vehicle and through a door flanked on both sides by stoic soldiers holding automatic rifles.

Inside was a column of men wearing bright blue and stark-white boubous, the full-length flowing robes common in this part of the world. The room had about a dozen shabby burgundy velvet sofas and two brand-new wide-screen televisions sitting side by side, one showing a soccer game, the other Al Jazeera cable news in Arabic with French subtitles. Both were on high volume. Above the TVs was a crooked portrait of a stern-looking President Boubacar Maiga, wearing a modest white cap and watching over the lounge with paternal benevolence.

But the thing Judd most noticed, amid the sudden assault of noise and color, was the unexpected chill. In a far corner, a massive air-conditioning unit was blowing frigid air across the room. It fogged his sunglasses, and he took them off, sliding them into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

The ambassador, apparently unfazed by the shocking change in climate, walked Judd up to the receiving line and introduced him to each man in succession. Judd shook hands, smiled politely, but the names and titles were a meaningless jumble.
I’m on the edge of the world’s largest desert and I’m freezing.

“You’ll see many of them again later,” said the ambassador after the introductions were complete. The men had retreated to the sofas and were busy fishing mobile phones out from inside their boubous.

“Ahmed will take your passport and bring your bag to the residence. Let’s go.”

Judd handed over his diplomatic passport and followed Ambassador James out of the lounge and back into the Suburban.
The caravan, now joined by several more cars, sped out the airport gates, lights blazing, sirens wailing, and down the highway toward the city center.

“Sorry to hit you with all of this right off the plane, but I’m sure you’re used to it by now, Dr. Ryker,” she said, exposing a slight Texan drawl.

“It’s Judd, please. And yes, it’s been quite a trip so far.”

“You’re coming from Senegal, right?” Judd guessed she was in her late fifties, close to retirement, and probably beautiful back in the day.
The Foreign Service takes a toll.

“Yes, and I hit Mauritania, Guinea, and Liberia before that,” Judd said. “I’m leaving for Niger tomorrow evening.”

“That does sound exhausting. I hope you’ll be able to get what you need while you’re here in Mali. It’s a risk assessment, right?”

“Correct. We’re meeting with all the country and security teams to be sure that our conflict and coup risk metrics are aligned with the data our people on the ground are getting. It’s a ground-truth tour.”

“Plus, you can get to know the people on the other side of the table,” she added. “I’ve been in the Foreign Service twenty-six years. I’ve served in Honduras and Japan, in Congo and El Salvador. And one thing I’ve learned, no matter where you are, is that diplomacy is rarely about policy. It’s all about personal relationships.”

Judd nodded politely and turned away to take in the city of Bamako. Along both sides of the road, people were walking,
women with rainbow bundles atop their heads, crowds of young men waiting for bush taxis, little muddy boys riding donkeys. And goats, an endless throng of goats.

“Your first time in Mali?” she asked.

Judd faced Larissa James.

“I was here many years ago as part of a survey team with the Haverford Foundation. We were assessing community water management in Kidal. I actually met my wife, Jessica, here on that trip.”

“How wonderful.”

“She’s an agronomist.”

“So Mali has been lucky for you?” she smiled.

“Yes.” Judd turned back to the window and the bustling cityscape. “So far, Mali has been very lucky for me.”

KIDAL, NORTHERN MALI

ELEVEN YEARS AGO

“Judd, they’re here. Come out and meet the team!”

“Coming, Professor!” Judd replied from inside the tent.
Christ, it’s hot,
was all he could think.
I should have gone on the Mongolia project. Or, better yet, stayed in my lab.

Judd opened the tent flap and ducked his head to exit. Standing outside among several parked Land Rovers were Professor BJ van Hollen and a middle-aged African man with a short-cropped goatee.

“Judd, this is Dr. Papa Toure. He’s come up from the University of Ibadan in Nigeria to help us with this project. No one knows water in this part of the world better than Papa.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Judd, extending a firm handshake.

“Judd is the rising star I was telling you about,” van Hollen explained, rubbing his fingers through his thick graying beard, a habit from the classroom that he could never quite shake during fieldwork.

“I really don’t think so,” replied Judd, doing his best to deflect the uncomfortable praise from his mentor.

“Nonsense. Judd is one of my best students.”

“How do you two know each other?” asked Judd, steering the conversation away.

“Oh, we’ve known each other for ages! Since Papa first went to the university. He was still a frightened little village boy back then. Papa, you were scared out of your mind!” exclaimed van Hollen, slapping Papa on the back and looking very pleased with himself. “It was your first time in Nigeria!”

“It was my first time outside of Mali,” added Papa, returning the hearty smile. “It was my first time anywhere. What can you expect?”

“Ah, those were the days! We were all so naïve back then. Remember how we thought oil would make Nigeria the next Norway?”

“So long ago, BJ!” agreed Papa.

“And so foolish!”

“Yes, fools among fools! That was us!” said Papa. “But what does that make us now?”

“Papa is the most honest man in Nigeria,” declared van Hollen, his face suddenly turning dead serious. Then he turned to Papa. “I’d say that makes you a prince among thieves.”

“Ah, still a fool among fools,” said Papa, shaking his head in mock disgust.

Their banter was interrupted by a loud rustling coming from inside one of the Land Rovers. The three men turned to face the noise. One of the truck doors swung open and out stepped a pair
of tall slender black boots. Wearing the boots was a young woman
in a tight white blouse and khaki trousers.

“And,
here
she is,” announced van Hollen with a flourish.

The girl had long dark hair, mocha-colored skin, and bright blue eyes. Most of all, Judd noticed she was suspiciously immaculate for someone who’d just spent eleven hours on a dusty desert road.
So clean
.

“Lovely to see you, BJ,” she said, slightly embarrassed. She gave him a warm hug and a kiss on both cheeks. Judd was transfixed.
A desert mirage?

“Judd, this is our agronomist, Jessica White. She recently finished her doctorate at the University of Wisconsin. She’s one of my new protégés.”

She gave Judd a polite but distant smile.

“Madison has a strong Africa program,” Judd offered.

She nodded.

“Judd used to be one of my students. Just finished. Brilliant work on conflict measurement. Cutting-edge data metrics. Luckily, I’ve convinced him to help me one last time before he flees the van Hollen nest. He’s joining us on this Haverford Foundation project, but in the fall he’ll be starting as junior faculty at Amherst College.”

“Ah, yes, very good,” said Papa. “Massachusetts. Impressive.”

“Yes, I am extremely pleased,” said van Hollen, rubbing his beard again. “I’m still hoping I can talk Judd into coming down from the ivory tower once in a while to work on real-world problems. But if he’s going to teach, it might as well be at a place like Amherst. Isn’t that right, Dr. Ryker?”

“Stop it,” said Judd, trying to deflect his embarrassment.

“Judd here is better with numbers than social interaction,” added van Hollen. “He’s still working on his people skills. Right, Judd?”

“Amherst College houses the original Emily Dickinson Collection,” offered Jessica.

“I didn’t know that,” said Judd.

“She’s my favorite poet.”

“Oh,
I am good
. I knew you two would hit it off,” said van Hollen, pulling the four of them together into a huddle. “We are going to make a terrific team. I just know it. And Judd, my boy, you are going to love Mali. . . .”

BAMAKO, MALI

EIGHT MONTHS AGO

And love it he did, for many reasons, Judd thought as he sat in the car from the airport. But thinking of that first trip now reminded him of something he’d been putting off for far too long.

Once the ambassador’s SUV arrived back at her fortresslike residence, Judd excused himself and retreated to the guest room. He sat on the bed, cradling his phone and thinking about the call that he really didn’t want to make.

It had only been a few weeks since BJ’s death. He hadn’t spoken with Papa yet. He had tried several times, once even picking up the phone and dialing the fifteen digits. But he’d hung up before anyone answered. Maybe he felt guilty. Maybe he wasn’t ready to talk with Papa. Or maybe he just hadn’t yet come to accept that his mentor was really gone.

Jessica, too, had been upset by BJ’s passing. They’d both known he was very ill, but the end was still sudden. By sheer bad luck, Jessica had had to rush off to Indonesia to deal with a problem at one of her projects, and when the end had finally arrived,
she’d been stuck in Jakarta and forced to miss the funeral. Judd had dropped their children at his grandmother’s house and flown to California to be there. During the memorial service, he’d held up his cell phone so Jessica could listen from her hotel room on the other side of the world. She hid her emotions well, but Judd knew she was devastated. Judd was certain that she cried over BJ, but she never let him see it.

Judd looked down at his phone and then dialed a local number.

“Oui?”
curtly answered a deep male voice.

“Yes, hello? This is Judd Ryker calling for Papa Toure. Is he there? Is this Papa?”

“Ah, Judd!” came the reply, a few octaves higher. “My American friend who loves the beer! I have been hoping to hear from you. I was just yesterday thinking about your wedding. I can’t believe you’ve been married eight years already. I was remembering how the trees were changing color in Vermont in the autumn. That was really something for an African to see, you know. Ah,
mon dieu
,
très magnifique
! Speaking of beautiful, how is Jessica? How are the handsome boys?”

“Yes, everyone’s all fine. They send their love.”

“How old are they now?”

“Toby is five. Noah just turned three.”

“Oh, so wonderful. I am sure they are strong. Just like their mother.”

“Yes, Papa. I’m . . . I’m in Bamako.”

“Now? You are here in Mali now?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? What are you doing here? I don’t
work much for Haverford lately. Just checking on some of their water projects now and again. Ever since Miriam passed and my son moved to Dakar. I still teach at the university, which doesn’t pay but it keeps me busy. You didn’t say you were coming. I’ll come collect you from the hotel.”

“No, I’m not here with Haverford, either. I’ll have to explain another time. I am working tonight and have to leave tomorrow. I’m—I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ll have time to meet up on this trip.”

“Who comes all the way from Massachusetts to Bamako for one day? It is absurd.
C’est ridicule!
”

“I’m working for the government now. The State Department. I just started a few months ago. It’s a special project looking at conflict risk. I can’t really tell you too much more.”

“I see. Ahhh, the American government. You are a big man now.
Un grand homme.
Very good. The professor would have been proud.”

Judd was regretting calling his old friend. Phoning Papa without making time for a face-to-face visit was a mistake. After so many years working with foreigners, Papa of course knew about Americans’ different ideas toward social obligations. But now Judd worried that he was causing offense.

“Yes, the professor. BJ is very much missed.”

“Judd, I am ashamed that I failed to make the funeral. The journey to California was just too far for my old bones. I hope you understand and forgive me.”

“Of course, Papa! We all understand. Please don’t apologize.”

“It was not proper.”

“I’m the one who is sorry. I’ve come all this way and won’t be able to see you. I’ll be sure to come back to Bamako soon. I promise. And when I get here we’ll have many beers and catch up. I just wanted to call today to check in on you.”

“I understand. But I have to ask you: What kind of special conflict is here in Mali that requires such a strange trip? To come all this way from America for one day?” Papa’s inquisitive instincts, the same ones that made him such an excellent researcher and collaborator, were kicking in.

“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary, Papa. Just the usual government worries about coups and war in Africa. I guess they picked me because they like my work. I mean, they like
our
work.”

“Are you going up to Timbuktu?”

“No.”

“You must go.”

“I would love to. I’ve never been to Timbuktu. But no time on this trip.”

“Ah, Judd, no. You must go to Timbuktu, Judd. Things are going on up there.”

“Yeah, I know,” agreed Judd. “I guess the Tuareg traders have been resisting outside control for two thousand years, so we shouldn’t expect an easy resolution anytime soon.”

“No, no, this is different. Not just the usual troubles. New things are happening. Bad things. Ask your friends in the American government. Ask your people.”

A loud knock at the door interrupted. “Dr. Ryker, the palace called and the president is ready to see you.” It was the ambassador. “I will wait for you in the car.”

“Yes, thank you.” Judd belatedly covered the phone with his hand. “I’ll be right there.”

Then back into the handset, “Papa, it’s so good to hear your voice. I do want to know more. I promise I’ll be back soon and I owe you a dinner.”

“You are going to see President Maiga? Look at you! You really are a big man, eh, Judd?”

“I wish it were true. Let’s try to speak soon, and not let it go so long this time, okay? Keep well, Papa.”

“We have a proverb, Judd. ‘Salt comes from the north, gold comes from the south, wisdom comes from Timbuktu.’”

•   •   •

As Judd climbed into the car, Ambassador James handed him a single piece of paper, “This just came in from your office.” It was a clipping from the
Washington Post
, dated that morning, under the headline: “Senate Pushes New Sanctions for Global Drug War.” Serena had highlighted several sections:

“Senator Bryce McCall (D-PA), chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, is poised to add a new penalty against countries deemed uncooperative with American global counternarcotics efforts. . . . At a press conference, surrounded by his extended family including his two young daughters, McCall announced, ‘We can no longer tolerate countries that accept American aid but turn a blind eye to drug kingpins operating with impunity. We must protect our country and our children. . . .’ The McCall Kingpin Amendment will mandate that the State
Department report back to Congress an annual assessment on every country’s level of cooperation in curtailing the illegal drug trade. . . . Any country deemed to be insufficient will be subject to immediate financial sanctions, including the suspension of foreign assistance. McCall has been a longtime advocate of a harder U.S. line on drugs, and this is his latest effort to increase pressure on countries he believes are abetting the international narcotics trade. . . . Aides to the senator confirmed that the principal targets are politicians in Central America with purported links to drug cartels, but they dismissed concerns that the McCall Amendment, if passed, would overly complicate relations with other countries. . . . The McCall Kingpin Amendment is expected to pass both houses of Congress this week, while the White House has indicated the president will sign ‘any bill that protects American children.’” Judd folded the paper in half lengthwise and tucked it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

He turned back to Ambassador James, who appeared, for the first time, visibly a little nervous.

“We are approaching Koulouba. That’s the palace. I would have preferred that my embassy team brief you before you meet the president, but the palace was insistent that President Maiga wants to see you now. I don’t think Maiga will spring anything on us, but you can expect him to ask about intelligence sharing and for more malaria money. He is making a big deal about malaria. One of his campaign promises was to eradicate malaria in the north, and they are already falling way behind schedule.”

“What intel sharing?”

“We’ve got a Code Orange program with them. Looking for
terrorist groups, infiltration of foreign jihadists, watching the borders. Nothing out of the ordinary. Mostly we track smugglers who just want to be left alone. But a few bad guys flying the jihadist flag are making trouble.”

“And Maiga cooperates?”

“It’s in his interest. He’s mainly nervous about any plots against him. The intelligence is partly to keep an eye on his own commanders. Like most of Africa, the real threat is from within his own ranks more than from a foreign invader.”

“And? Is he at risk?”

“There are rumors. There are always rumors,” said the ambassador. Judd noticed she looked down when she answered.
Is that a tell?

“I’ve heard the same thing in every country I’ve visited. What else do I need to know about the president?”

“Boubacar Maiga spent his thirties in America, mostly working his way up through SunCity Bank in New York. So his English is perfect and, unlike most of the other presidents in West Africa, he’s not enthralled with the French. After New York, he came back to Mali and set up his own firm, including BamakoSun Bank, the country’s first completely private local bank. He quickly used his connections on Wall Street and in London to swallow up his competition. That made him a tycoon and very wealthy, but also many enemies. When he turned fifty, he abruptly sold BamakoSun and ran for president. That was two years ago now and so far, so good. Maiga has allowed the press and opposition to operate freely and encouraged new investment. Economic growth is up and poverty, while still high, is on the decline.
Maiga deserves his reputation as one of our closest and most reliable allies in Africa.”

“That sounds too good to be true, Ambassador.”

“If I’m going to call you Judd, you can call me Larissa.”

“Okay, Larissa. What is the real story?”

“That is the real story. He’s vetted. That’s why we have President Maiga sitting next to the Secretary of State at the upcoming Democracy Summit in Jakarta. We had to fight East Asia to the mat for that seat.”

“I know Mali, and it can’t be all so rosy.”

“Well, Mali is nothing like Nigeria. But we are pretty sure that some of the top military brass is involved in smuggling. The region is rife with traffickers in guns, cigarettes, and drugs. Mali is now part of the route from the coast across the desert and into Europe. General Mamadou Idrissa is the commander for the northern Timbuktu Zone Six and probably on the take. He’s a nasty piece of work. You’ll likely meet him at the palace.”

“I’ll want to ask about the north. But what’s the northern commander doing down here in the capital, by the president’s side?”

“Good question. We don’t know. He seems to be around the president all the time.”

“What about Maiga? Does he have his hand in the cookie jar?”

“He seems clean. Rich enough, I suppose, to avoid the temptation.”

“Yet he can’t rein in Idrissa?”

“I believe he’s trying. But he has to be careful. Mali has had
four coups since independence and many more failed attempts. Just last month, the head of the army, General Oumar Diallo, was forced to flee after trying to organize a putsch. He caught wind that Maiga was planning to fire him, so he tried to seize the palace. But Diallo’s guys didn’t even get through the front gate. Someone tipped off Maiga’s personal security, probably French intelligence.”

“Not us?” Judd raised his eyebrows.

“Not as far as I know,” Larissa responded quickly, with a slight shrug. “Maiga’s pro-American, so I’m sure the French have been trying to court him.”

“And Diallo?”

“He fled to Europe. Doesn’t seem to be making any new trouble. But Diallo always had grand ambitions and a healthy ego. He definitely wanted to be president. I expect he’ll try again one day. He’s the First Lady’s cousin.”

“General Diallo is related to the president?”

“By marriage, yes.” Larissa had clearly told this story many times and was amused at Judd’s naïve surprise. “Mrs. Maiga and General Diallo grew up in the same village. We think their mothers are half sisters. It’s always the internal family squabbles that are the most bitter.”

“Yes. Yes, they are.”

•   •   •

The convoy with Judd Ryker and Larissa James reached the road leading up to the Presidential Palace. At the corners, young
soldiers with hard helmets sat behind sandbags and leaned on heavy .50 caliber guns mounted on tripods. Along the main road other soldiers lay underneath the bulbous bellies of South African armed personnel carriers that Judd had seen in many other countries. Larissa poked Judd in the shoulder.

“Maiga just bought a new fleet of those hippos,” she grimaced. “They are fine in the city, but no good up north in the sand. Not the best use of our counterterrorism dollars, but that’s what he said he wanted.”

As they rolled up to the main palace gate, Judd sat up straight. Passing military checkpoints, even with diplomatic security in an ambassador’s armor-plated vehicle, made him nervous. But they were waved through without slowing down.
Must be those little American flags.

Several guards with AK-47s slung over their shoulders and wearing red berets jumped to attention and saluted the Suburban as they passed.

The circular driveway at the front of the main building was lined with men in sparkling-white boubous. As they exited the car, Judd and Larissa shook hands with each of the men, who then fell in line behind them as they entered into the palace. Men with shoulder-mounted television cameras jostled each other for position as the entourage passed.

They were all led into a small waiting room, painted light green, with a large TV in the corner. The sofas were also green and brand-new, with dainty white crocheted covers on the arms that reminded Judd of his grandmother’s old farmhouse in Vermont.