UNKNOWN LOCATION
THURSDAY, 1:40 P.M. GMT
Katie sat cross-legged on the dirt floor. A plate of overcooked goat meat and tomatoes rested to the side, untouched. A warm Coca-Cola was half-empty. She stared at the bottle, watching the bubbles floating to the top, trying to count them.
The walls of the small cell were all dried mud. A window the size of a mail slot allowed sun to peek through.
It’s daytime,
she thought.
At least I know that.
Katie’s tears had run dry and her mind had settled into a regular routine. Fear had steadily been replaced by boredom. And anger.
If only my father knew,
she told herself.
She was suddenly jolted from her daydreaming by approaching footsteps. She scampered up and backed against the far wall. She could feel the cool mud through her T-shirt. Next was the clack, clack of a lock being released, the door opened slightly, and an arm reached in and set down a bucket inside the room with a folded yellow cloth lying on top. The door quickly shut again, clack, clack.
Katie slowly approached the bucket, picked up the cloth, and shook it out. It was a dress. A traditional silk dress with embroidered stitching. And a bucket of warm water. Without thinking, she dropped the dress, crossed her arms, and yanked her filthy T-shirt over her head. With her hands she cupped the water and threw it against her body, splashing some on her face and under her arms. She dropped her skirt and slipped on the new dress. It was a little too large. She thought,
At least it’s better than the sticky T-shirt I’ve been wearing for the past five days. Or is it six days?
She pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail and brushed the front of the dress, taking stock of her newly refreshed look. Then it hit her, right in the throat: What’s really happening? Why did they give me new clothes? For an execution? That makes no sense.
Am I being sold?
Just then was a knock at the door. “American girl!” said a rough voice.
Katie backed again to the far wall.
“American girl!” shouted the voice again.
“Yes,” she said meekly.
“Yallah! Let’s go!” And the door opened, a man in desert fatigues, his head wrapped in a black scarf and his eyes covered by sunglasses, entered the cell. He was holding a burlap bag in his hand.
“
Pardonnez-moi
, American girl,” said Bazu softly, as he slipped the sack over her head and led her out the door.
SAHARA DESERT
THURSDAY, 3:20 P.M. GMT
Vrrroooooooomm,
roared the old pickup engine as it crested over a sand dune, landing with a thud that bounced Judd and Papa inside the cab.
“All this racing will be pointless if we crash,” said Papa, holding on to the handle above his head.
Both of Judd’s hands were tightly squeezing the steering wheel, which he was jerking back and forth in an exaggerated motion, not unlike how a child pretends to drive a car.
“Yes, Papa. But if we arrive late, it’ll be wasted, too,” he replied with a smile, briefly stealing a glance at his old friend sitting next to him.
To emphasize his point, Judd pressed down hard on the accelerator, forcing the truck engine into another steep dive.
As they accelerated over the next sand dune, an unexpected sight appeared right before them: a herd of goats. Judd slammed on the brakes, skidded hard to one side, and yelled, “Yaaaaahhhh!” He spun the wheel the opposite way, pulling the truck out
of the fishtail, narrowly missing a goat, and sending the rest of the herd scampering away.
“Oh, shit! That was close!” said Judd, turning back to double-check he hadn’t hit anything.
“Inshallah,”
whispered Papa to himself, shaking his head.
BAMAKO AIRPORT, MALI
THURSDAY, 3:43 P.M. GMT
Ambassador Larissa James stood on the far end of the Bamako airport runway surrounded by bulky security men, a lone zebra among the wildebeests. A line of black SUVs and a single police car were humming behind them. There was no breeze today, and the tiny flags on the front of the ambassador’s car rested in the heat. She fiddled with her wristwatch and checked the time.
“Is that it?” she asked one of the guards, pointing at an approaching light in the sky.
He peered through his binoculars while mumbling into his wrist.
“No, ma’am. That’s a commercial flight. BA from London.”
A few moments later, Larissa watched a British Airways jumbo jet land and taxi, stopping on the tarmac several hundred yards away. The airport sprang to life, busy service vehicles moving into place, surrounding the huge airplane as it shut down its engines.
After several minutes, a security guard approached Larissa. “This is ours, ma’am,” he said, pointing to a light in the sky, far
off in the distance. The target grew closer and came into focus. A small white unmarked plane landed in front of the ambassador’s group and then taxied back toward them.
Larissa straightened her jacket and combed her hair with her fingers. “He’s here,” she said to herself.
UNKNOWN LOCATION
THURSDAY, 3:48 P.M. GMT
The blades of the Black Hawk helicopter started their slow, lazy spin. The whump, whump, whump built in volume and speed. Within a few seconds, the whirl had accelerated into a violent tornado of wind and white noise.
Half a dozen Special Forces soldiers sat in the back of the helicopter. They were clad in all black, with Kevlar vests and shiny M4 assault rifles. Each man completed a last-minute weapons check and confirmed his code sign that dictated his role once they reached the target. Like the idling chopper, they were vibrating with energy, ready to launch.
The pilot, his head covered by a black helmet and sunshield, scanned the helicopter’s control panel in a final systems check. Outside his window, another identical Black Hawk was performing the same takeoff ritual.
“Sandpiper One, all clear,” he said into the headset.
“Sandpiper Two, all clear,” was the immediate reply.
The pilot turned to the man in the copilot seat. They were no
more than four feet apart, but the noise of the engine meant they, too, had to use radios to communicate.
“Sir, Sandpiper One and Two are ready,” he said into the headset, nodding to the other man. “Operation Harmattan is ready when you are. We are just waiting for your go, Colonel.”
The copilot pivoted in his seat for one last look at the soldiers in the back. He received a visual thumbs-up signal and then turned back to the front, shifting more gingerly than usual as his left arm was wrapped in a heavy sling.
“Operation Harmattan is a go, Sandpiper One,” said Bull Durham, flashing a thumbs-up sign to the pilot with his right hand. “Let’s go!”
BAMAKO AIRPORT, MALI
THURSDAY, 3:49 P.M. GMT
Senator Bryce McCall deplaned ready for battle. His navy blue pin-striped suit was crisp, his silver hair perfectly parted. The senator gave no indication of the shock of emerging from an overly air-conditioned plane and hitting the wall of Sahelian heat. The sunlight seared his face, but he effortlessly slid on sunglasses and scanned the crowd waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.
“Which one is ours?” he asked gruffly out of the side of his mouth.
“Ambassador Larissa James is at the front, in the peach pantsuit,” said the escort standing just behind him. “The woman. The only white woman,” she added unnecessarily.
The senator grunted, and then glided down the stairs heading right for his target. “Ambassador James, is there any news on my daughter?”
“Welcome to Mali, Mr. Chairman. I will brief you in the car.”
“I don’t want to waste any more time. Are we going to get her back today, like I was promised?”
“Senator, please understand. I will brief you shortly, but not here.”
“Goddammit, Ambassador, just tell me if my little girl is safe and coming home.”
“Yes, yes, Senator, our current information is that she is safe. There’s a last-minute hitch with the deal for her release. She’s been held in a very remote part of the north, so communications are difficult. General Idrissa has taken personal command of the negotiations and he assures me that he is working on it.”
“Do we know who the bastards are yet?”
“No, sir. But the good news is that she’s been brought down south, we believe to a safe house not far from the capital. This is a good sign that negotiations are progressing and they intend to complete the handover. But we aren’t done yet. I’m hopeful we’ll have a break and some more good news within the hour.”
“Well, if she’s close, then why the hell don’t we just go get her?”
“It doesn’t work that way, Mr. Chairman. I’m sure you understand. Please be patient. Let the Malians work it out.”
They were interrupted by loud shouting coming from the direction of the British Airways plane. A stream of black pickup trucks with flashing yellow lights emerged from every direction and formed a ring around the plane.
“What the hell’s that?” asked McCall.
Larissa turned to one of her security men. “What is it?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. I’m checking with the Gendarmerie,” he said, turning away from them to whisper into his wrist.
The commotion across the tarmac grew. Scuffles broke out.
Soldiers poured out of the trucks, waving batons high in the air, yelling in rough French.
“In the vehicle now!” directed one of the security men, pushing Larissa and the senator into the back of an SUV as they craned their necks to see what was happening. The entourage accelerated away.
“What on God’s green earth is going on around here?”
Larissa turned to the security guard in the front seat. “Well, what was it?”
The guard, one finger in his ear, replied, “I’m still checking, ma’am. Some kind of VIP arrival, I think.”
“Is that how they treat VIP guests in Mali?” asked McCall.
“The Gendarmerie are definitely arresting someone off that plane,” said Larissa, ignoring the senator’s question.
“Not Gendarmerie, ma’am. Those are Red Berets, General Idrissa’s personal security.”
“Looks like a riot to me,” said the senator. “We’ve got no time for getting mixed up in local politics, Ambassador. What’s the plan for getting my Katie back?”
“I’m afraid those two things can’t be separated, Mr. Chairman,” she said as the vehicle exited the airport. “The Malians are assuring us that she is safe, but there is some kind of last-minute delay. We don’t yet know the problem, but we are working on finding a way to get her back in U.S. custody and then down here as soon and as safely as possible. We are heading to the Presidential Palace in about an hour. General Idrissa has a request before any handover.”
“What?”
“He has invited you to witness his formal installation as president.”
“Why in the name of sweet Jesus would I do that?”
“A gesture of gratitude. For their cooperation. On security matters and the safety of American citizens.”
“Is that a quid pro quo? Is that a goddamn quid pro quo? Are they blackmailing a United States senator with his own daughter? I won’t do it!”
“No, of course there’s no quid pro quo. They don’t see it that way, and neither should you.”
“Ma’am,” interrupted the security guard. “Our Gendarmerie liaison confirms that there was an unexpected VIP arrival on that British Airways flight, and that he’s been detained on national security grounds. He said there is no longer any threat. We don’t need to worry.”
“VIP? Who?”
“General Oumar Diallo.”
SAHARA DESERT
THURSDAY, 4:16 P.M. GMT
“Go! Go! Go!” yelled Durham into his headset. The Special Operations soldiers threw ropes over the sides of the helicopter and rapelled to the ground.
The Black Hawk was hovering just 120 feet over a small compound, but Durham watched the action via infrared satellite on a monitor on the helicopter’s dashboard. The screen showed red ghost figures in tight formation surrounding a small structure. Then, like a choreographed ballet, half the group fanned out to a perimeter and the other half, with an eerie combination of grace and extreme violence, entered the building in precise synchronization. On the screen, bright flashes showed live fire as the troops reached their target and destroyed any resistance. They grabbed a single body and exited the structure.
“Chalk One, area is secure! We have the target, Chalk Two! Moving to the extraction zone now!” were the reports coming into Durham’s headset.
His Black Hawk landed just east of the compound, while the
other chopper set down on the west side. The doors swung open and in poured the soldiers, carrying the captured body, wrapped tightly in a gray blanket.
Once Durham confirmed that all were on board, he gave the pilot an aggressive thumbs-up. “Go! Go! Go!”
The Black Hawk elevated slowly, the engines whined louder, and then, like a cannon shot, it vanished over the horizon with its valuable cargo.
K STREET, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY, 12:22 P.M. EST
“Darling!” bellowed Mariana Leibowitz. In a tight lavender gym outfit, full makeup, and dangling gold earrings, she paced impatiently around her office as she talked into her headset.
“. . . I know, Derek, I know that the
Washington Post
doesn’t give two shits about a coup in West Africa. I have been reading the papers and the overthrow of President Maiga didn’t get more than a two-inch summary on A22. This was a major story, and you wedged it between a bus crash in El Salvador and another flood in Bangladesh. You
missed
the story, Derek!”
Her stride accelerated. “This is me you’re talking to. It’s Mariana, remember? I know how your business works, but you can do better than that, Derek.”
Through her floor-to-ceiling window overlooking McPherson Square, she could see Lafayette Square and, through the trees, the gates to the White House.
“Yes, okay, well, what if the Pentagon was involved? What if
there is a link to a drug kingpin? Is that sexy enough, Derek? Would that get your attention?”
On the streets below, crowds of tourists intermingled with the white-collar suits of K Street, the lawyers and lobbyists. The worker bees of the American political machine.
“No, I don’t have anything on paper I can share with you. You know that already. But I am sure an experienced professional like you knows exactly whom to call for confirmation. . . . Yes, I can get you someone, but off the record, of course. Not today. Soon.”