“Shakespeare,” said Judd, nodding to himself.
“Of course it is,” she said, looking away. “I need you to be patient.”
“How about Timbuktu? Let’s go.”
Larissa spun around. “Why in the world would you want to do that, Judd?”
“I’ve never been.”
“Well, now’s not the time. I doubt diplomatic security would even let you go. God knows, I can’t have another hostage on my hands.”
“What if I need to go? Can you make it happen?”
“Absolutely not. They have suspended all internal commercial flights. Colonel Houston has put all his people on lockdown and prohibited travel. How am I supposed to then allow a civilian like you up there? It’s far too dangerous, Judd.”
“I have a helicopter, Dr. Ryker,” interjected Durham.
“What?” Larissa’s mouth was agape.
“After we heard from Colonel Houston about the lack of air assets in the country, I thought we might need help, so I called a friend, pulled a few strings. An MH-60K can be here in two hours. The crew is standing by, waiting for the go order.”
“You just found a Black Hawk lying around West Africa?” asked Larissa. She was both flummoxed and impressed. “Where on earth is it coming from?”
Durham didn’t reply; instead his eyes were locked on Judd. “Two hours, sir. I can have it on the embassy roof for departure for Timbuktu. Are we a go?”
Judd’s eyes darted from Larissa to Durham, then back to Larissa. She was shaking her head. Judd smiled.
“Yallah.”
MARBLE ARCH, LONDON
WEDNESDAY, 10:55 A.M. GMT+1
Retired General Oumar Diallo had been sitting in a plastic chair at the back of Fiona’s Café talking quietly on the phone all morning. The other customers gave the hefty African man a two-table buffer zone, leaving him ample space to conduct his business. Four different cell phones in a variety of shapes and sizes were displayed on the chipped Formica table in front of him. A fifth phone was pressed to his ear. At the end of another call, in a language that none of the other patrons could understand, he set down the phone and stared at cobwebs on the ceiling in contemplation of his next move. He thought to himself,
Yes, after so much that has gone wrong, the pieces are starting to come together. I will soon be back where I belong, my honor restored. I must remain focused. If necessary,
ruthless
.
“Sorry, love. Another cuppa?” The waitress had taken the break in calls as her opening. Diallo snapped out of his thoughts to notice he had indeed drained another cup of tea.
“Yes. Extra sugar and plenty of milk. The usual.”
“You want a sausage roll? It’s lovely with builder’s tea.”
Diallo turned to the front counter, a greasy glass case held long cylinders of soggy pastry glowing under the red warming light. The thought of eating forbidden pork gave him a slight shudder. No point in explaining, he decided. “No, madam, thank you. Just tea.”
He reached for a telephone, a deliberate signal that it was time for the waitress to leave. She took the hint.
Diallo dialed a long number. After five rings he was about to hang up, but finally a click and the raspy voice of a woman who has been asleep. “Uhhh, hello?”
“Tata, we need to talk.”
“Uh, Bènkè? Is that you, Uncle?”
“Have I woken you? What time is it in Washington, D.C.?”
“Oh, no, Uncle. I am not sleeping.” A lie they both knew was polite and proper to ignore.
“Tata, I have known you even before you were born.”
“Yes, Bènkè,” she said deferentially, anticipating a line of questioning she had heard many times before.
“Who taught you how to read, sitting under the baobab tree, for so many long, hot days?”
“You, Bènkè.”
“Who would take his small, small salary and save to buy for his sister’s only daughter her favorite food, fufu and groundnut soup?”
“You, Bènkè.”
“Who helped you with your schoolwork when he was home
from patrols so that you could become educated and leave the village? So you could go to America, to your Georgetown University?”
“You, Bènkè. I am grateful.”
“Who introduced your mother to Boubacar Maiga when he was still a small, small boy working at the American bank?”
“You, Bènkè.” Another unacknowledged lie.
“Yes, you have always been a bright girl, Tata. I am very proud of you.”
“Thank you, Bènkè. I am very grateful for all you have done for our family. I honor you, Uncle.”
“I am worried about your father.”
“So am I, Bènkè.”
“Yes, I know. That’s why I am calling. Your father is now a big man, but he has made mistakes and put his family and our nation at risk. I am sorry to tell you this. I know you are a loyal daughter who loves her father. But you are also a woman now. You need to know the truth. You need to help your mother today. Together, we need to help your mother. Do you understand, Tata?”
“Yes.”
“I need you to pass a message to your mother, a very important message.”
“Yes, Bènkè.”
“Tell her that things in Bamako are becoming very dangerous. But I will look out for her, no matter what happens. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Bènkè. I will tell her.”
“Very good, Tata. Do it now.”
“Yes, Bènkè. I will call right away.”
“I know you will. I am going to send you some money.”
“No, Bènkè. I don’t need any money. I am fine.”
“Don’t insult me. What kind of uncle would I be if I didn’t send money? I will send it. You will buy something nice.”
“Yes, Bènkè. Thank you, Bènkè.”
They both hung up.
General Oumar Diallo slumped back in his chair, just as a steaming cup of tea arrived. He was feeling satisfied. Diallo plucked another phone off the table to put the next phase of his plan into action.
Tata Maiga, some 3,600 miles away, was also dialing. After one ring, a voice on the other end answered quickly. “This is Mariana Leibowitz . . .”
SAHARA DESERT, APPROACHING TIMBUKTU
WEDNESDAY, 12:55 P.M. GMT
Bull was sitting up front with the pilot, speaking to him through a headset. Judd, in the back, had lost the sense of hearing; all noise was obliterated by the whirring of the chopper blades. Encased in white noise, he sat in merciful silence, watching out the window.
The Black Hawk, flying low, lifted sharply over a sand dune to reveal yet another dune. At their high speed, the desert appeared to be nothing more than an endless wasteland of nothingness. A sea of dead sand
.
But Judd knew from his experience around the world that there was far more than first appeared. The desert, just beneath the surface, was alive. The struggle for existence by animal and man. The unseen dangers. The ingenuity of survival.
Alone with his thoughts, Judd suddenly had doubts about his decision to fly to Timbuktu. It all seemed so right, flying a phantom attack helicopter to a mythical city on the edge of known civilization.
So adventurous.
Or,
he wondered,
am I becoming a caricature of the outsider in Africa, living out romantic fantasies? Am I risking lives just to try to show that the Golden Hour is right? For the sake of self-validation? Am I playing a self-indulgent game with a foreign country just to prove some arcane academic theory?
He shook his head to reinforce himself.
Focus.
My job is get President Maiga back in power. Timbuktu is the key. Papa told me so, right? Maybe I will learn something about the missing girl, too.
Yes, that justified the trip. The risk. The
mission
.
Before Judd could conclude the debate inside his own head, the helicopter popped over yet another dune to reveal an unexpected sight: water. It was the great Niger River, wandering like a soft brown snake, lost in the desert.
Judd imagined what seeing the river must have felt like for Mungo Park, the Scottish explorer who reached the Niger in 1796 and was shocked to find it flowed eastward, the exact opposite of what he and his philanthropic benefactors had confidently assumed. All the experts had had it exactly backward.
Park returned to Europe with the news a hero, and quickly became a celebrity for his exploits. But, bored with the tedium of seminars back in Britain, he set out on a second expedition down the Niger from which he never returned. Mungo Park, keen to follow the Niger all the way to its mouth, died under mysterious circumstances, probably killed in what would nearly a century later become northern Nigeria.
This part of the world had always been full of surprises for outsiders arriving with big heads and majestic ideas.
Why should I expect to be any different?
The helicopter pitched hard to one side, Judd suddenly staring straight down at the thick coffee-colored water. The Black Hawk leveled off, and followed the river like a floating highway.
It’s the work, not the ego.
As they approached town, the banks of the river awoke with activity. Fishermen sat in brightly painted dugout canoes, small boys herded scrawny cattle, women washed bright clothes, slapping them on granite rocks. This was the Mali that Judd fell in love with. This was where he and Jessica had fallen in love with each other.
This is the real Mali, right?
RUSSELL SENATE OFFICE BUILDING, WASHINGTON, D.C.
WEDNESDAY, 8:58 A.M. EST
Landon Parker sat in a hard-backed chair, fidgeting with his BlackBerry and trying not to be annoyed that he was there.
The small reception area was full. Beside Parker were several military officers in full uniform. The rest of the chairs were taken by gray men in gray Washington suits. At the desk sat a young blond intern in a tight dress that was just inappropriate enough to make everyone else both pleased and slightly uncomfortable. All the men in the waiting area were pretending not to look at her.
Everyone was also pretending they could not hear the profanity-laced tirade going on behind the closed door.
After a few minutes, the shouting stopped and the door opened. A little man emerged wearing a dark gray pin-striped suit and sheepish face. Parker did not recognize him, but noticed an FBI badge hanging from his belt as the man brushed past.
“Mr. Parker?” asked the intern. He stood without a word. “Senator McCall will see you now.”
Parker took a deep breath, then pushed the door open.
“Senator, pleasure to see you again,” he started, his hand outstretched.
“Don’t give me that shit, Landon. I want to know what the fuck your people are doing to rescue my daughter. And, so help me God, don’t you dare give me some bullshit State Department line that ‘We’re doing everything we can.’ I want to know what’s going on. I want to know everything. . . .”
YABA VILLAGE, DOGON COUNTRY
WEDNESDAY, 1:04 P.M. GMT
Papa Toure was resting under a tree, taking a break from the Saharan sun. The cheap molded plastic chair wobbled side to side, straining under his girth. Surrounding him, squatting in the sand, were a dozen or so young boys, all barefoot and wearing dirty secondhand American T-shirts:
HILTON HEAD, MONROE COUNTY RECREATION DEPARTMENT, HELLO KITTY
with butterflies. One of the boys brought Papa a cold beer, which he accepted without eye contact. As he sipped, he spied up the hill to the village, scanning the dotted cliffs.
The Dogon, a minority group in Mali living along the Bandiagara escarpment near the border with Burkina Faso for the past five hundred years, built their homes right into the treacherous sides of the cliffs. Not unlike what BJ van Hollen had taken Judd to see at Mesa Verde in Colorado all those years ago. Just as with their American counterparts, the Dogon cliffs provided protection from attack and the caves built high up into the side of the
mountains were ideal for storing—or hiding—food, supplies, weapons, or whatever you needed to keep secret.
As Papa drained the last of his beer, another boy appeared and laid a bowl of meat in chocolate-brown sauce at his feet. As Papa leaned forward with a groan to pick up his lunch, he continued to gaze at the jumble of huts and mud walls of the village. He ate slowly and deliberately. The pack of boys sat quietly watching him. Even though this was his fourth visit to Yaba in the past year, the water man from Bamako was still a spectacle to the children. Once finished, Papa set down the empty bowl and examined his cell phone. Four bars, full coverage, but still no messages.
“
Combien, grand-père?
How many more?” asked the tallest of the boys.
“Two more wells,
petit fils
. Two more,” replied Papa.
A buzz came over the boys as the French answer was translated through the group into the local language.
Papa rose out of his chair with a grunt and the boys scattered like pigeons. He began to trek up the hill, into the heart of the village. The boys followed in his wake, and were joined by more small children. As he approached a well he’d installed last year, he motioned to the tallest boy to walk beside him, an honor the boy eagerly accepted.
“The well near the house of the Hogon,” said Papa as he gestured toward a modest mud hut hugging the cliff where the village spiritual leader lives his entire life without leaving. “Is it working?”
The boy nodded.
“Is the village council maintaining the pump as I instructed last month?”
The boy nodded again.
“Are they charging twenty-five francs?”
The boy didn’t answer.
“Are they?”
No answer again, then, in a whisper, “
Cinquante.
Fifty.”
“Well done, boy,” said Papa. “How are your mother and father?” he asked as he handed the boy a coin.
“They are very well.” He slipped the coin into a pocket.
“Ah, that is good. Very good. Any other visitors today?”
The boy nodded.
“The soldiers?”
Nod.
“The foreigners again?”
Another nod.
“Good. Very good. Now run along and take this to your mother.” Papa handed the boy a rolled-up bill. “I have two more wells to inspect.”
SAHARA DESERT, TWELVE KILOMETERS NORTHWEST OF TIMBUKTU
WEDNESDAY, 1:08 P.M. GMT
Waiting on a sand dune that overlooked the unmarked airstrip was a tall Tuareg man. He was wrapped in a cloak of rich indigo blue, a jet-black cloth coiled around his head, his eyes masked by oversized mirrored aviator sunglasses. He was covering what little of his face might normally be exposed because of the temporary tempest created by the helicopter’s landing. Resting behind him was an old nondescript Land Rover, the same color as the sand. Even though the spectacle of an American attack helicopter buzzing over the river announced to all of Timbuktu their imminent arrival, the façade of discretion dictated that their vehicle be low-profile.
As the Black Hawk engines shut down, Bull nudged Judd and pointed to the Tuareg. “That’s our man today.”
“Ours?”
“Contractor. Ezekiel.”
Judd and Durham ducked their heads and trotted toward the truck. Judd jumped into the back seat, Bull climbed into the
passenger seat, slinging a small camouflage rucksack. The Black Hawk lifted off and, in an instant, disappeared over the horizon.
The Land Rover skidded over a roller coaster of sand dunes before finding a flat track and then, eventually, what passed for a real road in this part of the world. As they approached town, the ancient settlement of Timbuktu grew denser. Scattered huts evolved into tightly packed streets. Judd sat up in his seat, anxiously scanning the outside.
Finally, Timbuktu.
After years of reading about the fabled, romantic city, yearning to be here and see it all with his own eyes, Timbuktu struck Judd as . . . ordinary. Everything was the color of sand: the roads, the houses made of packed mud, the dusty schoolchildren playing soccer in the alleyways.
Once in the heart of the city, the Land Rover pulled into a public square and the driver tucked the vehicle into a shady wedge under a tree. He jumped out and opened the door for Judd, who could now see before him a massive mud building. The thirty-foot walls were topped with pointy peaks and accented by thick wooden logs sticking out along the corners and running across the top. In the middle of the great wall was a huge, fifteen-foot wooden door.
The world’s largest sand castle?
“Is this a fort?” Judd asked Ezekiel.
“Great Mosque of Timbuktu. We are here.”
Judd and Bull stared up, sweating in the oppressive heat, but still somewhat in disbelief that what was before them was no desert illusion.
“The Grand Imam, through here. We go.”
At the grand front door, the driver slipped off his shoes, removed his head covering, and motioned for Judd and Bull to do the same. They dropped their baseball caps and their boots by the entrance, and stepped barefoot into the mosque. Judd was jolted by the unexpected coolness of the air and floor. He was forced to squint in the dark. A cylinder of light streaked through the main door, revealed straight rows of thick columns every ten feet or so in each direction. Small rugs had been laid in between the pillars, but otherwise everything was made of cool brown mud. As they slowly felt their way down one corridor and Judd’s eyes adjusted to the low light, he could see men kneeling on prayer mats and hear them chanting softly.
As they moved deeper into the maze, cutting right and left, and back again, Judd started to lose his direction. Ezekiel was getting farther ahead and then disappeared behind a column. Durham, just behind Judd, poked him and froze. He yanked Judd with him and then pressed his back up against the pillar. Judd instinctively did the same. Bull held one finger in front of his mouth, then two fingers, pointed at his eyes, then down one row of columns. Bull looked up and down the rows, listening. Total silence. Then footsteps.
Ezekiel suddenly appeared. “This way! Quickly!” and he grabbed Judd’s hand and led him down one row, Bull trailing behind. They zigzagged through the columns, Ezekiel darting his eyes left to right. Bull was doing the same, their movements suggesting, even to Judd’s civilian eyes, that they had similar training. They had done this before.
Situational awareness.
As they accelerated down one corridor, Judd saw a light ahead, probably a door.
Safety?
A few feet from the exit, they stopped short and Ezekiel pushed Judd behind a column. He felt the cool mud on his skin. Judd, suddenly confused, shrugged his shoulders. “What’s happening?”
“Here,” Ezekiel whispered. “They are here.”
Another shrug. “Who?”
“Ansar.”
Before Judd could react, a loud POP! POP! POP! and a suppressed scream broke the silence. “Ahhhh. I’m fucking hit!” Bull was holding his left shoulder, blood already soaking his shirt, as he dragged himself behind a pillar. Judd stared at Bull, frozen for a moment, before Ezekiel yanked Judd’s arm to pull him to cover.
“Get down, Ryker!” hissed Durham. He pulled a 9mm pistol from under his jacket, pointing it up to the roof. Then, looking squarely at Ezekiel, he said, “Shots came from the south side. Three-shot burst from an AK.” He then pointed off to his left. Ezekiel, who had also drawn an identical gun, nodded knowingly and slipped away into the maze of the mosque.
Durham wrapped his shoulder tightly with a cloth he pulled from his rucksack. He also drew a second 9mm pistol, slid in an ammo bolt, and nodded to Judd, who was crouching one pillar over.
Me?
After a pause, Judd held out his palms and Bull slid the gun across the floor. Judd snatched it with both hands and quickly pressed his back against the mud, trying to take cover like he’d seen in the movies. Bull raised one hand, showing his palm.
Stay.
Pinned down behind a mud column, hiding, holding a gun for
the first time, his friend shot and bleeding, and a terrorist sniper trying to kill him, Judd was seized—not by the fear he expected would overwhelm him under such stress, but by one dominant thought in his brain that crowded out everything else:
Jessica is going to be pissed
.
Muffled shouting could be heard in the distance. He listened for further gunshots. It seemed quiet inside the mosque.
Could it be over?
The door was just a few feet away, but Durham made no attempt to move, so Judd stayed put.
Abruptly, a tall figure, a silhouette, appeared in the doorway. Bull and Judd both swung toward the shadow and pointed their guns, but the man’s hands were high up, his palms open. As the figure stepped inside, Judd could see he had a full gray beard and weathered skin, and was wearing a stark clean white boubou. Around his neck dangled a tether with a bright pink cell phone.
Seemingly oblivious to any potential danger, the figure, calm and fully upright, approached Bull, helped him up by his good arm and escorted him out the door. Judd, because he couldn’t think of what else to do, followed outside, shielding his eyes from the sudden burst of sunlight. They limped through a courtyard and into another door off one side.
Once inside, Judd could see this room was empty except for giant burgundy pillows around the perimeter. An Islamic salon.
The old man gently lowered Bull onto a pillow and gestured for Judd to take a seat, too. Bull grimaced and gripped his shoulder.
Their rescuer lowered himself onto another pillow, meticulously removed the tether around his neck, and softly placed the cell phone next to him.
He gazed directly at Judd. “I’m very sorry about your friend. He will live. The man who did this is now gone. You are safe here.”
“Who are you?” asked Judd, bordering on incredulous.
Just then, Ezekiel materialized in the doorway, out of breath. “Dr. Ryker, Colonel Durham.” Deep breath. “This is the Grand Imam of Timbuktu.”