by Gavin Chait
A group of the Russian mercenaries have gathered in the cafeteria of the safe-house, an old office block on the outskirts of Dakar, circling chairs and tables to watch the large view-screen. Their trays and food-dirty plates are scattered across the table, with people leaning amongst the debris, their attention bonded to the newsfeed.
Four vast, blocky quadrotor freight drones are flying over the erg, ripples of ochre sand like a petrified ocean below them. Beneath, and suspended on cables strung between them, is an enormous thirty-metre long container, like a building lying on its side.
The stream comes from the pursuing drones. Every few moments, another drone comes into shot.
Early this morning, an Achenian maintenance hub in southern Mauritania came under assault. The attackers’ timing was fortuitous. It seems a glitch during a shift change left the area unsecured for only a few minutes. With no real defence, the engineers on site were forced back from the huge printer completing the last of the line printers for linking the solar farms to the electricity grid.
The attackers are anonymous in light grey-green fatigues. The drones are similarly painted. No one knows who they are.
They attached cables to the bulk of the enormous container and hoisted it into the sky.
Achenian freight and security drones were called in and have been following it for hours.
Whoever stole the container do not appear to have concerned themselves with pursuit. They do not shoot back or, given the weight and complexity of ferrying the cargo hanging below, make any attempt to evade the following drones.
An Achenian manager was interviewed, and he reappears on the feed every few minutes to repeat the potted summary. ‘One of our industrial vitrification printers was stolen by unknown forces. We would like to know who they are, and we would like our property returned.’
Within minutes of the start of the feed, a young military enthusiast in Estonia posts her assessment. ‘That’s a Chinese carrier. It has code XB334. You can see it’s been painted out. And that belongs to the Chinese military.’
Verification follows, as does a theory, of sorts.
‘It’s simple,’ says the man in the green vest, attempting to summarize for others straggling in. ‘The Chinese have wanted that printer since the first solar farm went live. They depend on Rosneft’s energy as much as the Europeans. They want to put a series of farms in the Gobi Desert. They cannot buy it, so they have stolen it.’
‘Why don’t they give up now that everyone knows they’re behind it?’ asks a sweaty looking man returning from his training duties outside.
‘How do you think they will get their property back from the Chinese? Sue them? Start a war? Nyea, once they get that thing inside Chinese airspace, it will not come out. Their only hope is to stop it while it’s still over Africa.’
‘I do not trust this,’ says Belaya. ‘We have been trying to destroy that machine for over a year and could not get near it. How could they capture it so easily?’ He stands, walking to the cabinet against the wall where they keep bottles of vodka. ‘You will see, those kitayoza have not won.’
There are grumbles amongst the mercenaries. ‘Fifty dollars they get away,’ says one, his voice defiant. A roar as the men shout odds and agree terms.
-
‘Kuffār!’ spits Duruji, quietly so that his words do not carry, where he and a group of jihadis are seated at the rear of the cafeteria observing as the mercenaries throw money on the table and shout encouragement at the drones on the screen. ‘They drink and gamble. They are unworthy of associating with the ummah.’
The mercenaries have spent months gathering the dispersed survivors of Ansar Dine, and the building is becoming crowded. They outnumber the Russians, but they are underequipped, still using their AK-47s. Each of the mercenaries is loaded with smart armour and weaponry and, as much as the jihadis wish to slaughter them, they recognize they have not the ability to do so. Not safely, anyway.
‘When will the white man let you visit our Janab?’ asks one.
‘Always tomorrow,’ says Duruji. ‘They do not trust us.’
‘How do we know he will be ready for us?’ asks another.
He shrugs, nursing his resentment.
Duruji was raised in the karst caves of the deep desert. A child of privilege within the stifling and prescribed hierarchy of Ansar Dine. His experience in exile has been repugnant.
He, along with many of the men, suffers from a latent agoraphobic anxiety whenever he is out in the open. He struggles with his loss of stature. Women walk wherever they wish, unaccompanied and uncovered, yet they fight and scream when he would take them. Children shout and play without supervision. Markets expect him to wait in line and pay for goods. He will do anything to restore Ansar Dine, but his mind lacks the dexterity required to navigate this world. He needs simple explanations and straightforward orders.
He, and the men, crave reassurance from Ag Ghaly that he is waiting for them. That he approves their sufferance of these kuffār.
‘It matters not,’ says one, his beard long and streaked with white, his djellaba greying and threadbare. ‘Our Janab will know what to do.’
Duruji nods. There is not much more they can hope for. There is no access to Ag Ghaly without the help of the Russians.
-
A gasp as the lead Achenian drone gets too close to the rearmost Chinese drone. They collide and the two tangle. The Chinese drone instantly disconnects from its cable as they spiral down into the sands below. With the container leaning and a cable trailing in the air, the remaining Chinese drones accelerate clear.
‘We’ve had an announcement from the Chinese ambassador to Senegal, Gong Yuanxing,’ says the newsreader.
An interchangeable grey man in a grey suit appears in a block at the corner of the feed.
‘The People’s Republic of China rejects any accusation of interference in the private property of any organization. We are as much victims in this as anyone. We have discovered that unknown spies have stolen our freight drones for their own purposes and are using them in this matter. We join Achenia in demanding the return of our property.’
Cynical laughter from the mercenaries.
‘You still fancy your odds?’ asks one of the men of Belaya.
He stares at the console. ‘They will not get away.’
-
‘He is better today, yes?’ asks one of the jihadis, nodding his head towards the great hulk of Khalil where he sits alongside Duruji.
The giant is grinding his teeth, his head twitching as he attempts to dislodge the sounds only he can hear from his bandaged ears. This is an improvement. He is able to engage and follow orders. The daily routine of forced training has given him some stability to grasp.
The men would abandon him, but he is a brave fighter and his size is sufficient to intimidate even some of the mercenaries.
They do not let him go out with them when they visit the surrounding markets. He attracts far too much attention, with many expecting him to be a laamb fighter. He seems, thankfully, not to have any interest in the world outside his mania and is docile when left on his own.
Khalil smiles at them, rubbing at the bandages over his ears. Under his breath he is muttering again about Gaw Goŋ and the howling roar in his head.
Duruji nods, staring at the table, feeling nothing but a burning knot of tension.
-
A roar from those closest to the screen. The coast has come into view and still the Chinese drones stay in the lead.
Suddenly, the Achenian drones pull up short. The image of the Chinese drones gets further and further away until they are a mere dark splotch on the screen, the huge printer hanging as a pendulum beneath.
Over the ocean, the printer explodes. A tiny spark of orange and red expanding and obliterating the drones, flung up and then falling and vanishing beneath the waters. The horizon shimmers and twists.
A choral sigh.
‘Told you,’ says Belaya. ‘Now pay up.’
38
A crowd of people are gathered before the entrance to the courtroom. Ordinary men and women: men in kufi and peaked caps, women wearing scarves and shawls, even children looking frightened amidst the unfamiliar pressure of strangers.
‘Salle 7,’ reads Shakiso. ‘I wonder if that’s it?’
Tuft squeezes closer to her legs and pulls her tail in to avoid being stepped on.
A court orderly pushes open the check-patterned wooden door from inside the courtroom. A wave of silence passes from the front to the back of the crowd as they wait for him to speak.
He pulls a small console from his black robes and begins to read out a list of names.
‘Ms Collard,’ says a gentle voice, shy and hesitant.
‘Viviane,’ says Shakiso in delight. ‘Are you working here?’
‘Yes, Ms Collard, I am with the Tribunal. Are you looking for the trial?’
‘Yes, is this it? And, please, call me Shak.’
Viviane blushes slightly. ‘Thank you, Ms – Shak. The trial is this way, I will show you, but it is not yet open.’
‘What’s this one, then?’ asks Shakiso, as she follows. The Court of Justice is a vast circular building with the courts around the outside and a bright tree-filled courtyard rising up from the centre of the marble hall.
‘This is the day court. They are waiting to see who will have their cases heard today.’
‘Ah,’ says Shakiso. ‘That probably wouldn’t have been as fun – oh . . .’ her voice trailing off as she realizes the inappropriateness of her words, recognizing how nervous she is. ‘I’m sorry. I think this whole thing is weirding me out.’
They near the far end of the circular hall. The width of the corridor is barricaded with steel-mesh security fencing and soldiers guard the corridor on either side of the entrance. The trial has been underway for three weeks, seemingly sufficient time for the guards to lose interest in the daily routine. They stand in groups chatting or clustered around consoles watching a football match.
‘It is well, Ms Collard. I understand your fears,’ says Viviane, shy once more. ‘I will be honest. This trial – I do not believe anyone attending is not affected by it.’
A small group of lawyers laugh and chatter near the entrance to a court alongside. They are dressed in black robes with a narrow white bib sprouting from their collars and hanging over their chests.
An old man sits on a plastic chair reading from a console. His large and round wife dressed in a bright purple boubou, her head wrapped in a scarf, is seated on the floor at his side eating an orange.
Otherwise, it is silent. No waiting civilians. Only court orderlies going about their business.
‘It is still early, Ms Collard. There is a small restaurant below us. We could perhaps . . .’
Shakiso takes her hand firmly. ‘That is a fantastic idea. You can tell me how this works.’
They take seats alongside the glass windows looking out on the courtyard, waiting for their coffee. Light shafts down through the trees, and the contrast makes everything glow green.
Shakiso is grateful for the air conditioning. Tuft curls up at her feet and goes to sleep.
‘What do you do here?’ asks Shakiso. ‘I’m sorry. I keep running into you, but I’ve no idea. I thought you worked with Tiémoko in Aroundu?’
Viviane blushes. ‘I am a legal researcher here at the Tribunal. I have been assembling the evidence for the team that will lead the prosecution. Mister Diagne permitted me to work from his offices when I was interviewing seekers in Aroundu who had fled Ansar Dine.’
‘How long have you been doing that? How did you get started?’
‘I began ten years ago,’ she says, looking away and outside, towards the sky. Her eyes cloud and her voice trembles. ‘My brother wanted to cross the erg. Ansar Dine took him from us.’
Shakiso feels as if she has inadvertently stumbled into something far greater than her experience.
‘I’m sorry, Viviane. Please, you don’t need to tell me.’
‘No,’ says Viviane, looking at her. Her eyes are liquid, her stare direct and firm. ‘It is good to talk. Women in my culture do not often get to speak as freely as you do.’
Shakiso smiles, nods, and her eyes are the blue of the deep.
‘We were very poor. My father is late, and my mother worked as a cleaner. My brother thought to travel over the waters, to make money and send it back to us. He travelled to the hamada and there met with a group that would cross the desert. They were promised safe passage by Ansar Dine. We never heard from him again.
‘I was a young girl. We went to live with my uncle in Dakar. I studied hard at school. One day there was a competition, and I won a bursary to study law at Cheikh Anta Diop University.
‘On weekends, I would go speak with the old women in the markets. They introduced me to those who survived and escaped. I recorded their stories. Every weekend, every evening. I put together a record.
‘When the Tribunal was being set up, I was invited to join. I have spent ten years preparing and hoping that Abdallah Ag Ghaly would be captured and face our court. Now he is kept where the records of those he tortured used to be stored.’
Shakiso has an image of this quiet, shy woman listening; of her patient determination to walk amongst so much violence and suffering and remain as she is.
‘How many have you heard?’
Viviane’s eyes are red, fierce and her shoulders set back in defiance.
‘Many thousands,’ she says. ‘And I would listen to them all.’
‘Viviane, my sister, I should learn from you. I wish for even half your courage.’
Viviane leaves to prepare for the court session. Shakiso finishes her coffee and sits staring into the courtyard until she feels ready. It is a mark of her apprehension that she drinks it at all, for the coffee is quite terrible.
She queues for security clearance, passing within the view loop and submitting to a physical inspection of brusque intimacy but little competence. Tuft follows close on her heels.
The courtroom is a vast, triple-height, wood-lined hall filled with plush red chairs and soft, silencing carpet. Cameras are set up looking towards the attendees, the justices, the witnesses, and to where a figure sits immobile.
Abdallah Ag Ghaly is permitted to dress in his own clothes for court. He sits stifled inside his white grand boubou, his head in a frothy flume of a turban. As improbable as a large meringue found unexpectedly on a theatre seat.
Gone are the tantrums and unconstrained shrieks of the first days of the trial. When he would throw himself to the floor, screaming and mewling, ‘Stop! Stop! I am of the divine! You have no authority over me!’
He sits. His eyes behind dark glasses. His right hand, gloved in black, supporting his chin. Not a part of him shows.
A soldier advances on Shakiso, his face radiating stocky order.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ says Shakiso, having forgotten to start her translation app.
‘There, there,’ says the soldier, gesturing down a row of chairs. And then an incomprehensible babble she cannot follow.
She moves along the row and sits. Tuft hides under her chair. Both peer back at the soldier to see if this meets his approval. The soldier glares at them, then stomps off.
She notices now the large military presence in the room.
Two-by-two, patrolling short stretches of the room. At every doorway and every junction.
A row of black-clad, armoured special forces are seated in front of Ag Ghaly. They appear to be resting, their eyes half-closed. Two of their number stand directly before him looking over his head, their guns in their hands. They scan the room.
There are many being named during the trial who have managed to keep their ties to Ansar Dine secret. Many who have acted as intermediaries, profiting from the trade in goods and people in the territories it used to control.
Many who would prefer that the trial never take place. That the suffering of so many be forgotten and los
t.
People file into the court, taking their places in silence. A small group of journalists to her right and to the back of the hall. The legal advisors and researchers taking their place directly behind the opposing councils.
Viviane smiles at Shakiso as she emerges from one of the side doors, carrying three consoles and a large binder of yellowing papers. She has changed and wears the black robes of a lawyer.
An old woman hobbles along the row towards Shakiso and sits down with a gentle sigh three seats away. A kindly looking old man sits down next to her on her right and smiles at her. He turns on his console and begins reading.
Soon the row on either side of her is full.
The elderly man to her left speaks to her.
‘I’m sorry. I only speak English,’ furtively tapping at her earlobe to start translation.
‘Ah. I was asking. Are you one of the victims?’ the elderly man asks again. He looks tired, but his voice is firm.
‘No, I’m simply an observer,’ she says, flustered.
‘These seats are for the victims,’ says the elderly man.
‘Oh,’ standing. ‘I’m so sorry. The soldier—’
A bony hand on her arm holding her in place and the tenderness of warm brown eyes.
‘Please,’ says the old man on her right, a voice of ineffable kindness. ‘Stay. You are welcome here.’
She sits down again, her heart pounding, feeling over- whelmed.
‘You have met Clément,’ says Viviane, leaning over the chairs. ‘I am pleased. He is president of the victims’ association.’
Clément stands and takes Viviane’s hands. A look passes between them, as of two people who have walked long in darkness and now see light. All the years spent taking evidence, preparing for this trial, hoping that they would one day bring Ag Ghaly to justice, shared in that moment.
‘If you could excuse us?’ he says, and he joins her amongst her papers.
A door on the dais opens, and an orderly walks over to the microphone.