The Golden Hour

by Todd Moss

  “What exactly are you saying, General? Do you have specific information?”

  “I only know that there are bad men with ill intentions, and they are on the move. The threat is imminent and we cannot be weak. I do know this.”

  “I thought you were now a private citizen, General. How can you be so sure, sitting here in London?”

  “Check with your people, Dr. Ryker. They know, too. They can explain. I am just a helpful servant of the Malian people. Trying to save us both from a new crisis.”

  “My people? Who do you mean?”

  “I am a military man, Dr. Ryker. I have been in the army my entire adult life. It is natural for associates to get together. To have a beer like we are doing here in the Bull and Bear. It is very natural for friends to watch a Saturday football match together. Like my side Chelsea over Crystal Palace. And to help one another. To share information about weakness and vanity. To work together to fix problems. To overcome weakness with strength. To defeat the enemy together.”

  Judd squinted and took a large gulp of beer to try to hide his confusion.

  “Your man called it soccer, of course,” Diallo added.

  Judd’s mind was racing, trying to put the pieces together. He took another drink to buy time. Had Diallo just revealed covert contacts here in London with American officials? Why was he disclosing this? Was he suggesting Americans had prior knowledge of the coup? Did we give him a green light?

  Switching tacks, Judd set down the glass and brightened his face, allowing a small smile to appear. “I see, General. Let’s look forward. Let us talk about how we can best overcome the current situation. I know you do not want any harm to come to President Maiga. And the First Lady, your sister. Have you heard from her? Is she safe?”

  Diallo reacted, as Judd hoped, with a wide grin and an exaggerated nod. “Yes, yes, my sister. Very good. You have done your homework, Dr. Ryker. She is safe, of course. She was unable to stiffen the backbone of her husband and get him to see clearly. That is why he is no longer president. Boubacar was too weak.” He was now shaking his head and tsking. “Shame, such a shame.”

  “The United States government still considers President Maiga to be the rightful and legitimate head of state. That has not changed.”

  “I am aware. We can find a resolution. That is why we are talking here now. Yes, Dr. Ryker?”

  “I’m going to Bamako today to meet with General Idrissa. The United States cannot recognize an illegal coup, of course. It would be helpful if he heard from his mentor that our position is set in stone. It cannot be changed.”

  “I see.”

  “But we do want to find a safe and honorable way out for all.”

  “I agree. Yes. I am glad to hear you say this. Mamadou needs advice. And a path. He has become greedy, but I can speak with him. I am still his elder. I am willing to talk to him. But he will need assurances about the future.”

  The general paused to ponder how to say what came next.

  “Dr. Ryker, you know we cannot allow Mali to fall back into the hands of the irresponsible. The dangers of insecurity are still too great to permit that. We must find a strong and experienced leader for the nation at this critical juncture.”

  Their eyes locked for a moment, broken by Judd’s wooden reply: “That is something we can discuss when the time is right, General.”

  “Ask your British and French colleagues. I know they would all welcome my help. I am certain of it, Dr. Ryker. But we do not have much time. Every moment increases the risks.”

  “Yes, General. I agree. We must be swift but also patient.” Judd drained the last of his beer and slammed the empty pint glass onto the table. “I’ll be in touch.”

  • • •

  Once safely in a black cab, Judd dialed the number for Simon Kenny-Waddington.

  “Simon, it’s Judd Ryker from State.”

  “Judd, nice to hear from you. What’s the news from Bamako?”

  “Heading there now. I’m in London as I speak. Have you got a tail on General Oumar Diallo yet?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, I just saw him ten minutes ago at a pub off the Edgware Road and he said that London is backing him to return as the compromise replacement to Maiga. You know anything about that?”

  “I’ll have to check.”

  “When I get to Bamako, I’m going to tell Mamadou Idrissa that his time is up, so it would be helpful if he was hearing the same thing from London. Can you make that happen?”

  “I’ll pass that message to our high commissioner.”

  “Thanks, Simon. And one more favor. Are you a Chelsea football fan?”

  “No, no,” responded Simon with a slightly derisive chuckle. “Rugby is my game. I played at school and never miss a match at Twickenham. You know football is a gentlemen’s game played by hooligans, but rugby is a hooligans’ game played by gentlemen.”

  “My mistake, Simon. We are soccer, I mean football, fans in my family. My son really loves Chelsea, but I’m a Crystal Palace man myself. Do you have any idea when Chelsea next plays Crystal Palace?”

  Judd could hear low mumbling on the line, followed by. “Judd, you still there? The chaps here say you just missed it. Two-one Chelsea, I’m afraid. Maybe next time.”

  “When was that?”

  “Just last Saturday.”

  Two days before the coup.

  25.

  SAHARA DESERT, NEAR THE MALI-ALGERIA BORDER

  TUESDAY, 1:34 P.M. GMT

  Bazu Ag Ali’s camp had only been in place for one day, but he was already feeling jumpy. It was time to move again.

  He stepped outside the three-sided tent, the same kind his ancestors had used when they trekked up and down these very same desert tracks by camel to trade salt and gold across the Sahara. Today, trucks had replaced the camels and the cargo was mostly cigarettes and guns. Counterfeit Marlboros and knockoff Eastern European AK-47s.

  Bazu, like any respectable smuggler, wouldn’t think of going anywhere without his own AK companion. He’d acquired his eleven years ago, traded for two sacks of rice and a crate of Coca-Cola. The AK was his closest friend and they depended on each other. Bazu stripped and meticulously cleaned the gun every day. In return, the AK provided him with both protection and an honorable living.

  Bazu looked to the north for any sign of the Harmattan, the seasonal sandstorm that turned the sky into a milky haze. All clear. He gazed toward the sun, scanning the sky. Nothing, no clouds, no birds. No planes.

  Time to move. Quick check, three vehicles, all Toyota Hilux pickups stolen from the Malian military. Originally provided by the American government. Two of Bazu’s trucks were outfitted with mounted heavy guns in the back. The third was empty to allow for more cargo.

  This day his twelve-man crew, mostly boys he had known since they were children, was hauling unopened crates, stamped with Russian words he couldn’t read. Bazu assumed they were filled with guns, but the price was good enough that he knew better than to ask.

  Russians paid well. But they also would hunt you down if you failed to deliver. Knowing this had shaken Bazu’s usual confidence.

  He checked the sky again, then called out to his men to load up and prepare to move. Their course was due north today, toward the Algerian border.

  Just then his Thuraya satellite phone rang. It was a familiar number from the United Kingdom. He marched off to a far sand dune, out of earshot of the other men.

  “Yes,” he answered in formal Arabic. On the line, a voice he recognized asked him about the weather and the direction of the wind. Instructions in code. Bazu listened intently to the series of questions, replied, “As you wish. . . . Wa Alaikum As-Salaam,” and then hung up.

  Bazu stared off into the distance. It was a rolling sea of white sand. No choice but to obey. He jogged back to the convoy, idling and ready to go.
All the men’s eyes were on him.

  Switching back into the native Tamasheq language, he announced, “New plan. Today, we will all earn extra!” Nods and smiles all around. “Yallah, let’s go!”

  And they rolled off over the dunes, heading due south. Toward Timbuktu.

  26.

  TERMINAL 5, HEATHROW AIRPORT, LONDON

  TUESDAY, 3:15 P.M. GMT+1

  Judd was now running late, but slowed his speedwalking to double-check his flight number up on the screen. As Judd neared the gate, boarding was still under way, so he slowed down and relaxed his shoulders. Standing off to one side and watching over the passengers was a burly and completely bald man in jeans and a tight golf shirt. He had a small navy blue gym bag by his feet. Judd approached him.

  “Colonel Durham?”

  “Yes, sir. Dr. Ryker, I presume?”

  “Glad I found you. Thanks for flying up from Stuttgart.”

  “Those were my orders, sir.”

  “Well, I’m still glad the Pentagon sent someone.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If we are boarding, then I assume this means the Bamako airport is open again?”

  “Yes, sir. Our flight will be the first one allowed into the country after they shut it down at oh six hundred yesterday. Lucky timing for us.”

  “Yes, lucky. We can talk about the game plan on the plane. General Idrissa is a real scoundrel, but this is going to be fun. You’ve been to Mali before, Colonel?”

  “No, sir. I have been fully briefed by the Africa Command in Stuttgart. I am aware of the situation and our objective.”

  “Well, I’ll be interested to hear what they’ve told you.”

  “Not here, sir,” he said while tilting his head toward the other passengers. “So far, I’ve ID’d three groups. In the northern chairs facing the window are Eastern Europeans, probably Ukrainian or maybe Russian. Definitely ex-military and they know each other. They absolutely work together. I’ll try to get a visual on their passports when they board.”

  Judd just nodded and noticed, for the first time, that all the passengers waiting to board were men. They were clustered in small groups and were unusually quiet. Of course. Who flies into an African country the day after a coup?

  Durham continued, “The group of men boarding now are British. They also know each other and, based on their rapport, I am confident they are Special Air Services. That is, British Special Forces, Dr. Ryker. Likely working private security now.”

  “Mercenaries?”

  “Contractors, sir.”

  Judd nodded.

  “The other group sitting in those chairs”—Durham was now looking to his left with his eyes but kept his head steady—“are Americans.”

  Judd leaned in close. “Colonel Durham, what Americans would be flying into Bamako today?”

  “You mean other than us, sir?” said Durham, with a toothy smile.

  A sense of humor.

  “They don’t have official passports. Also likely private security. Contractors. Maybe for the mining companies.”

  “Could they be undercover?”

  “Not based on their tattoos. Recognizable body marks like theirs aren’t permitted in U.S. Special Forces.”

  “Of course.”

  “Dr. Ryker, if I may, I suggest we hang back, wait for last call, and board once all the others are already on. Keep your passport shielded from view. Last thing we need is to broadcast an American diplomat on the plane.”

  Judd nodded, with a touch of satisfaction. Durham appeared calm and cool, but also emitted a hint of suppressed violence.

  “You’ve been in Germany long, Colonel?”

  “No, only a couple of weeks. Just in between Afghan tours.”

  “Where were you stationed?”

  “Bagram Airfield, sir.”

  “Based on this assignment, I assume you are a special liaison and experienced negotiator with warlords?”

  “No, sir,” responded Durham. “I’m a career Green Beret. I have no idea why I was selected for this. I’ve been running aviation teams on counternarcotics campaigns.”

  “Airplanes?”

  “No, sir. Helicopters. We use Black Hawks and Little Birds to disrupt the Taliban’s opium trade. The poppy fields are their main source of financing, so we patrol the trade routes by air and attack their couriers when we can.”

  “Well, this is a very different kind of assignment. I don’t expect much action.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know, I hear the soccer team down in Stuttgart is pretty good. You a soccer fan, Colonel? You ever get to a match?”

  “No, sir. No time for that kind of thing. Not my game anyway. I grew up in rural Minnesota. A Twins fan before I could walk. I’m a baseball man.”

  27.

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

  TUESDAY, 11:05 A.M. EST

  “Who needs a triple cinnamon latte with extra whipped?” asked Serena, holding two tall coffee cups.

  “Oh, you spoil me!” said the overweight secretary, squeezed into her chair. Sitting on her desk were a bouquet of plastic flowers, photos of three pudgy children, and a sign declaring YOUR LACK OF PLANNING IS NOT MY EMERGENCY. Behind her, on the wall, was a discreet engraving that read OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF STAFF.

  “I was on my way up here to the seventh floor anyway.”

  “That’s a lie, Serena, and you know it! But thank you anyway.”

  “How is your mother doing?”

  “Oh, she’s doin’ good. Real good. The stitches are supposed to come out next week.”

  “That’s wonderful news. So hard to recover from a fall at that age. It’s terrible getting old.”

  “Don’t I know it!”

  “Are you able to get home at a decent hour and help her?”

  “You think the State Department cares about my mother? Mr. Parker always said the right things. It’s all ‘Yes, dear, you go home and take care of your momma.’ But as soon as he’s workin’ late, I’ve got to stay, too.”

  “Yep, that’s how it is in this building. Is Parker working late every night?”

  “Uh-huh. And most Saturdays, too,” she said, pulling out a tissue and loudly blowing her nose.

  “I’m so sorry. That’s just not right.” Serena added a sympathetic shake of the head. Then, quietly, “You hear anything new about Rogerson?”

  “I already told you he keeps calling Mr. Parker from South Africa.”

  “Has he called again?”

  “Early this mornin’.”

  “Right. Did he say how it’s going?”

  “Doesn’t sound like it’s goin’ too well. That man’s always a grouch. But he was especially snappy today. He’s prob’ly been talkin’ all night.”

  “Is he almost done? Is he ready to come home?”

  “They keep gettin’ close, but then there’s always a last-minute hitch. I think he’s booked his return flight twice already and had to cancel both times. I don’t have a new return plan.”

  “I see.”

  “Rogerson sure is popular ’round here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not the only one asking about him. Lots of people calling up here, asking when Rogerson’s coming back.”

  “What people?”

  “All kinds. Regional security, political, military. The terrorism people musta called five times. The White House even called over here last night asking about him.”

  “Will you keep an ear out for me?” asked Serena.

  “Don’t I always?” she replied.

  “Yes, you do. Can I ask you about something else?”

  “Of course. Shoot.”

  Serena lowered her voice. “You know anything about a Purple Cell?”

  The secretary’s smile disa
ppeared. “No. I do not know anything about that. And you really should not be asking. You should know better.”

  “Oh, okay. I’m sorry I asked. Never mind. I must have heard wrong. Let’s forget it.”

  “That’s a good idea. You don’t want to be asking around about that. It doesn’t exist.”

  28.

  BAMAKO AIRPORT, MALI

  TUESDAY, 11:52 P.M. GMT

  As Judd stepped out of the plane onto the roll-up staircase, a familiar wall of heat hit him square in the face. It was nearly midnight, but the gentle breeze offered no relief. Welcome back to Mali.

  His stomach twisted as it sank in that Jessica was right. It was the first time he’d been back to Africa in eight months. The first time since the bombing.

  The sky was jet-black, but the airport’s low concrete buildings were illuminated under large spotlights. Looks the same. The mobile-phone billboard and the handsome young man with the blue suit and sparkling white teeth were, comfortingly, still there, too. Judd squinted toward the grasses behind the sign. It was pitch-black over where the prefab white building should have been. No attack helicopter anywhere to be seen this time.

  At the bottom of the steps was another familiar sight: Larissa James. She was surrounded by a crowd of beefy security men in dark suits. Behind them hummed a three-car train: Peugeot police car with lights ablaze, white Toyota paramilitary pickup truck, and the ambassador’s black Suburban behemoth. The bumper flags were mercifully sheathed. Low-profile protest or security measure?

  Judd, trailed closely by Colonel Durham, descended the stairs.

  “Dr. Ryker. Great pleasure to have you back in Bamako,” said Larissa loudly over the jet engines. Her hand was outstretched for a formal handshake. She was all business.

  “Thank you, Ambassador,” he responded, trying not to yell.

  She took Judd’s hand and pulled him in close, then into his ear said, “Judd, really good to see you. We will talk later. Just go along and smile. Tonight is all theater.”

  Judd nodded emphatically, and then, loudly again, “This is Colonel Durham, our special liaison from the Office of the Secretary of Defense.”