CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
WEDNESDAY, 11:35 A.M. EST
Sunday kept typing on his keyboard, but he was getting the same rejection:
Access restricted.
This can’t be right,
he thought. To clear his head, he exited his cubicle and took a walk down a long corridor.
I’m the CIA analyst for Mali. Who would be denying me access to primary intelligence reports?
He rode the elevator to one of the CIA’s subbasements, arriving with a gentle thud. The doors opened to another long, well-lit hallway. At the end, a receptionist and two security guards were stationed, blocking passage to a heavy steel door.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he asked the middle-aged woman sitting at the desk.
“Hello, Sunday,” she replied, revealing a glint of affection.
“This heat wave is making me wish we were back in Mexico City.”
“I wouldn’t know about the weather. I’m down here,” she said, gesturing at the windowless hallway.
Sunday nodded in sympathy. “How’s Albert?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, either. They’ve sent him off to Ulan Bator or somewhere like that. He can never tell me.”
“Aaay.” Sunday nodded again. “Listen, I need a favor,” he said, lowering his voice.
“I figured. Why else would you be down here in the tomb?”
“I need to access the primary records for something I’m working on. Can I get in?” he asked, holding up the ID badge around his neck.
“I can’t let you in here. You know that. You should be able to see everything you need on the network.”
“It’s not working. I’m getting the summary reports, but I can’t get into all the core files I need. I can’t cross-check the sources.”
“Well, there’s nothing I can do. You know that. You have to call the central network administrator for that. I’m sorry.”
“Aaay, I did, but it’s going to take a few hours, and I just need a few minutes to check the sourcing for a handful of reports. It’s urgent. I’d really appreciate it.”
“I’m really sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“Listen, I’m not supposed to tell anyone,” said Sunday, leaning in closely. “I am doing a special project for Senator Bryce McCall. Very hush-hush. Very urgent. He tasked me to run down some information before he lands in Africa, but his office didn’t send
the formal request upstairs before his flight took off, and now he’s somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. You know those Hill staffers. Some kid who couldn’t care less about intelligence protocol. But if I don’t have that data for the senator when he lands, I’m going to be in a heap of trouble.”
She looked up at him, a hint of sympathy on her face.
“I can’t.”
“I’m also not supposed to tell you, but his daughter has been kidnapped. By al-Qaeda.”
“How terrible,” she stammered, touching a locket around her neck.
“Aaay. You can’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“I just need ten minutes inside.”
She took a deep breath, and anguish washed over her face. “You have four.”
“Thank you. How do I find the right files quickly?”
“Depends. What exactly are you looking for?”
“I need the raw reporting in from Station Bamako, with source codes. Everything from the last six months.”
After a moment and a few swift keystrokes, the woman wrote a code on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Try this. You can narrow the list by adding keywords in the search field.”
She nodded to the two guards, who obediently stepped aside. Sunday positioned his head in front of a small camera in the wall that scanned his face. He widened his eyes, and a green light dropped like a curtain across his iris. A loud buzz, and a clack, and the steel door opened with a rush of air.
Once inside, the all-white room was empty except for a bank of computer terminals, also white. Sunday took a seat in front of one at the far end. He typed in the code and the screen revealed a list of reports, all in from Bamako. The top of the list said “Total Found: 214.” He typed “Ansar al-Sahra” into the search field and a new list appeared. “Total Found: 19.”
The first report described secret surveillance of a mosque in Gao and a meeting between two suspected terrorists during Friday prayers. The report listed the case officer as “DATT1,” which he presumed to be the defense attaché. The contact source was “HOGONSIX.”
The second report, on the activities of Pakistani traders in Kidal, also cited DATT1 as the handler and HOGONSIX as the source. The third report detailed money being passed between a Nigerian courier and a known Libyan jihadist at a café in Timbuktu. Also DATT1 and HOGONSIX. Same for the fourth report. And the fifth.
Sunday pushed the chair back from the terminal and scratched his head. He looked over his shoulder toward the door, half expecting someone to be watching him. No one was there.
Sunday checked his watch, then turned his attention back to the screen. He exited back to the full list of reports from Mali. He entered HOGONSIX into the search field and a new list appeared on the screen. On top, the computer flashed, “Total Found: 19.”
NIGER RIVER CROSSING, SOUTHWEST OF TIMBUKTU
WEDNESDAY, 4:45 P.M. GMT
“I know you’re pissed off. Larissa, let me explain. . . .”
“Do you know what fucking chief of fucking mission authority means, Judd? I know you think you can rise above all the goddamn government bureaucracy, but chief of mission authority means the ambassador is in charge in her country! That’s me! Just because we are friends doesn’t mean you can take advantage. I am responsible for you and I am ordering you back to the capital before you get killed!”
“Okay, okay. I’m coming. . . .”
“How? I have no idea how to get Durham’s chopper back up to you. I don’t even know who to call.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a ride,” said Judd. He was standing on a small river ferry, a rusty old Toyota pickup truck packed in tight by a herd of loudly bleating goats.
“You’re driving back to Bamako? Are you fucking kidding me, Judd? Is this one of DoD’s crazy ideas? Are you with the contractor?”
“No, Durham’s guy had to leave. He didn’t say why. I’m
driving myself back. In the Grand Imam’s pickup truck.” Judd smiled to himself, knowing what was coming next.
“You are fucking kidding me!”
“The Imam lent it to me.”
“For God’s sake, don’t tell Washington.”
“A good sign. Maybe I’m a diplomat after all?”
“When will you be back here?” asked Larissa, ignoring Judd’s attempt to lighten the mood.
“I need to stop in Bandiagara, but I will be back in Bamako late tomorrow afternoon.”
“Bandiagara? What the hell for? You aren’t making any sense. Do you have any idea what’s been going on back here? Any idea at all?”
“It will all make sense soon, Larissa. You have to trust me. I’ll be back tomorrow, no later than five o’clock.”
“The Pentagon is having a fit that one of their envoys got shot on an unauthorized mission in a mosque up in a restricted zone, the embassy is on lockdown because of a new security threat, the intel guys have their hair on fire, and I’ve got the goddamn Senate Foreign Relations Committee chairman arriving!”
“McCall? He’s coming here? To Mali?”
“We’ve had a break in his daughter’s abduction. The Malians have received proof of life from the kidnappers and they assure us they can quickly resolve the situation. McCall is coming to try to get his daughter back and make sure we don’t screw it up. He lands tomorrow afternoon. See what you’ve been missing?”
“By the Malians, you mean Idrissa? His people are handling the hostage negotiations?”
“Right.”
“I thought we don’t pay ransom to terrorists.”
“We don’t. We also don’t ask questions when one of our allies offers to safely recover a senator’s daughter.”
“That’s bullshit, Larissa, and you know it. You served in Central America.”
“What are you talking about, Judd?”
“School of the Americas, death squads, you remember all that? Not the finest moments in American foreign policy. I just want to be sure we aren’t making the same mistakes all over again.”
“We won the Cold War, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Of course we did. And the Soviet Union could have annihilated us. Just like al-Qaeda wants to do. But I also know we also got played by every tin-pot dictator who knew we would jump whenever they shouted, ‘Communist.’ Jump or turn a blind eye.”
“Judd, you aren’t making sense.”
“That’s why I’m up in Timbuktu. That’s why I’m going to Bandiagara.”
“What do you know that I don’t?”
“I can’t say for sure yet, but this whole thing is wrong. I think you know it, too. It’s all ghosts.”
“I don’t know anything of the sort.”
“Okay, fine. What about Maiga? Any news on him?”
“Nothing. Right now we are on heightened alert. That’s all we are focused on. We are anticipating an attack on a military installation or possibly a foreign embassy. We are pulling everyone in. That includes you.”
“Attack? What kind of reports?”
“I can’t say anything on a goddamn unsecure cell phone.”
“Is it Ansar?”
“Come on, Judd. It’s credible and imminent, that’s all we need to know. The fact that they tried to kill you and Durham only corroborates the seriousness of the threat. They have already targeted U.S. personnel and wounded a special Pentagon envoy. You see where this is going, don’t you?”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“Well, you better get yourself together, Judd. A Task Force Mali meeting is scheduled for nine p.m. tonight. You are supposed to be back here to run it from the embassy videophone. I don’t know what to tell them.”
“Postpone it. I need more time.”
“You can’t do that. Rogerson is already wheels up. Everyone knows he’s on his way back and they are just waiting for it. Once he lands in Washington tomorrow morning, it’s his task force. You are being overthrown.”
A coup d’état. How ironic.
“Judd, it’s over.”
“Don’t give up on me now, Larissa. Patch me in at nine o’clock and I’ll run it by phone.”
No reply.
“I’ll take that as a yes, Madam Ambassador.”
“Judd, you’ve got another problem.”
“What is it?”
“I was hoping to talk to you in person, but it obviously can’t wait.”
“What is it?”
“Does the name Papa Toure mean anything to you?”
“Why?”
“He’s the guy in Idrissa’s photographs. The courier. The one accepting the envelope of cash.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The Malians now say they have a thick dossier on this guy. They say they have evidence he is running money from radicals in northern Nigeria into Mali. And they believe the envelope pass they witnessed on Monday evening was part of the payoff for the current terrorist plot. Idrissa is willing to share the whole file with us, but on the condition that we help take the target down. Houston wants to unleash his guys to help the Scorpions capture or kill this Papa Toure. And his coconspirators. Before it’s too late.”
“But our military cooperation is suspended.”
“Houston can request an exception, given the circumstances, and what do you think Washington will say? I’ll be forced to agree.”
“We can’t let that happen.”
“Why not?”
“They’re wrong.”
“Is that because . . . you do know him?”
“Larissa, I can’t explain on the phone.”
“Judd, Malian intelligence is linking Toure directly to . . . you. Is that true?”
No answer.
“And it gets worse, Judd. They also claim they have proof that
you have been feeding this man information. Judd, is this true? Have you been in contact with this Papa Toure? Why would you be in touch with such a person? Fine to lie to Idrissa, but why would you be lying to me?”
Fuck.
“Judd, my neck is on the line here, too. What the hell is going on here?”
“Larissa, look.” Judd took a deep breath. “Yes, I do know him. I’ve known him for years. But he’s not what they’re saying. He’s no radical. He’s a goddamn hydrologist. You have to trust me on this. The reports are all bullshit. Papa is straight. I’ll stake my career on it.”
“You already have, Judd.”
“Don’t worry, Larissa.”
“It’s too late, I’m beyond worried. Either you have gotten way out of your depth, Judd, or someone is coming after you. Someone serious. I hope you know what you are doing.”
“I’ll handle it.”
No reply.
“Just hold off Houston as long as you can. Will you do that for me?”
No reply.
“Larissa, will you? Please?”
“Yes,” she said, with a loud exhale. “I will try. But you better hurry up. Once Rogerson is back, I won’t be able to protect you.”
“I understand. One last question. Were any of your people from the embassy in Britain last week?”
“What? Why?”
“Please, Larissa. Were any of your people in Great Britain last week?”
“Well, yes, Colonel Houston was in Wilton Park outside London for a security conference. How is that remotely relevant?”
“It’s relevant. He’s the soccer fan, right?”
“Yes. He’s a big soccer fan.”
“I’ll bet he roots for Chelsea, right?”
“Who knows? Judd, at a time like this, how can a soccer team possibly matter?”
“Thank you, Larissa. It does.” Click.
UNKNOWN LOCATION
WEDNESDAY, 6:40 P.M. GMT
The ropes were so tight they had rubbed away the skin around Katie’s wrists, creating bracelets of red, raw flesh. But her hands had gone numb, so it wasn’t her wrists that hurt. It was her ribs. Each time the truck crested and then skidded down a dune, she slid helplessly, like a sack of yams, against the side of the open truck bay. Engine roar, slide, thud, crack.
Katie was blindfolded but could see speckles of waning daylight through the cloth wrapped around her eyes. She could feel the Saharan heat that had yet to subside. She’d lost track of time, but comforted herself with the small knowledge that it was still daytime. And she knew that she was being taken far away. It had been several hours of driving, a daylong roller coaster up and over the soft sand dunes. Painful, but probably good signs.
Progress?
The rhythmic motion reminded her of the summer she’d spent sailing across the Atlantic on her college roommate’s father’s yacht. What a summer! Sailing from Boston to the French Riviera sounded so glamorous, so luxurious and carefree. The kind of
thing she dreamed about. What it meant to be worldly. She hadn’t bargained for the hard work, the sleepless nights, the exhaustion. The seasickness. She was especially unprepared for the endless, relentless waves of the open sea. Desert and ocean, perhaps not the opposites she once thought.
At the peak of the next sand dune, she could hear the truck’s engine roar. She clenched her teeth, her stomach churned, and she tried again, fruitlessly, to brace herself. Slide, thud, crack.
Please, God, when will this end?
No, wait,
she thought.
That’s not the right question. What I really need to know: Where are they taking me?