Dead Edge

by Jack Ford

  Putting her rucksack on her back, Maddie stared at her father. ‘For God’s sake Daddy, we’re not in the nineteenth century, I don’t need anyone to look after me.’

  ‘You’re so wrong, Maddison, everybody needs somebody. And I need you to be here and be safe… Please, just put your bag down and let Cooper do what crazy thing he has to do. Let him go.’

  Maddie kissed her father on the cheek and headed for the door. ‘The thing is Daddy, it’s not about letting him go, I wish it was… It’s about keeping him alive.’

  GOROM-GOROM,

  BURKINA FASO, WEST AFRICA

  95

  Bc6 Ra1

  In a cloud of red dust, under the Burkina Faso sky, the beaten up 1970s Ashok Leyland bus, crammed and packed and heaving full of people, came to an abrupt stop by a herd of long-horned cattle nibbling the last bits of grass stubble along the edges of the sandbank.

  The electric folding doors on the bus were broken. They wouldn’t close and they wouldn’t open, instead they continued to bang in annoying repetition every few seconds against the scorching metal frame. Maddie and Rosedale stepped down off the bus, which proceeded to speed off before Cooper’s feet had properly touched the sandy, hot desert ground.

  Several dozen donkeys, carts and a caravan of camels, along with heavily-laden motorcycles went by, all kicking up dust. Rosedale bent and arched out his back and wiped away the dripping sweat from every possible part of his body.

  ‘Jesus, they don’t make buses like that anymore… So what’s the plan, guys?’

  ‘I think we should maybe look around a bit,’ said Maddie. ‘The fact that it seems to be market day couldn’t be better. There’ll be plenty of people we can talk to and get a feel for the area. Obviously we have to be discreet, but the people of Gorom-Gorom are known for their welcome, so I don’t think we’ll have a problem. We just want to get what evidence we can and get home.’

  Cooper nodded. ‘I agree. The wind is getting up, though, which will take away any kind of visibility. We’ll only be able to see a few feet in front of us, if that. A pain in the ass if we want to go and find somewhere to pitch our tent. But hey, I guess that’s the southern edge of the Sahara for you. Come on, let’s go…’

  The market was an imposing riot of colors and bustle, an assault of sounds and smells hidden in the remote, wild, beautiful landscape. And between the livestock being traded, the rainbow of hand-printed batiks, colored beads, crafted leatherwork and earthen jars, there was food laid out majestically in high piles on the floor. Dates and sweet-tasting fruit, fresh peanuts, millet seeds, beans and cassava, alongside a garden of herbs and spices.

  ‘What’s that? Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ Maddie pointed and smiled at a velvet-skinned old woman, who sat hunched and cross legged on the floor, smoking a long, thin wooden pipe.

  A toothless grin and a cackle of a laugh from the lady. ‘Il est poisson séché.’

  ‘Dried fish?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘You know, I think they’re lungfish,’ said Rosedale. ‘You want a little fact?’

  Cooper sighed. ‘Do we have to?’

  ‘Funny thing is, Thomas, those fish remind me of you. You see they bury themselves in the mud, hide away from the world, and can sleep out of water for years without moving or having any kind of sustenance at all. Like they’re in a state of suspended animation. And you’d think they’d die, wouldn’t you? Rot away. But just as you think it’s all over, some rain comes by and fills up the river and damn it, there they are, flapping and fluttering and spluttering to get to that water. A one track mind, and nothing but nothing else matters.’

  Cooper threw down the butt end of his cigarette. ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘Hey, lighten up, Thomas, I was…’

  ‘Shut up, Rosedale. Look, over there… By the milk churn stall. There’s a kid, you see him? He’s wearing one of the yellow T-shirts…The same T-shirts the kids were wearing on the boat.’

  With the wind getting up, and whipping red dust in their faces to hinder their vision, Maddie squinted and tried to protect her eyes. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. Come on… ’

  The trio rushed, leaping over the mounds of food, swerving the stalls, and sprinted past the men holding the camels, waving their hands in apology as they barged past people. Then, speeding round the corner and stumbling over a pile of yams, Cooper caught a blur of yellow T-shirt through a cloud of red dust. ‘There he is… quick!’

  But without warning, a white flash of light and flames exploded, filling the air. Screams and shouts and torn limbs and flesh showered down, sending the trio scrambling back for cover as large plumes of smoke billowed up, mixing with the Saharan dust whilst blood rained biblically down over the stalls and the locals, who ran in all directions in a chaotic, mass panic.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ Maddie yelled to Cooper. ‘Look… Jesus Christ, the kid was wearing a suicide vest.’

  They walked over to the small, smoking crater, where the shredded torso of the child displayed the remnants of the ragged yellow T-shirt, the device strapped to what remained of his tiny chest.

  To the left of her, Maddie could make out a man who was scooping up a pregnant woman, whose legs had been blown off and instantly, instinctively, Maddie pushed herself from under the wooden stalls and ran over. ‘Que pouvons-nous faire pour aider? What can we do to help?’

  Speaking English, the man said, ‘Across the road is the school house, bring the injured there.’

  *

  And for the next few hours the community of Gorom-Gorom, along with Maddie, Rosedale and Cooper, battled their way through the dust and the whistling whirling winds, carrying the injured and mutilated, covering the dead and laying them by the side of the road.

  By the end of the evening the body count was forty-five dead.

  Thirty women.

  Ten children.

  Five men.

  Sixty injured.

  *

  Exhausted, covered from head to toe in thick red dust, Maddie, Rosedale and Cooper sat by the dead in silence, the wind howling around them, the sting of the dust barely registering as the horror sunk in.

  The man from the market walked towards them with a tired smile.

  ‘Thank you for your help… welcome to our country.’

  96

  Kf6 Kh7

  The tea was prepared desert-style. Water boiled over hot, glowing embers, before being poured back and forth between a small black pot and an even smaller cup. Bittersweet and strong. But it was good, and exactly what the trio needed as they sat in the small hut with the Harmattan night winds raging outside.

  Swallowing the OxyContin that Maddie had just secretively given him, Cooper listened to the man from the market – whose name was Moussa, and who’d once spent ten years living in Fort Greene, Brooklyn – talk.

  ‘There are refugee camps everywhere because of the situation in Mali. They accommodate thousands of refugees, but it’s put such strain on the area. Both politically and economically.’

  Rosedale, on his third cup of tea, asked, ‘Is there a lot of tension between the community and the refugees because of it?’

  Moussa said, ‘Thankfully not too much. The World Food Program do what they can to help, but of course in a country like this, it isn’t enough. Burkina Faso is already one of the poorest countries in the world. And tens of thousands of refugees fleeing the fighting in Mali, of course has generated further challenges. How to feed them as well as ourselves? It’s created a huge problem, but it’s the Fulani tribe who’ve suffered the most. For centuries they’ve travelled with their cattle, from one grazing ground to another in a seasonal cycle. But now their herds have dwindled to virtually nothing. The cattle are either dead from hunger, or livestock disease, or sold for next to nothing to raise money for millet. The grazing grounds have shrunk away to nothing because of drought, or been taken over by the refugee camps. It’s all putting pressure on their way of life, and of course there’s also…’

&
nbsp; He stopped suddenly.

  ‘Please, go on,’ Maddie said.

  Looking around as if someone was standing behind him, Moussa cautiously continued. ‘Because of the training camp. The soldiers from there, they cleared a massive area. Smashing down villages, burning churches and houses. Killing whole communities.’

  ‘And nobody did anything?’

  ‘There was nothing anybody could do! This country doesn’t have the ability to fight groups like that, and no other country is coming to our help. We’ve got no oil to make it worth their while, no minerals, nothing. All we have is ourselves and lots of sand. So with no-one rushing to our aid this place becomes a perfect breeding and training ground for terror groups.’

  Rosedale scooped up the ground millet dumplings from the communal bowl which Moussa had put in front of them. ‘But are the Fulani tribe wanting AQIM and Bin Hamad’s group to take over? After all, the Fulani once established one of the largest Caliphates.’

  Moussa laughed. ‘You’re going back a long time, Rosedale. But you’re right; the Fulani Jihad was in 1804, and led to the Sokoto Caliphate. And then like so many things when the British came, it was abolished when they defeated the Caliph. Obviously there are a number of Fulani men who’ve joined AQIM or Bin Hamad’s group, because of history, because of economic pressure or just because they believe in the ideology. But most just want to get on with their traditional way of life.’

  Cooper rolled his tongue round in his mouth and tried not to sound slurred.

  ‘What else can you tell us about the training camp?’

  ‘It’s run by a soldier who goes by the name of the Commandant. Another name I’ve heard him go by is Jihadi Al Begum. They say he’s from Belgium. But I don’t know for sure. Occasionally you’ll see him around here, surrounded by soldiers.’

  Cooper nodded. ‘We’ve heard of the Commandant, but what about the other soldiers? Where are they from?

  ‘I don’t know exactly, some look like they’re from Western Africa, some look more Middle Eastern. But what I do know is the training camp is for children. They’re training them to become jihadists. The child who blew himself up today was the third in less than a month… The children are definitely are not from here. They’re foreign. We sometimes see them taken through here in lorries, herded like cattle… Look, why don’t you get some rest now and, in the morning, I want to show you something which might interest you.’

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  97

  Ng5 Kh8

  ‘What have you got for me, Teddy? Something to make me smile? And if you can’t make me smile, how about giving me a large, neat bourbon.’

  Teddy Adelman sat down by the Roosevelt Desk, staring at his long-time friend and boss. ‘I don’t think I’m going to make you smile, and as for bourbon, no can do either. But I do come bearing gifts, Mr President… How about a sugared donut with cream and jam?’

  ‘Are they the ones from the district doughnut shop on Eighth Street?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘And did you make sure they double coated the sugar?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Then what are you waiting for, give them here.’

  *

  Five minutes later, Teddy said, ‘You got some sugar on the side of your mouth… Yeah, there… It’s gone now.’

  ‘Is it my imagination, Teddy, or have you Jheri curled your hair?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m not keen though. I’m seeing Shalamar and I should be seeing Vandross.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the moustache, have you ever…’

  The knock, followed by Janice putting her head around the door, stopped Woods from finishing his sentence. ‘Mr President, Lyndon Clarke is here for your sixteen hundred.’

  ‘Great. Show him in… ’

  A moment later Lyndon P Clarke, walked in.

  ‘Mr President, how are you? Teddy, how are you doing…? I like the hair by the way… Very Shalamar.’

  Woods smiled. ‘Take a seat, Lyndon… We’ll just get straight to it. As you know I thought it was important to have another meeting as quickly as we could after speaking to Chuck. Basically, so we can decide what to do. And just to bring you up to date, as requested Brent Miller did a polygraph test on Senator Rubin. It was really just a formality, because as we thought it would, it came back inconclusive. Which, as we know, is what happens when a person has been exposed to scopolamine. On the one hand, the subconscious knows it carried out whatever action it was, and on the other hand the conscious part of the brain really does have no idea, which causes a conflict and an inconclusive reading. So we can just put that to the side. The main thing was David Thorpe. Teddy, do you want to update Lyndon?’

  ‘Sure… We sent instructions to our site in Turkmenistan to send over samples of hair from our coffee shop bomber. We ran the tests, and it’s positive for scopolamine. Not that we doubted that, after hearing those recordings, but it proves he’s innocent.’

  ‘So what are we going to do?’ Lyndon said.

  Woods rubbed his chin and gave out a long sigh. ‘Nothing for now. We can’t. And we don’t really have to move on Thorpe until we’ve decided how we’re going to proceed with Chuck.’

  Teddy frowned at the President. ‘I realize that to do anything with him now would be showing our hand, but, Mr President, Thorpe shouldn’t be in there. He’s innocent.’

  Guilt turned into anger for Woods. ‘For God’s sake Teddy, you don’t have to tell me that. I know what he is. He’s another pawn in Chuck’s game… Look, I’m setting up a meeting with Ambassador Majdi Shaheen, hopefully by then intel will have some idea where Bin Hamad is, and then we can do a deal, see what they want, because there’s no way the Qataris will let us just go in and kill Bin Hamad. We don’t want, and can’t afford, a diplomatic incident. Then after that, well, we can relook at Thorpe… Have you got a problem with that, Teddy?’

  ‘You know I have. Bin Hamad’s a terrorist. Period. We should be able to do what we see fit. In the way we see fit.’

  ‘He’s not a terrorist in their eyes. As Shaheen says, Qatar takes personally that we’re holding one of their nationals without trial. To them no trail equates to Bin Hamad being innocent… Though I don’t think it would matter to Shaheen if Bin Hamad was caught with a ticking bomb in his hand. He’s a sympathizer, but what can I do? He’s the Ambassador to Qatar, who buy our weapons and host our military base. And the fact is they’re probably still not happy with us descending on their stealth ship like we did, so we have to go in with baby steps.’

  ‘Goddamn baby steps! It’s a joke, Mr President!’

  ‘Look, Teddy, I don’t like it myself and believe me it’s tough to even talk to Shaheen. There are just times I have to roll over like a dog. But that’s the way it has to be. Irony is, it’s situations like these when I think maybe Chuck just might have a point.’

  GOROM-GOROM

  BURKINA FASO – WEST AFRICA

  98

  Nde6 Ra6

  The morning brought a river of dust, with the hot dry Harmattan winds blowing and bringing in the Saharan sand. Wearing head scarves to protect their faces from the whip and sting, the trio followed Moussa. Bent double, with minimum visibility, no-one spoke, preserving their energies as they battled through the extreme elements, not knowing when their journey would end, concentrating instead on not losing sight of the person in front.

  By the time Moussa signaled to head down a craggy dune towards three shanty mud huts, they’d been walking for well over three hours. Mile upon mile through the wilderness of sand dunes, rough, sand-baked soil, and stone terrain.

  At the door of the largest of huts, Moussa gestured for the trio to step inside. His words were only just audible above the wind.

  ‘Welcome to America.’

  Slowly unwrapping the dark blue scarf on his head, Cooper stared in amazement.

  ‘Jesus.’

  The whole hut was crammed with an arsenal of weapons and ammunitions, row upon row of grenades, MANPADS, M16s
, M4A1s, M26s, submachine guns, anti-tank assault weapons.

  Just as quietly as Cooper had spoken, Maddie asked, ‘Are they all American made?’

  Moving large hessian covers to expose more weapons, Moussa nodded. ‘All of them. When the dust storms aren’t up, it’s easy to drive out here. And when the Commandant’s men were raiding and clearing the land, their lorries came through Gorom-Gorom, full of weapons. What you see here is only a small part of the cache. There are a few more huts to the north where they’re also storing arms, but those huts are guarded. According to some of the Fulani herdsmen, it’s the training camp where most of the weaponry is. This is just surplus stock. Probably why there’s no guard.’

  Cooper whistled. ‘It’s like an Aladdin’s cave. Even what’s here is enough to equip a small army. This must be part of what Ismet’s shipping. Goddamn unregulated arms trade. It’s given advanced, American-made weapons to exactly the people we don’t want to have them.’

  Moussa nodded. ‘Just last week some women were blown up on the road from Gorom-Gorom by children from the training camp with shoulder-fired missile launchers. People are really only travelling about now if they have to.’

  ‘Which must be difficult given the fact a lot of people round here earn their living by trading at markets,’ Maddie noted.

  Moussa looked at Maddie, his face lined with torment. ‘And nobody knows when and how it’s going to end.’

  Angrily, Cooper pulled back another large piece of hessian, uncovering dozens of tactical multi-purpose hand grenades. ‘The people of Washington who’ve signed off billion-dollar military contracts to equip Qatar need to come and see this.’

  ‘I doubt they’d be interested. This has always been the case, my friend,’ Moussa said sadly.

  ‘Man, it’s a bitter irony that one day the US will have to fight against what they sold. American guns versus American guns,’ Cooper said.

  Rosedale, who’d been quiet until now, spoke to Moussa. ‘Do you think it’s possible to get near the camp? We need photos, evidence. Anything that we can take back and shake up the US government so they have to act.’