The Golden Hour (11 page)

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

MONDAY, 10:43 P.M. EST

The beer and the barrage of information were churning inside Judd’s head. Too hyper to go home to bed, he returned to the office for another attempt to unravel the threads.

On a giant whiteboard in front of him, he sketched out a map linking all the main players: Idrissa, Maiga, Diallo, the Red Berets, the Gendarmerie, the Scorpions, parliament, local media, Tuareg separatists, al-Qaeda, Ansar al-Sahra, drug traffickers, Russians, Nigeria, France, and Britain. The United States was drawn in a large box to the side. Arrows and lines connected many of them. But there were big red question marks. It was a jumble. It didn’t make sense.

A knock on the door. “Dr. Ryker, can I get you anything?”

“Serena, what are you still doing here? You should go home.”

“I’ll go when you go,” she said.

“I’m going soon. Give me ten more minutes.”

He looked at his clock. Still too early to call Larissa James.
Must call her
before the next task force.

Judd made a list on a lime-green Post-it: Larissa, Papa, Luc, Simon, Sunday. He thought for a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

Foreign Agents Registration Act (FARA)
DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE

ACTIVE REGISTRANT:

Leibowitz Associates International, Mariana Leibowitz, President, 1599 K Street NW, Washington, D.C.

ACTIVE FOREIGN PRINCIPALS:

BPO Industrial, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

Caribbean First Holdings, Cayman Islands

Kingdom of Bahrain, Manama, Bahrain

People’s Party of Latvia, Riga, Latvia

Republic of Mali, Bamako, Mali

Sumayata Corporation, Jakarta, Indonesia

SunCity Bank, Geneva, Switzerland

PREVIOUS FOREIGN PRINCIPALS:

AKZ Energy, Lille, France

BamakoSun Bank, Bamako, Mali

Democracy Union of Zimbabwe, Harare, Zimbabwe

Movement for a Free Congo, Lubumbashi, Congo

Republic of Haiti, Port-au-Prince, Haiti

Republic of Nigeria, Abuja, Nigeria

Sanderson Ogata Farah, Nassau, Bahamas

ZBR International, Vienna, Austria

Judd turned his attention back to his call list. He crossed out Simon and added Mariana.

Judd’s planning for the next day was interrupted by another knock on the door and, before he could say anything, in walked Landon Parker.

“Ryker? Good. You’re still here.”

“Hello, Mr. Parker.”

“Listen, Ryker, I know you are working hard on this Mali thing. The Secretary, the whole seventh floor, is taking a big interest in this Mali business. The Secretary is concerned.
Very
concerned. She is giving a big speech on democracy in Mexico City tomorrow and doesn’t like what she’s hearing about Africa. She just spoke with Assistant Secretary Rogerson. Bill is going to be tied up for a while longer than we thought.
That means Mali is yours. The Secretary wants you to stay on point and work it to resolution.”

“Thank you, sir. Absolutely.”

“You’ll have to go to Bamako. You can’t sit here in Washington and fix real problems. You can’t do this from our bubble. You’ve got to get out there.”

“Yes, of course.”

“You need to find out what the hell is going on. Meet with this General Idrissa and see what the fucker wants. The Secretary is worried. This is the goddamn twenty-first century. We can’t have
coups rolling across Africa again. It’s not the fucking
Dogs of War
anymore. Did you read the Secretary’s Senate testimony last week? She said no dominos on her watch. Ryker, you got it?”

“Yes, sir. No dominos.”

“Her speech tomorrow is going to announce a new zero-tolerance policy for coups. No compromise on democracy.”

“Yes, sir. No compromise.”

“We have too much at stake here to have a setback in Mali.”

“I’ve got it.”

“And, Ryker?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t think that because it’s Africa no one’s paying attention. This time, the spotlight is on, Ryker. The White House is calling over here; they’re pissed off. Senator McCall is pissed off. He’s already called the Secretary on her private line about his daughter. He’s pressing hard. You’ve got to get us something for McCall, too. The Secretary assured him that his daughter’s disappearance would be a top priority. No resources spared and all that bullshit. I’m sure he’s called to press the FBI, CIA, and the Pentagon, too. It’s your game now, Ryker.”

“I understand.”

“If I were you, Ryker, I’d be wheels up ASAP.”

“Yes, sir, I’m on it,” he said, standing up.

“Get a plan together and then execute. You’ve got to fix this cluster quickly.”

He’s telling
me
about the urgency?
“I’ll be on the first flight in the morning.”

“There’re still flights to Paris and London tonight that haven’t
left yet. My office will call Dulles Airport and have them hold the last plane. Ryker, you are good to go, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“One more thing. We’re not sending you in there alone, Ryker. The Pentagon has assigned a special liaison to accompany you.”

“I don’t need an escort.”

“Good instinct, Ryker. I like it. You keep the military guy in line. But it’s always useful to have a big motherfucker in a uniform standing next to you. No offense, but we’re not sending in a lone civilian professor to talk tough to a general. Ryker, he’s your muscle. Let’s hope he’s big and ugly. Stuttgart says his name is Durham. Colonel David Durham from Special Ops. Plenty of experience from Afghanistan. So he knows a thing or two about thugs and warlords. Durham is standing by in Germany waiting to meet you at your layover in Europe.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But it’s still your mission. It’s a State Department delegation. DoD is only along for the ride to help you. That means it’s your show. Make sure Durham understands this from the get-go.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You never know what kind of orders he is really getting. Use him. But don’t let him use you.”

“No, no, I won’t. Is CIA sending anyone?”

“No. You’ll have the station chief in Bamako. You don’t need anyone from headquarters.”

“What about the Purple Cell? What are they doing?”

Parker paused slightly. His face revealed nothing.

“I don’t know anything about any Purple Cells. I wouldn’t
worry about it, Ryker. They’ll tell you if you need to know anything. Stay focused on your task. That’s Idrissa.”

“I will. Thank you. And thank the Secretary. I appreciate her confidence. I won’t let her down.”

“Here’s your chance to put your Golden Hour theory to the test. Good luck, Ryker. The United States still stands for democracy, you know.”

Parker ducked out before Judd had a chance to reply.

“Serena! Grab my go bag. I need a car to Dulles right now. I’m going to Bamako.”

“I’ll call Air France.”

He paused. “Not Paris this time. London. Give me at least four hours on the ground. I need to see someone. And call over to Special Operations Command in Stuttgart to tell them when I land in London. That’s where I will meet up with this Colonel Durham. Tell them he can’t be late.”

Judd glanced again at the clock.
Shit.
He looked down at his call list.
Have to make these tomorrow.

At the very top of the list, he added one more name: Jessica.

RUNWAY, DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, DULLES, VIRGINIA

TUESDAY, 12:03 A.M. EST

HOURS SINCE THE COUP: TWENTY-FOUR

The flight attendant was wearing the navy blue uniform of British Airways, but had added a ruby-red scarf tied tightly around her neck. She leaned over, reaching toward Judd with a glass of champagne. The rising bubbles drew his attention from the flute up to her eyes. “Would you like anything, sir?” she asked with a slightly mischievous smile and a hint of East London cockney.

Judd sat up straight. He gazed again at the champagne, then past it to the scarf choker and then back up to meet her eyes again. She was still smiling, her head playfully askew. Judd pursed his lips and shook his head slowly.

“You let me know if you change your mind, love.”
Back to work.

Out came the BlackBerry. Judd rolled his thumb over the side of the phone, scrolling for the cell phone number for Sunday, the CIA analyst. He typed:

En route 2 BKO. R u avail?

Send. Judd then leaned into the aisle, searching for the attendant.
I should have accepted that drink.

Over the loudspeaker, “Welcome to British Airways flight two zero eight to Heathrow Airport. We apologize for the late departure this evening. We had an unexpected delay due to administrative procedures here at Dulles International Airport, but that is now resolved. Please turn off any electronic devices . . .” Judd blocked out the chatter so he could make a mental list of his plan on arrival in London. Just then, his phone bonged with a text message.

Sunday: Roger. How can I help?

That was quick.
Good man
.

Judd: Stopping in London to see OD. Need update on his intentions, advice on pressure pts.

Sunday: Ambitious. Wants 2 return 2b king

Judd: Behind MI?

Sunday: Maybe

Judd: In touch with MI now?

Sunday: Yes

Judd: OD is Paris favorite?

Sunday: Probably

Judd: Who else?

—

“Sir, we need you to turn off your phone now.” Judd looked up, ready to charm his way to a few more minutes. But it wasn’t the same attendant. Instead, an older woman, heavyset with a navy apron and her gray hair pulled tight in a bun, was scowling. “Our departure has already been held up for Lord knows what. You are making us even later,” she snarled.

Judd nodded politely, said, “Yes, ma’am,” and turned his attention back to his phone.

Sunday: Us

Fuck.

Judd: Who = us?

“Sir?” Judd didn’t look up. “Sir, you are holding up takeoff. I need you to turn your phone off immediately.”

Sunday: DOD

Fuck. Fuck.

Sunday: MI may be theirs too.

“Fuck!” said Judd aloud.

“Sir! Do I have to call the captain?”

“Okay. Sorry. I’m turning it off.”

Judd shook his head, pushed the power button, and threw the phone into his lap in disgust. He sank back in his seat, the weight of the news pulling his shoulders down.

Once the plane was up in the air and had leveled off, Judd stretched up and pressed the call button. The girl in the choker glided down the aisle toward him. She was still smiling.

“You ready for that drink now?”

BAMAKO, MALI

TUESDAY, 8:05 A.M. GMT

“Ahmed, can I get out
here
?” pleaded Larissa James.

“No, ma’am. Not here. Not yet,” was the reply from the front seat of the ambassador’s black SUV.

“Well, then
when
? I don’t like being trapped like this. It’s undignified.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The goddamn ambassador of the United States of America does not hide in the car. That’s not what I’ve been sent here to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s why we are on this drive in the first place. I’m here to see for myself what’s going on. To meet the people. To get the mood on the street. We’ve got to see what’s really going on.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t ‘Yes, ma’am’ me, Ahmed. I know what you’re doing.”

“Just doing my job, Madam Ambassador.”

“This is not what a superpower does! We don’t just sit scared inside an armored car! We don’t just live inside a bunker! I’ve
served in Honduras and El Salvador and Congo. Even when things got really ugly, we were still out in the streets. If I’m going to be locked in the embassy, I might as well stay in Washington . . .” She trailed off, watching the bustling street scenes of Bamako.

It may have appeared like utter chaos, but Larissa’s experienced eye could see the system outside was working in its own organic way. Cars and trucks dominated the middle lanes of the road. Motorcycles, two or three riders each, weaved in between. The next layer, the outer lanes of the road, was for pedestrians, jammed mostly with young men selling small items and women in bright multicolored dresses carrying large bundles on their heads. The final outer edge of the road, where an American might have expected a sidewalk, was stuffed densely with makeshift market stalls. Women lined the street, seated in long rows, showing their wares in woven baskets resting before them: tomatoes, mangoes, dried fish, onions, plastic buckets, batteries, red fleshy meat, Manchester United calendars.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the front seat again.

After a few minutes, the crowds of people and minibuses grew thicker.

“How about
here
? Let’s stop at the market.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Not yet.”

“Goddammit, Randy. Let’s get out of here,” she said, turning her attention to the defense attaché, sitting in the seat next to her.

Colonel Randy Houston had been quiet so far, staring out the window, scanning the passing crowds for anything suspicious. He was wearing a pale-blue golf shirt tucked tightly into freshly pressed khaki trousers. The logo on his shirt displayed a circular
insignia with an eagle and
UNITED STATES MARINE GUARD, EMBASSY BAGHDAD
. Oakleys hugged his shaved head, the arms of the sunglasses digging parallel creases into his scalp above his ears.

“Not yet, ma’am,” he said, turning to face her. “Too dangerous. Ahmed will tell us when it’s safe.”

Larissa exhaled in frustration.

After a few more minutes, the ambassador’s vehicle slowed to a crawl. “Sorry, ma’am, traffic ahead. Bus depot.”

As her car came to a complete halt, street vendors converged at the window, holding up boiled eggs, fried donuts, phone cards.

The truck’s door clicked open and Larissa stepped out. “I’m going to walk for a few minutes. You can come with me or you can wait here,” she said, slamming the door without waiting for a response.

Randy Houston muttered, “Shit,” under his breath, then, “Ahmed, I’ll go. You stay with the car!”

Larissa tiptoed back along the side of the road, navigating the crowd and a trail of slimy brown water. She stepped over a pile of trash on the street and then darted into the market. Houston rushed over to catch up.

“How is business?” she asked in perfect Parisian French to a young woman sitting on the ground nursing a small baby and tending a meticulously arranged pyramid of bright red chili peppers. The woman stared at the ground and did not answer.

“How is business, madam?” Larissa asked again.

The woman looked up and said softly, “No good.”

“Was it better last week?”

The woman did not answer.

“Because of the coup? Are things worse this week because of the problems in the palace? Are the police harassing you? Soldiers?”

No answer.

“How about if I buy some peppers?” asked Larissa, pulling out a roll of local bills. “How much?”

The woman was staring at Larissa’s shoes.

“Randy, how much are peppers these days? A thousand francs? Is that enough?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. This is a bad idea. You should put your money away. We should return to the vehicle.”

Turning back to the woman, “Okay, here, one thousand,” she said and handed her the money. The woman grabbed the bill, folded it up tightly, and stuffed it into her bra on the opposite side of where the baby was still nursing.

“Merci,”
said Larissa, accepting a small plastic bag filled with chili peppers. She handed the bag to Colonel Houston. “Let’s try someone else.”

She turned and darted deeper into the market.