“Okay, so where is Maiga? Do we know?”
“No, sir,” replied another analyst. “We don’t yet have eyes on him. There is a lot of activity at the main barracks on the east side of Bamako, so it’s highly probable he is being held there. And we have confirmed Red Berets manning the approaches.”
Judd turned back to Sunday. “What about Diallo? Does he have a role here?”
“Aaay, good question. General Oumar Diallo has a pattern of opportunism. He had spent years building up a network of allies
with an eye to becoming king one day. Idrissa was, at one time, a protégé of Diallo’s. Not long ago, Idrissa was a principal lieutenant and likely a key part of his plan for seizing political power. Even though that’s all gone awry, he still has a healthy view of himself. We expect him to make a push to return to Mali at some point. We just don’t know if that point is now.”
“Where is he now?”
“We believe he is still in London.”
“And what’s he doing?”
“MI6 reports he is in contact with senior military personnel in Mali, but they don’t have anything more, at least not that they are sharing with us. So it’s not clear if Diallo is giving orders or just gathering information. We have to assume he is plugged in, but we can’t characterize his current relationship with Idrissa.”
“Could Idrissa be fronting for Diallo? Just clearing the way for him to return to the country?”
“Possible but unconfirmed. They have historically been both allies and rivals.”
“Desperate times can make unusual bedfellows. And I’ve been told Diallo is the cousin of the First Lady, Mrs. Maiga? Is this correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, so how does that figure into this morning’s coup?”
“It might be nothing. The political class in Mali is actually very small. Everyone knows each other.”
“And this new group, Ansar al-Sahra? Are they relevant to the events of today?”
“Glad you asked,” responded yet another analyst. “Our
counterterrorism team is gathering evidence on all new active cells in Mali. Ansar al-Sahra, loosely translated as ‘defenders of the desert,’ is the latest variant and does appear connected to extremist jihadist elements in the region.”
“What do we know?”
“High probability that Ansar is a splinter group from al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb. AQIM began as an opposition movement in Algeria but soon disappeared underground and then spread into neighboring countries, including northern Mali. AQIM commanders have been trying to project the impression they are the local affiliate of the global movement built by Osama bin Laden and now run by Ayman al-Zawahiri. AQIM is known to be recruiting across West Africa, so we would expect Ansar to follow similar tactics.”
“Is there any evidence?”
“Last month our counterterrorism unit tracked two known Libyan jihadists who came down into Mali with cash and attempted to infiltrate mosques in Timbuktu and Djenne. They were picked up by Malian security. The Scorpion unit under the direct command of General Idrissa provided both the initial intel and executed the snatch-and-grab.”
The analyst pulled a small remote control from his pocket and pointed it at a screen. “We’ve also got this.” A video monitor on the wall sprang to life. “Taken by cell phone and smuggled out within the past seventy-two hours.”
A short video clip ran for about fifteen seconds. It was mostly out of focus and moved too quickly to see clearly, but there were glimpses of a line of men, faces covered with black scarves,
aiming automatic weapons at targets offscreen. The sound was mostly of wind, some shouting, and the rat-tat-tat of short firing bursts.
“The yelling is Tamasheq, the Tuareg language. We think he’s saying something about killing infidels and to aim for the heart. We can’t ID anyone because of their head coverings. But the source that provided the video claims it came from a mobile camp in the far north of Mali, near the Algerian border. And that it’s Ansar al-Sahra.”
“Who is the source?” asked Judd.
“You know we can’t say.”
“Okay, but is it an American source or does it come from the Malians? Is it Idrissa’s guy or ours?”
“It’s an insider who penetrated this cell and took great risk to shoot this clip. That’s all I can say.”
“So what exactly does it mean?”
“Still being assessed. It’s another data point that new armed groups are sprouting in northern Mali. We’ll send it over to NSA to analyze and see if they can cross-reference the voice with any known terrorists.”
“So what’s next?”
“We now expect Ansar will take advantage of the turmoil in Bamako to exploit the situation. Both Malian and U.S. personnel have been put on a higher security status. That’s mostly where we are now.”
“But Idrissa hinted in his television address that Maiga was going soft on radicals. What is your assessment?”
“There is no consensus on that, sir,” said one analyst. “Our counterterrorism team had been hoping Maiga would take a
harder line. We were approached by Idrissa for additional train-and-equip of another camel corps for the border. He has repeatedly asked for a consignment of night vision equipment and satellite photos. Maiga was sitting on all of these requests. I’m sure Idrissa was frustrated.”
“The political assessment is much more nuanced, sir,” interrupted Sunday. “Maiga was reaching out to moderates to keep the extremists from gaining a foothold. He is very close to the religious leader of the whole north, the Grand Imam of Timbuktu, and periodically seeks his political and spiritual advice. We have no indication that Maiga was reducing the pressure on dangerous elements or trying to make a bargain with Ansar al-Sahra. I’ve been looking at these patterns for months. Maiga was certainly aware of Idrissa’s ambitions, suspicious of his growing influence, and skeptical of his leveraging our terrorism concerns for his own gain. Maiga is smart enough to know that.”
“Okay,” inserted Judd, who tucked his notepad into his pocket as a signal that the briefing was coming to a close. “Where are the French on all of this?”
“We are in touch. They are intensely interested, Dr. Ryker,” said Zoe, the team leader.
“What do the French really have at stake? Is this a colonial hangover or something new?”
“Aaay, they feel some historical responsibility, but their main angle is regional spillover,” said Sunday. “The French economy runs on nuclear power, and French nuclear power runs mostly on—”
“Uranium,” interrupted Judd.
“Yes, sir. Uranium. Especially from Niger, which is right next to Mali.”
“And Niger has a northern rebellion problem, too, right?” asked Judd.
“Correct. The French can’t have terrorists disrupting the whole region. It could mean no more lights on in Paris.”
“So, yes, Dr. Ryker, the French government has a stake here,” added Zoe. “They are interested. Deeply interested.”
“I appreciate the insights from your team. Please keep me updated. I’ll be working on the Mali situation full-time, and will need the Agency’s resources.”
“That’s what we are here for. You’ll have to excuse me, Dr. Ryker,” said Zoe, standing up, “but I’m late for another meeting, so I’m going to ask Sunday to escort you out.”
“Okay, but one last question. Has your team ever figured out who set off that roadside bomb in Bamako that nearly killed Ambassador James and me?”
“No idea, sir. That’s gone cold. It’s still a mystery.”
• • •
CIA headquarters is a labyrinth. Sunday led Judd back through the maze, past the paintings of early surveillance planes and the entrance to the gift shop.
Maybe I should get the boys real CIA spy pens?
“So, Sunday, how long have you been the Mali political analyst?”
“Just eight months. Aaay, good timing, I guess. No one cared too much until this morning.”
“Well, good fortune for you.”
“I’m still learning about the Sahara, Dr. Ryker. I started out working on Mexico and was on the Western Hemisphere desk, but I have always been drawn back to Africa. My parents are from Nigeria. I was born there but raised in California. The family ties keep pulling me in. Aaay. I’ve got the Africa bug.”
Judd nodded politely. Sunday continued, “My Ph.D. was on the exploitation of technology to organize political violence. I referenced a lot of your work, especially your surveys of Rwandan refugees during the 1994 genocide. You were the first to bring data to a series of anecdotes. When I read that paper, a lightbulb went on. It’s an honor to be working with you.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that it was useful for someone, Sunday.”
“You probably don’t remember, but we met once when I came to Amherst to hear you give a talk on applied statistics in conflict research. I was working under Professor BJ van Hollen at the time.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t. But of course I knew Professor van Hollen. He was my supervisor, too. I owe my career to BJ.”
“Aaay, so do I. We are all part of the van Hollen diaspora, I guess. The CIA’s current station chief in Bamako is also one of his protégés.”
“Small world.”
Judd paused for a moment to ponder the connection.
Small world indeed.
BJ van Hollen trained the CIA’s Bamako station
chief and the Mali analyst. And me. Papa, too.
Who is CIA? How can you ever know?
“You know the professor died last year?” asked Judd, bowing his head.
“Yes, I heard. I was so very sorry. He was a great man.” They both nodded solemnly.
“So you know BJ van Hollen and now me. That’s all good. But you still don’t really know what’s happening this morning in Bamako or the motivation behind the coup?” Judd added a small smile, a sign that the line of questioning may have taken a turn back to the serious matters at hand, but was still friendly.
“I’m trying to figure it out, Dr. Ryker. This part of the world has always been confusing for outsiders. The Arabs, the Scottish explorers, the French, and now us.”
“The Scots didn’t have satellites.”
“I’ll keep digging and let you know what I come up with,” he said, handing over a folded piece of paper to Judd as they broke their grip. “This is my personal e-mail and my encrypted cell phone with secure SMS. In case you ever need it. To chase a data point. Or run down a phone hit. To find someone that no one else can find. I don’t want to just write reports out here. I want to help you connect the dots.”
“Look, Sunday, I know you’re trying to be a solid analyst.” Judd said, slipping the paper into his pocket. “But look at it from my standpoint for a second. There has been a coup and the first step to turning it around is understanding what the hell is going on and who the players are. So I drive out here to find out. What
does the CIA give me to work with? Narco trafficking, arms trafficking, Russians looking for oil, the French worried about uranium. Mali may be the next front in the war against global jihadist terrorists. Then again it could just be a petty squabble among a small Malian family for control of the country. Diallo, sitting in London, could be behind Idrissa. Or he may be trying to help Maiga as a way to get back in power. Or this could all be nonsense. You are just giving me a laundry list of possibilities, not hard information. There’s no data here.”
“Aaay. You’re right. The numbers can’t tell us.”
They arrived back at the lobby. “And to make matters worse, the more information thrown at me, the murkier things become.”
Judd handed his ID card to the security guard and firmly shook Sunday’s hand.
“Roger. I get it. I understand,” said Sunday. “And that’s not all.”
Sunday lowered his voice to a whisper. “No one will admit this outside this building, but the community is split on Ansar al-Sahra. Not everyone is convinced it actually exists.”
• • •
Back in the car, Judd impatiently dialed a long telephone number. The line crackled and beeped. After a long pause and several clicks, Judd heard a deep
“Oui?”
“Papa, it’s Judd.”
“Ah, Judd my friend, I’ve been expecting your call today. How are Jessica and the family?”
“They are fine, thank you. It’s been quite a day in Bamako, I hear.”
“Yes. Yes, it has been quite a day for us. Especially for your friend Maiga. How are Noah and Toby? I’m sure they are getting very big now.”
“Yes, sure. They are fine. Jessica is with them at the beach. But I’m calling to make sure you are safe. And to see what you are hearing.”
“Ah, the beach is good. I’m sure the boys will like that. Their father should be with them, no?”
“I was with them until Idrissa pulled his stunt this morning. What are you hearing, Papa?”
“Miriam and I used to love to go to the beach in Dakar. Funny thing for a man born in a landlocked country to love the ocean so much. Ah, don’t you think, Judd?”
“Papa, I need to know what you know.” This is no time for prolonged African greetings.
“Judd, you have been away from Africa for far too long.”
“Tell me about it, Papa. I’d love to catch up. But right now, I’m trying to put the pieces together.”
“Yes, yes. I’m glad you called me, Judd. I was thinking about you, too. You know about the Harmattan, yes?”
“The sandstorms? Of course I do. But it’s not Harmattan season, is it?”
“When the Harmattan blows, it is difficult, often impossible, to see clearly. Yes, you are right, my friend, the sandstorms are usually in the winter. But the Harmattan, the force of the Sahara
Desert that blows down from the north, burning the eyes, and blocking the light, is more than just the physical sand. The Harmattan can obscure the truth at any time. Do you understand, Judd?”
“Yes, Papa,” lied Judd. “Well, um, maybe. What exactly do you mean?”
“Did your people tell you about the north? About Timbuktu? You remember when you were here last year and we spoke on the phone? I told you to watch out for Timbuktu. I told you to go there.”
“Yes, Papa, I remember. You told me,” said Judd, looking out the car window at the grand edifice of CIA headquarters. “You were right. Of course.”
“So if you knew, Judd, why are the Americans so confused about today?”
“I haven’t been getting the whole picture, Papa? I need your help to get Maiga back.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”