The Golden Hour (20 page)

“Mr. Parker, things have indeed changed here. That’s why I’m calling you. Now that I’m here, it’s definitely not what we initially thought. I know that Washington is anxious about the security situation, and things look like they are turning against President Maiga on the ground.”

“I see.”

“Mr. Parker, it may be time you directed Embassy Bamako to make a deal with General Idrissa. If he can deliver the McCall girl and work with the United States to prevent any new attacks, then we can live with new elections next year. Given what we now know and what’s happened over the past forty-eight hours, I believe this is the right course.”

“I see. I’ll take that under advisement.”

“And if the mandate is changing, sir, Task Force Mali should be transferred to Assistant Secretary Rogerson once he returns to Washington. He can decide how to best manage the new objective. I appreciate the Secretary’s vote of confidence in S/CRU, sir, but this case has become more complicated than the Golden Hour model.”

“Yes. I appreciate that, Ryker. It was a good experiment. S/CRU was always a gamble. I think we all recognized that. Hell, maybe you’ll get another shot. Maybe you’ll get lucky and the Solomon Islands will blow up again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Secretary thanks you for your efforts on behalf of the country and the Department. I’ll take care of it.” Click.

Judd scrolled through his recent calls to Diallo’s cell number, pressed select, copy, and then paste, and texted the number to Sunday.

Judd dialed another number. “Larissa, it’s Judd.”

“What the hell was that? The task force is steaming. I don’t think we’re going to be able to hold Washington after that performance.”

“I know. I don’t understand where all this new reporting on Maiga is coming from, but it’s devastating. I don’t think we have a choice. I appreciate that you’ve been holding the line for me, but it’s time to change course. I think we have to accept Idrissa’s offer to recover Katie McCall. Can you relay that?”

“Yes, I’ll handle it. But I don’t think that will stave them off. Houston is already assembling a Special Ops team to disrupt
Ansar and the attack on the embassy. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but he’s got new information that Bazu Ag Ali is with the cell at a safe house outside Bamako. Houston wants to attack and destroy the cell and grab Bazu. He’s worth more alive. The wheels are in motion. Once he’s ready to launch the mission, I’m going to come under intense pressure to give him clearance.”

“Give him the green light, Larissa. Let Houston and his Special Ops team loose on Bazu. Do it now.”

“I don’t understand what you’re up to, but I hope you know what you’re doing. Be safe, Judd.”

“I will. I’ve got to go. And thank you, Larissa. No matter what happens.”

Click. Dial.

“Luc, it’s Judd. Yes, you were right. We need Diallo’s help. It’s the only way to break the impasse. But things are moving fast. If we are going to pull this off, it has to be tomorrow. Relay to Diallo that the United States and France are now both on board. Tell him London, too. Better to come from you than me. But it’s imperative that Diallo is in Bamako tomorrow. He has to be at the Presidential Palace at Koulouba by seventeen hundred. Can you make that happen? I will be there, too . . .
bonne . . . bonne . . . au revoir
.”

Judd’s small campfire was growing, the dancing light creating long shadows on the dunes.

Another call.

“Mariana, it’s Judd. . . . Yes, thank you, I got the message from Serena. Helpful as always. I’ve got a message for Tata Maiga
to deliver to her father. You’re not going to like it, but you need to hear this. Things are moving very quickly, I can’t say what exactly, but the situation in Bamako has changed dramatically. The president’s life is in danger and I can’t protect him. I can’t say any more. He needs to agree to resign. Tomorrow. For the sake of the country . . . I know . . . I know . . . Mariana, this is me here. . . . You think I don’t know that? He needs to resign, but this part is very important, please make sure Tata understands this. The president must insist that any resignation is witnessed by an international guarantor. That’s the best I can do, but it’s essential. He should ask for immunity from prosecution and a pension and a house and cars and all the goodies. . . . Yes, I know he doesn’t care about that. . . . The only absolute redline is the witness. This is the deal breaker. For his safety, it must be a well-known international witness, preferably a high-ranking American. . . . I don’t know who, but Idrissa will figure that out. . . . Yes, I agree, it’s a leap of faith. . . . No, he’s got no other choice. . . . I can’t say why. . . . Mariana, this is the only option right now, and I know you are the only one that can make this happen. It’s got to be tomorrow.”

Bong
from an incoming text. Judd looked down to see it was from Sunday.

“Good-bye, Mariana.”

Sunday: Number traced & located. What am I looking for?

Judd: McCall connection

Sunday: Roger. Anything else?

Judd: Papa Toure?

Sunday: Nothing. Must have the wrong name. Anything else?

Judd: Check on my DoD liaison, shot in TB2 today, airlifted to unknown location, name = David Durham.

Sunday: Roger

One more call before a few hours of sleep.

“Papa, it’s me. Yes, yes, I saw the Imam. . . . Yes, I think I understand. What have you found in Bandiagara? . . . I see . . . I see . . . okay. . . . Papa, I’m coming to pick you
up.”

SAHARA DESERT

THURSDAY, 5:05 A.M. GMT

HOURS SINCE THE COUP: SEVENTY

“Rrrrrhhhhhrrrrhhhrrrr!”

Judd was jolted awake by the hollow elongated belch of a camel. The beast’s open mouth and quivering lips were just inches from his own face.

“Rrrrrhhhhhrrrrhhhrrrr!”

Judd jumped up quickly and escaped out of range of camel spittle. He had been sleeping on the roof of the truck cab, and his back was stiff and achy.

“Shoo! Go away!” he said, flicking an indigo blue Tuareg blanket that was wrapped around him. The camel, now disinterested, wandered off.

Judd slipped feetfirst from the vehicle’s roof through the open window into the driver’s seat. “Power nap over. Time to go,” he muttered to himself as he turned over the ignition. “Yallah.”

After several hours’ driving, he finally passed a small piece of
weather-beaten wood perched on a rock. Written on the makeshift sign:
BANDIAGARA 5 KM
.

“Papa, here I come!” he shouted. Then he thought,
You can’t be a radical. It makes no sense. You’re
Papa.
I’ve known you too long,
right
?

A few minutes later, Judd pulled into a small courtyard, where Papa was waiting. At the sight of his friend, grinning from ear to ear and waving like an excited child, Judd’s anxiety evaporated.

“Ah, Judd!
Mon grand ami!
My big friend!
Bienvenue à Pays Dogon!
”

Judd exited the truck and gave Papa a bear hug. After a brief embrace, Papa held Judd’s shoulders and looked him up and down.

“You have not aged a bit, my dear Judd. You still look like a graduate student. Of course, you are now a big man, yes. But you still look so young. No gray hair.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Papa.” Judd noticed that the same didn’t apply to his old friend. Papa’s beard was ashen, his hair thinning, his stomach fat. “Let’s catch up in the car, Papa. We have to hurry. We have to be at the palace in less than twelve hours.”

“And the Grand Imam?”

“Yes, he was helpful. Thank you. A bit cryptic, given the urgency of the situation. But I think I got the message.”

“You Americans always like things up-front and straight. It doesn’t work that way in the rest of the world. You know that,
mon ami
?”

“I’m still learning, Papa.”

“Africa is complicated. More than you know. Sometimes we have to make difficult choices. They won’t always be what they appear. It’s not always black and white.”

“I know, Papa.”

“It’s not always clear who is the angel and who is the devil.”

Judd narrowed his eyes.

Papa continued, “We don’t always know who is who, Judd. Sometimes we shake hands with the devil. We may know, we may not know.”

“What are you saying, Papa?”

“Sometimes we don’t
want
to know, Judd. That’s how to get things done.”

“
I
want to know. Is there something you need to tell me, Papa? Are you in trouble?”

Papa stared directly at Judd. “How long have we known each other?”

“Eleven years. Since Kidal. With BJ and Jessica.”

“Correct. That is why I am helping you. That’s why I always help you. And one day, if I need it, I know you will be here to help me.”

Judd paused for a moment. “Yes, Papa.”

“Good. Then let’s go to Bamako.”

The two men climbed into the truck, Judd turned the ignition, and jerked down on the transmission handle, but held his foot on the brake.

“Papa, I forgot to ask the most important question! Did you find it?”

“Yes,” said Papa, holding up a small backpack. “Yallah!”

CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

THURSDAY, 2:02 A.M. EST

The lights were off in the cube farm that was the CIA’s Africa Issue office. It would have been completely dark if not for the faint glow from Sunday’s computer screen.

Sunday pulled a small reporter’s notebook from inside his jacket pocket and read down the list of telephone numbers that he had scrawled. Carefully, he typed the numbers into the keyboard and watched as locations on a map were highlighted by blinking red lights. When he’d finished, he studied the screen, narrowing his eyes, puzzled. He rubbed his chin. “General Diallo, you have been a busy man,” he said aloud.

Sunday held up the notebook again to check the numbers against the map coordinates, drawing his finger along the screen to be certain he hadn’t made a mistake. Confident he’d done it correctly, he raised his eyebrows, bit his top lip, and slapped the desk.

“Aaay,
Mu Je
,” Sunday whispered to himself, instinctually falling back into a Hausa phrase that he’d commonly heard around
his house as a young boy. “Yeeeesss. Let’s go,” he said, and he hurriedly picked up the phone and dialed. After three rings, the other end answered without a word.

“Purple Cell. Code two four one zebra Charlie,” said Sunday. “Sorry for calling in the middle of the night, but I think I’ve found something. I will send over the details via SIPRNet, but we will need an airborne Special Operations snatch-and-grab team in Mali ASAP. And I mean we need them ready to go within the next twelve hours. There are complications, so we’ll need a diversion mission order, and the team leader must be someone we can absolutely trust. It’s got to be all black. Repeat, all black.”

No reply on the other end of the line.

“Does Purple Cell acknowledge?” he asked.

Pause . . . Pause . . . Then a woman’s voice answered, simply, “Yes.”

U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

THURSDAY, 9:06 A.M. EST

Inside the brightly lit room, a dozen men and women in suits sat in high-backed black leather chairs around a long wooden conference table. In a concentric ring around the room were younger suits, holding thick notebooks and fidgeting with their BlackBerrys. The large flat-panel monitors on the walls were blank. At the end of the table was a lone empty seat, its vacancy a growing but unmentioned irritation for those present as the minutes after nine o’clock ticked.

In strolled a tall, thin man with wavy gray hair, his usual patrician aura undermined by tired, sunken eyes and a face so pale it would have been hard to believe he spent more than half his days in tropical climes. “Okay, people,” he said as he took the head seat and arched his back. “This is meeting three, or is it four, of Task Force Mali?” he asked no one in particular. Without an answer, he continued, “I’ve just gotten off an eighteen-hour flight from Johannesburg and come straight here from the
airport. I haven’t slept or fully read in yet, so I’m still catching up. I understand that the Ryker kid has been running things while I was busy fixing Congo. Where is he?”

“He’s gone to Mali, sir.”

“How, then, may I ask, has he been running this little State Department task force?”

“Last meeting was chaired by phone from an unknown location.”

“I see. No wonder I’ve come back to such a mess. No one is home minding the store,” said Rogerson, nodding with satisfaction.

“Sir, now that you are here, we’ve got an immediate decision for the task force. This is agenda item one.”

“Proceed,” responded Rogerson, with a royal wave of the hand.

“A Special Operations team is preparing for an urgent mission to intercept a cell of Ansar al-Sahra led by Bazu Ag Ali. Our people believe, based on new information from Malian authorities, that the terrorists are en route to attack U.S. Embassy Bamako, likely today. We have already put the embassy on heightened alert, increased the setback by another one hundred meters, and accepted an offer from the Malians for additional troops along the outer perimeter.”

“Very good. But what about this Bazgali character?”

“A Special Operations team and two Black Hawks are already en route to Mali. Their plan is to rendezvous with Malian intelligence officers who have the target location, and then they will
intercept the cell and capture the cell leader, Bazu Ag Ali. The mission was delayed because of a State Department freeze on military cooperation after the coup.”

“Did Ryker do this?”

“The freeze, yes, sir. But Ambassador James lifted the hold late last night.”

“Good girl,” he said under his breath. “So what is our agenda today?”

“The original mandate of Task Force Mali was to reverse the coup against President Maiga. But given new concerns we have about Maiga’s activities and this new security threat, we could back-burner that priority and focus on the security threat. That would imply State counterterrorism assuming the chair of the task force.”

“Is that the view of the task force? Is that the position of S/CT?”

“Yes, sir,” said an eager voice from the chair immediately next to him. “We are in the midst of disrupting a credible and imminent terrorist threat against American interests and personnel in Mali. We had an American soldier shot by terrorists in Timbuktu yesterday and have fresh reports of a major attack last night on Malian forces by Ansar al-Sahra in the northern sector. The security posture is further heightened by the arrival of Senator McCall today and ongoing efforts to secure the release of his daughter. We are working closely with Malian security on all of these priority tasks.”

“Holy Jesus,” said Rogerson under his breath. “What has Ryker been doing?”

“Frankly, sir, he’s been blocking us.”

“Where exactly is Ryker now?”

“Dr. Ryker is somewhere in northern Mali, as far as we know. He refused to get on the extraction helicopter in Timbuktu.”

“Well, then he’s on his own.” Rogerson tsked. “No one on this task force is to communicate with nor assist Dr. Ryker. He is shut down. Is that understood?”

Nods all around the table.

“State counterterrorism is ready to assume the chair of Task Force Mali and to direct the U.S. policy response. If you deem it appropriate, Mr. Assistant Secretary.”

Bill Rogerson looked around the room, all eyes on him. He glanced down at the thick briefing book lying unopened on the table in front of him, then back to the assembled team.

“Yes. Yes, I do. S/CT, you have the chair. Now, if you all don’t mind”—Rogerson stood to leave—“I’m back on a plane to Nairobi in . . .” He squinted at his watch. “In fourteen hours. So I’m going home to get some rest. And to check on my horses.”