by Todd Moss
“No.” Serena was now actively blocking the doorway. Her short, slight frame was more than matched by the serious look on her face and her no-nonsense jet-black business suit, just a shade or two darker than her skin.
“No other messages?”
“It’s four minutes after ten already, Dr. Ryker. They are waiting for you at Ops.” She handed over the file and gently pushed him down the hallway.
As he walked toward the Operations Center, he opened the file, and the corners of his mouth curled slowly into a faint smile. The folder contained a single piece of paper, almost entirely blank, except: “LJ call T+5.”
Judd locked his BlackBerry in a small locker built into the wall next to the security booth. He flashed his ID badge to a uniformed guard at the door and pushed hard on the thick glass door, which gave way with a whoosh of rushing air.
“Thank you, sir. Task Force Mali and Bamako videoconference is Room G.”
The State Operations Center was the twenty-four-hour beehive that kept headquarters in touch with America’s 305 embassies and diplomatic outposts around the world. It looked like a cross between an air traffic control center and a small trading floor. Young foreign service officers and security specialists sat at terminals with headsets. The walls were lined with large screens, blinking maps, and clocks that flashed the hour of major cities in every global time zone.
Off to one side were several doors that led to highly secure conference rooms. Judd found Room G and pushed open the door.
The scene was much like the one during his fateful seminar for Landon Parker twelve months earlier. There were about a dozen suits sitting around the wood conference table, with younger suits in chairs ringing the outside.
Up on the large screen was a familiar face, Ambassador Larissa James. She was flanked on either side by two men, one in military uniform and one in a rumpled tan suit: the defense attaché and the CIA station chief.
Judd slipped into one of two empty seats at the head of the table.
“Good morning, everybody. I assume we’re waiting for Bill Rogerson. What’s his ETA?”
“Assistant Secretary Rogerson is not here, sir,” said a young staffer sitting along the back.
“Where is he? When is he expected?”
“Away. I have no location and no ETA for the Assistant Secretary. You are chairing the task force, Dr. Ryker,” the staffer said, adding definitively, “Mr. Parker’s orders.”
“Okay, fine.” Lucky break. “Let’s get started. Bamako is plus four hours, everyone, which is fourteen hundred hours GMT.” Judd nodded to the screen. “Good afternoon, Bamako. We’ve got the task force here. For Ambassador James’s sake, and my own, let’s make quick introductions. I’m Judd Ryker, S/CRU, State Crisis Reaction Unit.”
Around the room it went, each in quick succession, announcing a name and an acronym, representing some corner of the State Department bureaucracy and the proliferation of issues and offices. There were reps for the offices of West Africa, North Africa, democracy, human rights, political-military, counterterrorism, economics, regional security, African Union, and consular affairs. Each two-person team, reflecting the strict hierarchy of government, had the more senior person at the table and one staffer, the “plus-one,” sitting in the outside ring, at the ready to whisper a detail or pass a critical fact sheet.
The more experienced of those at the table sat with no paper in front of them, the blank table space a sign of supreme confidence of their grasp of the issues at hand. A single crib sheet was still allowable but, Judd had quickly learned, an unmistakable sign of weakness to the others. The thick binders of papers, stuffed with background, spreadsheets, and maps ready at a moment’s notice to answer a question—or, better, to trump a rival—were strictly the purview of the outer ring.
They were all, of course, present on short notice in order to hear an update from the embassy and to provide input to U.S. policy during a time of crisis and decision making. Or, more to the point, to ensure their offices weren’t cut out of any decisions that impinged on their respective boss’s turf.
Just as the staccato of letters finished and the last person had laid their claim to be in the room, Judd impatiently turned back to the screen. “Ambassador James, what is the situation?”
“Thank you, and good morning, everybody. We’ve got conflicting reports, but we’re fairly confident we have a coup unfolding here in Bamako, which probably took place in the early hours of this morning, local time. We think before dawn, roughly four a.m. The television and radio stations are all off the air, the army’s on the streets setting up roadblocks around the palace at Koulouba and along the airport road.”
Yep, classic signs, thought Judd. It’s a coup.
“Thus far, the city is calm and we have no reports of violence in the capital or other major towns,” continued the ambassador. “I can’t get anyone on their cell phones in President Maiga’s office. The foreign minister is in Beijing this week, so I haven’t been able to reach him, either. Colonel Randy Houston, here, is our defense attaché. Colonel Houston?”
“Thank you, ma’am,” responded the military uniform sitting to her right. “At thirteen hundred hours Bamako time, about an hour ago, the regional security officer and I visually confirmed roadblocks around the city. The roadblocks on the highways leading to the palace and to main army barracks at Wangara are both manned by elite presidential guard, the Bérets Rouges or Red Berets. The road to the airport is also confirmed closed. The troops on the airport road are, however, black-hatted Gendarmerie, the equivalent of the U.S. National Guard. We aren’t sure what this means, but it does suggest a highly coordinated military effort. This is not just the action of one rogue army unit.”
“What about the rest of the military? Where are they?”
“We have private unconfirmed reports that Malian army regulars are on the streets in Kidal, Mopti, Gao, and Timbuktu. We have been unable to reach any of our contacts in the Ministry of Defense by phone. We do have Special Forces officers embedded with the Scorpions. At least one of those units is reported to be AWOL.”
“Excuse me, Colonel, the Scorpions?”
“Mali’s counterterrorism strike teams. The Scorpions are a new weapon in the global war on terror. We trained and equipped them over the past eighteen months and now have advisors embedded inside each of the units. They are the tip of the spear of our fight against al-Qaeda in this part of the world.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” said the ambassador, turning back to face the camera. “Any other questions from Washington?”
“The airport. Is it open?”
“An Ethiopian Airlines flight reportedly landed about three hours ago without incident, but the military has now closed it until further notice. All other arrivals have been diverted to Dakar in neighboring Senegal. Air France has canceled its flight in from Paris tonight. British Airways has done the same from London.”
“What about American citizens?”
“All official Americans in Bamako have been accounted for,” replied Ambassador James. “There are eighty-five Peace Corps volunteers in-country and we will assess their status over the next twenty-four hours. An estimated five hundred private American citizens are also here, but we have no reports of attacks and no reason they are likely to be targeted. Consular Affairs has issued an alert to all AmCits to stay inside. We will also recommend deferring all but essential travel until the situation is clarified.”
“Thank you, Ambassador,” said Judd. “Do we know who is responsible?”
“At this point, we do not,” replied the ambassador. “Mali has a long history of coups and countercoups. The last known attempt was early last year when the then–army Chief of Staff, General Oumar Diallo, tried to arrest President Maiga. Diallo was easily thwarted by Maiga’s Red Beret presidential guard, but he escaped to Senegal and then made his way to Europe. Diallo lives in exile in Paris.”
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The rumpled tan suit, so far completely silent and motionless, mechanically turned his head and whispered into Ambassador James’s ear.
“I’m sorry. I mean London,” she corrected herself. “Diallo is, we believe, in exile in London.”
“Is there any indication that General Diallo may be back in Mali today?” asked Judd.
“None yet, but we are checking,” she replied.
The CIA station chief whispered again in her ear. The ambassador nodded slightly, then added, “The current army Chief of Staff is General Mamadou Idrissa. He is supposed to be on leave at his home village up in Dogon Country, near the border with Burkina Faso. But we have unconfirmed reports that he was sighted in Bamako last night. We are checking on this, too.”
“What about a terrorist connection?” interrupted a staffer from the counterterrorism office. He was so young that Judd assumed he was seated at the table only because his superior was too busy to deal with a small West African country. “Could Mali be under terrorist attack?”
“We don’t think so,” quickly responded the ambassador.
“But Mali does have active al-Qaeda affiliates in its territory. We have been tracking increased activity along the Algerian border and a recent change in smuggling patterns by Tuareg nomads along routes from Niger and Burkina Faso,” the staffer continued.
“Yes. That’s all true,” said the ambassador slowly, failing to hide her annoyance. “But there is no indication whatsoever that there is any terrorism link to the unfolding events of today. Until we have a clear indicator, we are not jumping to conclusions.”
Judd interrupted, “Okay, thank you, Madam Ambassador. Do you need anything from Washington?”
“Not right now. We are hunkered down. I hope to know more soon.”
“Very good. In that case, we will reconvene in six hours. Thank you, Embassy Bamako.”
Without giving anyone else the chance to object, Judd hit the disconnect button on the remote control and the large screen went blank.
“Thanks, everybody. See you all back here at four o’clock. Who’s here from public affairs? We need to get a statement out. General boilerplate, expressing concern and that we are closely monitoring the situation, is good enough for now. All offices here on Task Force Mali are on the clearance list for the public statement. Let’s try to push this out quickly, folks.”
And with that, Judd stood, turned, and hustled out the door, anxious to get back to his office.
Mali, he thought. And the memories rushed back. . . .
5.
BAMAKO AIRPORT, MALI
EIGHT MONTHS AGO
Judd exited the Senegal Airlines Boeing 737 and paused at the top of the truck-mounted stairs. The Saharan heat seared his eyes, forcing him to squint through his slightly crooked sunglasses. Africa hot.
Two sandy beige single-story concrete buildings stood a few hundred yards away, with a simple black-and-white sign reading BAMAKO SENOU INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. BIENVENUE À MALI.
Off to one side was a shiny, obviously new billboard with a handsome African man in a sharp blue pin-striped suit smiling broadly while talking on a tiny mobile phone. Beyond the Malitel sign, toward the far edge of the airport, was a low white prefab building with no markings or signs at all. Beside it Judd could make out the top of a black attack helicopter resting in the tall grass.
On the tarmac stood a small posse waiting for Judd. Several large men in suits and wraparound Oakley sunglasses surrounded a petite woman with short gray hair and tan weathered skin.
Behind them a train of three vehicles idled: a small Peugeot police car with flashing lights, a new white Toyota Hilux pickup truck with GENDARMERIE NATIONALE stenciled sloppily on the side, and a shiny black Chevrolet Suburban. The SUV had tiny American flags on small poles attached to each corner of the front bumper.
The other passengers snaked around the group to make their way to the arrival bay of the airport. When Judd got to the bottom of the steps, the woman stepped forward and extended a stiff hand. “Welcome to Mali, Dr. Ryker.”
“Good to meet you, Ambassador James. You didn’t have to come out to the airport. I could have met you at the embassy.”
“No, no, I’m happy to. Plus, it’s protocol. The Malians are very excited to have a special American envoy visiting. Let’s go.”
And with that she spun around and climbed into the Suburban. Judd ambled around the other side, where one of the men was holding the door. The police siren wailed and the rest of the security guards clambered into the back of the pickup. Judd ducked his head and hopped into the car. The door slammed shut with a slight creak and an unexpectedly heavy thud. Armored car. The caravan lurched forward, and the little American flags on the truck’s bumper sprang to life.
Beats the death-trap minibus I rode in last time I was in Mali.
Ten seconds later, the cars abruptly halted in front of a concrete building. “VIP lounge.” The ambassador shrugged. Judd followed her out of the vehicle and through a door flanked on both sides by stoic soldiers holding automatic rifles.
Inside was a column of men wearing bright blue and stark-white boubous, the full-length flowing robes common in this part of the world. The room had about a dozen shabby burgundy velvet sofas and two brand-new wide-screen televisions sitting side by side, one showing a soccer game, the other Al Jazeera cable news in Arabic with French subtitles. Both were on high volume. Above the TVs was a crooked portrait of a stern-looking President Boubacar Maiga, wearing a modest white cap and watching over the lounge with paternal benevolence.
But the thing Judd most noticed, amid the sudden assault of noise and color, was the unexpected chill. In a far corner, a massive air-conditioning unit was blowing frigid air across the room. It fogged his sunglasses, and he took them off, sliding them into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
The ambassador, apparently unfazed by the shocking change in climate, walked Judd up to the receiving line and introduced him to each man in succession. Judd shook hands, smiled politely, but the names and titles were a meaningless jumble. I’m on the edge of the world’s largest desert and I’m freezing.
“You’ll see many of them again later,” said the ambassador after the introductions were complete. The men had retreated to the sofas and were busy fishing mobile phones out from inside their boubous.
“Ahmed will take your passport and bring your bag to the residence. Let’s go.”
Judd handed over his diplomatic passport and followed Ambassador James out of the lounge and back into the Suburban. The caravan, now joined by several more cars, sped out the airport gates, lights blazing, sirens wailing, and down the highway toward the city center.
“Sorry to hit you with all of this right off the plane, but I’m sure you’re used to it by now, Dr. Ryker,” she said, exposing a slight Texan drawl.
“It’s Judd, please. And yes, it’s been quite a trip so far.”
“You’re coming from Senegal, right?” Judd guessed she was in her late fifties, close to retirement, and probably beautiful back in the day. The Foreign Service takes a toll.
“Yes, and I hit Mauritania, Guinea, and Liberia before that,” Judd said. “I’m leaving for Niger tomorrow evening.”
“That does sound exhausting. I hope you’ll be able to get what you need while you’re here in Mali. It’s a risk assessment, right?”
“Correct. We’re meeting with all the country and security teams to be sure that our conflict and coup risk metrics are aligned with the data our people on the ground are getting. It’s a ground-truth tour.”
“Plus, you can get to know the people on the other side of the table,” she added. “I’ve been in the Foreign Service twenty-six years. I’ve served in Honduras and Japan, in Congo and El Salvador. And one thing I’ve learned, no matter where you are, is that diplomacy is rarely about policy. It’s all about personal relationships.�
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Judd nodded politely and turned away to take in the city of Bamako. Along both sides of the road, people were walking, women with rainbow bundles atop their heads, crowds of young men waiting for bush taxis, little muddy boys riding donkeys. And goats, an endless throng of goats.
“Your first time in Mali?” she asked.
Judd faced Larissa James.
“I was here many years ago as part of a survey team with the Haverford Foundation. We were assessing community water management in Kidal. I actually met my wife, Jessica, here on that trip.”
“How wonderful.”
“She’s an agronomist.”
“So Mali has been lucky for you?” she smiled.
“Yes.” Judd turned back to the window and the bustling cityscape. “So far, Mali has been very lucky for me.”
6.
KIDAL, NORTHERN MALI
ELEVEN YEARS AGO
“Judd, they’re here. Come out and meet the team!”
“Coming, Professor!” Judd replied from inside the tent. Christ, it’s hot, was all he could think. I should have gone on the Mongolia project. Or, better yet, stayed in my lab.
Judd opened the tent flap and ducked his head to exit. Standing outside among several parked Land Rovers were Professor BJ van Hollen and a middle-aged African man with a short-cropped goatee.
“Judd, this is Dr. Papa Toure. He’s come up from the University of Ibadan in Nigeria to help us with this project. No one knows water in this part of the world better than Papa.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Judd, extending a firm handshake.
“Judd is the rising star I was telling you about,” van Hollen explained, rubbing his fingers through his thick graying beard, a habit from the classroom that he could never quite shake during fieldwork.
“I really don’t think so,” replied Judd, doing his best to deflect the uncomfortable praise from his mentor.
“Nonsense. Judd is one of my best students.”
“How do you two know each other?” asked Judd, steering the conversation away.