Just as Judd had exhausted his small talk with the entourage and was starting to fidget, they were mercifully led into the president’s office.
President Boubacar Maiga, wearing a crisp royal blue boubou, was sitting at an enormous ebony desk signing some papers. Behind him hovered the Malian flag on a pole, and large photos of Mali’s cultural sites adorned the walls. Judd recognized the Great Mosque of Djenné, the world’s largest mud building. He also eyed photos of the smaller but no less significant Great Mosque of Timbuktu, painted boats along the Niger River, and the villages built into cliffs in Dogon Country. In front of the desk was a semicircle of a dozen heavy burgundy chairs.
“Madam Ambassador!” Maiga looked up, removed his reading glasses, and swooped out from behind the desk with surprising speed for such a large man. Maiga spread his wings like a giant blue bat, and hugged Larissa James, enveloping the diminutive ambassador.
“And Dr. Ryker. Welcome! Welcome to Koulouba! I understand you are already an expert on Mali and have helped my country with our water problems. Thank you for coming back to honor us with your visit.”
“Yes, Mr. President, this is Dr. Judd Ryker.” Larissa was recovering from the bear hug.
“Thank you, Mr. President. I am honored to be back. Thank you for making time to see me.”
Maiga extended a beefy hand, and the two of them awkwardly held the handshake while cameras snapped away. Still holding Judd’s grip, Maiga turned to a TV camera.
“We welcome our American friends here today. The visit of such a high-level official from the government of the United States of America shows our close partnership. We will today discuss cooperation on malaria, road construction, and bringing American businesses to Mali.”
All eyes and cameras turned to Judd. Larissa gave him a little nod of encouragement.
“Yes, thank you. I am pleased to be in Mali today and to meet with President Maiga. America is a good friend to Mali. We will, um, we will discuss many things today.” After a long pause, Judd simply nodded. Maiga then released Judd’s hand, and waved away the press.
The three of them took their seats in the center, with each entourage taking their place down the line. Behind Maiga stood a tall soldier at attention. His uniform was several sizes too large for his skinny frame, but a chest full of ribbons and a flat-topped cap with stars announced he was a general.
“Mr. President,” Judd began. “I’m here on a regional tour to evaluate the potential for conflict in West Africa. My office deals with crisis reaction, so I’m here to discuss the situation in the north.”
“Yes, yes. The north. We are working closely with our American friends to fight malaria in the north. It is going well, but we need to accelerate if we are going to reach our targets. We need more bed nets and the next-generation insecticides from American companies. I was promised these.”
Judd turned to Larissa, who accepted his cue. “Yes, Mr. President. I have passed your request to Washington and I appreciate
your patience. Dr. Ryker will, I am sure, reinforce that message when he gets back to headquarters.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” added Judd. “I know the U.S. government is slow, but I will speak with the malaria teams in Washington and see what can be done. What about security in the north?”
“I have been waiting for eight months on the insecticides. Do I have your word you will make inquiries on Mali’s behalf?”
“You do, Mr. President.”
“Very well. Our military is working hard to control the north and to control the borders. We are talking to the Tuareg leaders. We are investing in the north. We are building wells and schools, with our American partners. That is also why the malaria campaign is so important. But we still have a bandit problem.”
“What about smuggling?”
“There has always been smuggling in the north, Dr. Ryker. I am certain you already know this. It is part of the culture of the Sahara. Our military is trying their best to keep things under control, but it is very difficult.” Maiga turned around. “General Idrissa is here. He is in charge of the northern sector. Everything from Timbuktu to the border with Algeria. He can tell you.”
“Thank you, sir,” responded Idrissa, still standing firmly at attention. “The president is correct. We are working hard to prevent insecurity, but it is difficult. Security. Yes. We must maintain security. My zone, Zone Six, is very large and we have few vehicles or radios. The bandits have many trucks and are well armed.”
“We have provided special forces training for a camel corps that patrols the border,” interjected the ambassador. “The
training has been going very well. We have also trained and equipped counterterrorism strike teams, the Scorpions.”
“Yes, we are very grateful for American help,” replied Idrissa, a little too disingenuously.
“What about the helicopters? I saw one at the airport. It’s a Russian HIND attack gunship, yes?” asked Judd.
I may be a liberal arts professor from New England, but I know my attack choppers.
“Correct, Dr. Ryker,” answered General Idrissa. “We call them crocodiles. But they are from Ukraine. The Soviets used them to fight terrorists in Afghanistan. We are using them to fight terrorists in the Sahara.”
Judd nodded.
“And, General, how are things in Timbuktu?” asked Judd, drawing a puzzled look from Larissa that he ignored.
Before Idrissa could answer, Maiga interjected, “Timbuktu is very well. No problems there. General Idrissa has everything under control.”
“That’s very good to hear. And what about terrorist cells infiltrating the north? Are they a growing threat?”
“Yes, we have them. But they are not Malian,” replied Maiga firmly. “They are foreigners who have come from Libya and Algeria into Mali to take advantage of our open and welcoming country. They will never take root here since our religion rejects extremism, and our culture accepts all people. Going back to the Songhai Empire and the merchant center at Timbuktu, Mali has always been a place of many peoples. For a thousand years we
have been a place for people of all cultures to meet and trade. We will never accept violence.”
“What about jihadists from the Middle East?”
“I don’t think we have any. But we would welcome more cooperation. We must work together to keep the radicals from poisoning our youth and harming Africa.”
Idrissa nodded slowly and added, deadpan, “We need more intelligence sharing to prevent insecurity.”
Maiga nodded in solemn agreement, before adding, “You know, Dr. Ryker, we are working hard together, but the Tuareg have a saying. ‘No one rules the desert. The desert rules you.’” The president then took tight hold of one of Judd’s hands. “My friend . . .” He leaned in close. So close Judd could smell his peppermint breath. The president looked right into Judd’s eyes. “. . . please tell me. Oh, how I miss summer nights at Shea Stadium. How are my New York Mets?”
• • •
Safely back in the car, the ambassador seemed buoyant and relaxed. “I think that went well,” she said. “You do need to work on your press statements, Judd. But otherwise that went very well. The president likes you.”
“Yeah, I’m still new at this. The cameras caught me off guard.”
The Suburban, still led by a security escort, passed out of the gates and raced onto the wide access road back toward the city center. Judd held the handle above the window and rested his chin in the crook of his arm to watch the city go by.
They passed a bus depot, a flock of multicolored minibuses buzzing around a crowd of commuters. He could hear the taxi touts, hanging precariously off the back of the vehicles, calling out destinations around the capital.
“You’ll get used to it,” she said. “I should have warned you about his obsession with the New York Mets. He’s not just indulging a visiting American. He really loves . . .”
Everything went silent for a moment, a whoosh of air, and then KA-BOOM! The explosion felt like it went off inside Judd’s head. The vehicle jerked violently to the right and Judd whiteknuckled the handle and shut his eyes. “Hold on!” shouted the security agent in the front seat. The heavily armored SUV skidded hard, paused for a moment, and then slowly toppled over, coming to a stop on its right side. Judd’s hand slipped and he spilled down the now-vertical back seat, sprawling onto the ambassador’s lap.
“IED!” shouted the agent into his radio. “Eagle One, Code Alpha!” Through a cloud of dust and the spiderweb of a cracked, but still intact, ballistic windshield, Judd could see the legs of uniforms running around. His ears were ringing, but he could make out lots of shouting, much of it in the local Bambara language.
The agent, still buckled firmly in his front seat, turned around and, with steely calm, asked, “Ambassador, are you hurt?”
She coughed and covered her ears. “Shit, I don’t know. I think I’m okay,” came the muffled reply from Larissa, now pinned below Judd.
“Dr. Ryker, how about you, sir?”
It took Judd a second to understand the question.
He’s talking
to me?
Am I okay? I can’t feel anything.
Then finally, a nod. “Uh-huh, I think so. I’m alive. I’m not sure I can move my legs.”
The agent turned back to the radio. “IED explosion, Eagle One, Code Alpha. Both principals with me. I repeat, two of two alive. But the nest has been penetrated. We need medical response.”
Then, to the back seat: “Ma’am, security and medical backups are both on the way. I’m going to assess the perimeter. Don’t move. Stay in the vehicle no matter what happens.”
“Okay, Frank, we won’t go anywhere. Judd, you’re staying here with me.”
“Yes, of course.”
Hell yeah, I’m staying here.
“Are you really hurt? Can you feel your legs?”
But Judd didn’t reply. All he could think about was Jessica.
S/CRU DIRECTOR’S OFFICE, U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE,
WASHINGTON, D.C.
EIGHT MONTHS LATER
MONDAY, 10:25 A.M. EST
Judd speedwalked down the hallway. When he arrived back at his office, Serena was standing guard again. Judd didn’t slow down as she opened and held the door.
“Ambassador James is wired up and ready to go,” she said.
“Good. Is she alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we are secure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks, Serena. No calls while I’m on the Tandberg.”
On his desk was a dark gray videophone with a ten-inch screen: the Tandberg.
Straight out of
The
Jetsons
.
On the screen was Larissa James, sitting in her office in Bamako. The defense attaché and the CIA station chief were gone. In the upper left corner flashed
TS/SCI
.
TOP SECRET/SENSITIVE
COMPARTMENTALIZED INFORMATION
. The call was scrambled and secure. They could talk freely on this line.
Judd hit the button.
“Hey, Larissa. Jesus, what is going there?”
“Judd, this is definitely a coup. I’ve seen it before. Sorry to have to pull you off the beach. What a mess.”
“This is why I’m here. This is why I gave up tenure track at Amherst and almost got killed visiting you. I’m supposed to be the rescue guy, right?”
“Lucky you.”
“Yeah. I thought I’d be, you know, making U.S. policy during crises, but I see I’m now the designated babysitter for the task force.”
“You’ll have to keep them busy and feed the beast upstairs with regular reports. That’s the only way to keep control. You know that, right, Judd?”
“Sure. I’m going to need your help to figure out what’s really going on if we are ever going to fix this.”
“I’m ready.” Larissa smiled for the first time.
“You and I are going to reverse this one if I have to come down there and walk Idrissa out of the palace myself. It’s got to be Idrissa, right?”
“Colonel Houston and Cyrus, the station chief, say they don’t really know for sure, but that’s our assumption, too. Cyrus should know more later today after he gets back from making the rounds. We’ve asked NSA what chatter they are picking up, too.”
“If it is Idrissa, could he be in league with Oumar Diallo? Could this be General Diallo’s second bite at the cherry?”
“Could be.” Larissa nodded gently. “I’ll talk to the British high commissioner here and see what the Brits think. I assume they are tailing him in London. Maybe you can double back with your counterpart at the Foreign Office and see what they know, too.”
“Who else is really a player in Bamako?”
“The French still have eyes and ears here. I’ll talk to them, too, but their ambassador is old-school foreign ministry. I’m not sure he’ll have anything I can’t pick up myself on the cocktail circuit. You’ll have to find a contact in Paris that you can trust.”
“What about the neighbors?”
“They will stay quiet for a few days. I expect the United Nations and the African Union will both issue blanket condemnations of the coup, but no one will even start thinking seriously about next steps for at least a week. A strategy, much less a special envoy, is at least two weeks away. Maybe three.”
“That’s too long,” said Judd. “We are already more than ten hours into this. You and I need to figure out the pressure points. Can you feed the local press, make sure they know we won’t accept the coup, despite what they start hearing from the palace? What about leaking stories that the Americans are pissed off?”
“Sure. I can do that. I can reach out to local Imams, too. They are the real power brokers.”
“Good. What about the army? Can your defense attaché call the other military leaders and take their temperature? See who might still be loyal to Maiga? See if there’s a whiff of a countercoup brewing. That would be a lucky break. That’s Plan A.”
“I will ask Colonel Houston. He seems to have good access. The Malians love him.”
“We also need to keep Washington happy. Eventually you are going to have to give the counterterrorism guys more than what you gave the task force. I’ve been back in the office for twenty minutes and they’re already breathing down my neck. All right?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else that you’re not telling me, Larissa?”
“Keep this to yourself for now, Judd. There’s a breakaway jihadist cell here calling itself Ansar al-Sahra. They are small, but showing similar patterns to the early Afghan Taliban, so Cyrus is tracking them. The Malians are extremely concerned because they appear even more extremist and dangerous than the other armed groups in the area. We don’t believe Ansar al-Sahra could have more than a couple dozen active members, likely all Libyans or Algerians, but Malian intelligence has been watching the mosques closely for recruitment footprints, especially around Timbuktu.”
“I can’t imagine that a group like that would find many recruits in Mali.”
“I agree, Judd. Islam in Mali has always been very moderate. But the remote areas up north are impossible to patrol. Terrorist groups copycatting al-Qaeda are looking for safe havens, out of sight and beyond the reach of the Algerian and Malian militaries. Ansar is probably one of them, but worse because, if we believe the intelligence reporting, their ambition is to attack big targets like Timbuktu. Maybe even Bamako.”
“And the Tuareg? Any signs of a rebellion brewing?”
“Not that we can see. The Tuareg are nomads who have been trading across the Sahara Desert for the past two thousand years.
Today they are shuttling more cigarettes and guns than salt and gold, but they still just want to do their trade in peace. No one’s ever been able to control that area. Not the French and not the government in Bamako.”
“Any links to this Ansar al-Sahra?”
“We really don’t know. Mali’s had five Tuareg rebellions over the past fifty years, so the risk of it spinning out of control is always high. Every time the government overreaches, the Tuareg fight back. There are still half a dozen loosely affiliated separatist groups that want independence from the south, but we don’t think they represent a majority. They are, however, operating in the same physical area as the real terrorist groups. But the Tuareg should have no good reason to want to draw unwanted attention and force the Malian military to get involved.”
“Or us,” Judd added.
“Right. Or us.”
“Okay, Larissa. But you know that’s not how our counterterrorism guys will see it. They will see smugglers and ungoverned spaces and want to start dropping large exploding things from planes onto camels to make sure al-Qaeda doesn’t find anywhere to hide.”
“Ansar knows this, too,” said Larissa. “They will probably try to integrate into civilian Tuareg society. So they can blend in. Maybe gain a foothold for the long jihad.”
“Then our goal has to be to drive a wedge between them. We can’t let our goals of fighting terrorism get conflated with local Tuareg politics.”
Larissa nodded in agreement.
“What about our uniformed guys? Do they get this? Colonel Houston said something about Special Forces embedded with the antiterrorism unit. Have you got them corralled, Larissa?”
“Yeah, we’ve got our people placed with Mali’s counterterrorist strike forces as part of Operation Sand Scorpion. Houston has positioned his guys all over the country.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“I’m having him pull them all back to Bamako until we know what’s going on with the coup. Those guys are still running around up in Timbuktu, Kidal, Mopti, and Gao.”
“Jesus, Larissa. That sounds like a mess. We’ve got a coup by the Malian military and they’ve got boots in every corner of the country. DoD must be having a fit.”
“That’s why I’m pulling them back.”
“You better do it quick. The Senate is going to have some difficult questions for the Pentagon if we don’t get this coup turned around right now. Wait until the Senate Foreign Relations Committee gets wind of this. Chairman McCall wants some scalps over our secret CT programs that don’t seem to be bearing the fruit he wants. And now this. McCall is going to have an absolute fit.”
“Judd, Bryce McCall is going to have other concerns when he hears of the coup. His daughter is one of our Peace Corps volunteers. In a village up north. Near Timbuktu.”
• • •
Judd hunched over his desk examining satellite photos of the Mali-Algeria border. Across the top of each threatened a
SECRET
label. The photos, date-stamped that morning, were light brown, almost sepia, pictures of sand dunes, in succession of increasing amplification.
The last photo showed a cluster of darker-brown squares, with what were clearly three pickup trucks parked in a straight line. A bright red circle surrounded the encampment and vehicles, with a helpful arrow pointing to the center and a label:
POSSIBLE TERRORIST CAMP
. It looked like many other similar photos Judd had seen of mobile camps in the desert. It could have been Ansar al-Sahra. Or Tuareg. Or Malian military.
It could be terrorists. Or nothing at all.
Serena interrupted, “Dr. Ryker, I have the other Dr. Ryker on line four.”
Push. “Hey, Jess, how’s it going? I’ve been meaning to call you. Sorry, it’s just gotten crazy.”
“I’m sure it is. What’s the news? Is it a coup?”
“Still trying to figure that out. Are you at the beach?”
“Sure. The kids are trying out those boogie boards you got them. You still don’t know what’s going on in Bamako? How is that possible? What did the embassy say?”
“They’re working on it, too. Look, it’s starting to get complicated. I don’t think I’m going to be back today. I’m sorry this is ruining our vacation.”
“I blame Mamadou Idrissa, not you, Judd.”
“Well, we don’t even know yet who is behind the coup. Or if it’s really a coup at all. Is it hot on the beach?” Judd imagined Jessica, lying on a towel, simple black bikini, hair up, dark sunglasses, reading
the
African Crop Science Journal
.
“Yeah, but the breeze is keeping us cool. Come on. It’s gotta be Idrissa. What did Papa tell you?”
Uh-oh,
thought Judd.
“I’ll take your silence as an indication you haven’t called him yet. Come on, Judd. You have no idea what’s going on and you haven’t called Papa Toure? No wonder. He’ll know the story even before the CIA will. He should have been your
first
call.”
“Yeah,” was Judd’s sheepish reply.
“Your guys should probably put him on the payroll.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll suggest that,” he said with a tinge of sarcasm.
“You know why Henry Kissinger was so powerful, Judd?”
“I have a feeling you are going to tell me.”
“Because he built his own private network to solve problems. He had his own parallel communications and intelligence systems. Diplomatic theater is one thing, but he did the real work away from the headlines and behind the scenes. Scheming is done in the shadows, Judd. Didn’t you read Kissinger’s
Diplomacy
?”
“You’re right, Jess. Of course. I know. I will call Papa. I just haven’t had the chance yet.”
“Judd, I’m sure you feel like you are drinking from a fire hose today. You must use what you have. Don’t let the rest distract you. What do I always tell you? ‘Until the desert knows that water grows, his sands suffice.’
It fits here. You can do this.”
“Yeah, I remember. Emily Dickinson. I will try to use what I have. I won’t let the Sahara die on me. Thanks, Jess. Um, what are you doing later? How late can I call you?”
Serena poked her head in with a look of urgency on her face. Judd cupped the handset and raised his eyebrows at Serena.
“Idrissa,” she whispered.
“What?”
“It is Idrissa. Ops just called. Idrissa is on Malian television right now. They are piping it into your screen in ten seconds.”
Judd nodded and uncupped the phone. Jessica was shouting at one of the boys. “No, put that down!” He could hear crying in the background.
“Uh, sorry, Jess. I have an urgent call. Let me take this and I’ll call you later. Give a hug to the boys.”
“I have to go, too. All hell is breaking loose on the beach,” she said. “Get cracking and fix this thing, Judd. And then get back here already.”
Jessica’s voice projected neither irritation nor disappointment.
No read yet.
Judd hung up and pushed the button on his computer screen.
—
“. . . today, my people, Mali takes another step forward in its glorious history as a leader of Africa and a crossroads of the Sahara.” General Mamadou Idrissa was behind a large wooden desk with the Malian flag behind him.
He’s sitting in President Maiga’s office. Jessica was dead right.
“We have had a long journey, from the Songhai Empire to the terrible suffering of our people under French exploitation, to the splendor of our hard-fought independence. The arrival of democracy to the republic in 1992 was a triumph of the people and set us on the course for peace and development.” Idrissa was in full military regalia. He appeared calm and spoke straight into the camera.
“But, my people, we all know, things have gone astray. Yes. The greed and corruption of the elite have stolen from the people and threatened our magnificent democracy. The gains from the blood and sweat of our fathers were on the verge of being lost to the gluttony of those who would sell us to foreigners and would eat food from the mouths of our children. We could not allow this to continue. No. We could not allow our democracy to be weakened by those who would steal from our own nation. No. We had no choice but to act against those enemies from within in order to save the nation. We must have security. Yes. We must have security,” said Idrissa. The words were bold, but the general’s fingers were twitching.
“As of today, parliament and the cabinet are hereby dissolved. The president has been relieved of his duties. The Council for the Restoration of Democracy has taken over the responsibilities of government. I, as commander in chief of the Malian Armed Forces, will chair the Council until we can organize new elections at an appropriate time.” Idrissa picked his cuticles as he spoke. “Security, security,” he repeated.