Prophets and Loss (A Johnny Ravine Mystery)

by Martin Roth

“I love you, sweetie. Good night. Sweet dreams. Now put Mummy back on.” Captain John Fisker of the US Army, clutching the phone to his ear, continued to watch out the window as he spoke.

  The two men were still there.

  His wife Jenny came on the line. “Hi honey. Natalie’s been such a good girl.” Her words were loud and crisp. It meant she was still in the bedroom with their daughter. “And you know what? She got undressed all by herself. And then she brushed her teeth all by herself.”

  “And which story did you read her?” He could hear voices in the corridor outside. He walked to the door and put his ear to it. It sounded like a man and a woman. That was actually a good sign. If people were coming to get him they would be doing it in silence. And they wouldn’t want witnesses.

  “I read her ‘Good Night, Gorilla.’ Her favorite.” But then she lowered her voice. “John, are they still there?”

  “Still there. Two of them. Just waiting. For something.” He walked back to the window. The voices in the corridor had already disappeared. Two other hotel guests, no doubt. Heading to their rooms for the night. Or for a couple of hours. This place seemed to serve as the town’s designated rendezvous spot for short-term assignations.

  His room was on the third floor, right above the entrance, and, as he watched, one of the men, in a languid movement, like a black-and-white movie in slow motion, placed his weapon on the broad hood of their 60’s-era silver Mercedes and lit a cigarette. The hotel was in a side street, off the town’s main road. Street lighting was non-existent, but a clear sky and a full moon afforded a degree of visibility. At this hour of the night it was unlikely that passers-by would interfere. Yet the two men were exhibiting a level of brazen impunity that suggested they had little fear of the local authorities

  “And you really think they’re after you?” His wife’s voice, though still lowered, evinced rock-solid composure. “You’re sure you’re not just imagining it?”

  “Why else would they be here? This fleapit of a hotel doesn’t seem to have too many other guests.” As if to confirm the fleapit-ness of the place, a long-legged beetle chose that instant to drop from the ceiling onto his head. He brushed it away and saw it scuttle under the bed. Above him a couple of sleepy mosquitoes circled in slow trajectories. Tiny bloodstains on the walls showed where numerous of their kind had come to a swift end, swatted to death by earlier room guests. Meanwhile, families of cockroaches inhabited deep crevices in the cracked porcelain toilet bowl.

  “And your security detail has really vanished? They haven’t just gone off for a late-night stroll? Or a late-night beer?” Jenny’s voice was now raised again. She had presumably walked back into the living room.

  “Completely gone. Both of them. Disappeared. They’ve been paid off, for sure. Paid off handsomely.” His tone was crisp and businesslike.

  “And what are your people saying?”

  “They’re arranging urgent back-up. A dozen local soldiers are on their way from the base at Kidal by helicopter. But it’ll be at least thirty more minutes. Until then I’m on my own. Though they’ll be able to track me if I’m…” He paused. He knew he could be straight with his own wife. “If I’m kidnapped.”

  There was a short silence at the other end. Then, “We’re praying for you, John. Natalie and me. We love you. Call me back.” She knew that keeping him tied up on the phone was not going to help.

  “Love you,” he said. They rang off.

  At any other time he might have paused, tears in his eyes, to reflect on how blessed he was to have such a tough wife, one so devoted to his work and his well-being. But now was not the time for sentimentality. For out the window he could see that another car had pulled up outside the hotel, an enormous Merc, just like the first.

  Three young men stepped out, dressed in the comical and ill-fitting garb that seemed to typify African militia fighters of the twenty-first century - jeans or brand-name track pants, trainers, baseball caps, T-shirts with pictures of American cartoon characters. One of them sported dreadlocks. Not so amusing were the Kalashnikovs that they carried. They greeted the first two arrivals.

  John had always known it was dangerous coming here. This region, the southern Sahara, was part of the badlands of Africa. It was where the Muslim north met the Christian south. It was where drought, famine and poverty met drug-runners, terrorists and Muslim extremists. Wondrous kingdoms and empires had grown and flourished in these lands over many centuries, only to be over-run and conquered by the swords and guns of Arab and European invaders.

  Aware of the dangers, John had been accompanied by two Malian commandos, trained marksmen who were also local Tuaregs and spoke the language.

  And that, he was sure, was the problem right there.

  The Tuaregs were the legendary and fiercely independent desert nomads of the Sahara, descended from the Berber tribes of North Africa. For as long as anyone could remember they had been fighting for self-rule, turning this part of West Africa into one of the most lawless regions in the world.

  Much of the territory they claimed as their homeland lay nominally within the borders of Mali, a land-locked, butterfly-shaped Muslim country that for many years was a French colony. And though the Malian government had tried to suppress the rebellion, its military prowess was limited, to say the least - a ragtag collection of about eight thousand often ill-disciplined and unruly soldiers with just modest firepower.

  The fighting had turned especially bloody when Libya’s crazed ruler Colonel Muammar Gaddafi entered the fray. He declared himself to be the friend and protector of the Tuaregs, delivering armaments and providing intensive military training to thousands of enthusiastic young Tuareg men and women. He even bought property in the northern Malian city of Timbuktu and declared himself the imam of the region.

  Much fighting and many deaths led to occasional truces and peace agreements, and the government had declared its intention of working steadily to integrate the Tuaregs into Malian society, including the army. Yet everyone knew that the Tuaregs’ prime loyalty was to their families, their tribes, their elders, and not to the government. So why would a couple of Tuareg commandos care about a visitor such as John when a relative suggests that they disappear, and offers a handsome reward into the bargain?

  In any case, everything changed with the Arab Spring, when Gaddafi found himself under siege from a popular uprising. In his desperate bid to retain power he recruited thousands of Tuareg mercenaries to defend him. But, with his overthrow, the Tuaregs were forced to flee for their lives. Most drove home across the Sahara, heavily armed and eager to renew their war of liberation against the Malian government.

  And into the equation came another element - Al Qaeda, who were working to turn the impoverished youth of moderate Muslim states like Mali into hardcore Islamist radicals. At times Al Qaeda worked with the Tuaregs, at times against them. And Al Qaeda’s work was being helped by the vast sums of Saudi petrodollars that were financing new mosques right around the region, intended to preach the hard-line Saudi Wahhabi doctrines of hatred of the West and of other religions.

  That was the reason for John’s presence. As an officer with Africom, the US army’s Africa Command, he was charged with trying to help strengthen the armies of the region and boost the power of moderate Muslims. This day he had been talking to local community leaders and imams in scattered townships of the Sahara.

  “Oh, yes,” they each more or less assured him. “No one around here likes the rebels. Or Al Qaeda. No one likes them at all. We support the Malian government. And can you get my son an American visa?”

  His visit had been set up only one day in advance. No enemy could have been planning something against him. This attack was surely spontaneous. Presumably his bodyguards alerted some relatives who realized that they had a rare catch on their hands - an American official. Or perhaps some kind of tip-off came from the hotel.

  Whatever, it at least probably meant that this was all hastily organized and they were likely amateurs. That
explained their disregard for elementary procedures, such as remaining undercover. They would surely flee at the arrival of the Malian military.

  Now as John watched, four of the men strode into the hotel. The remaining man, who did not have any visible weapon, leaned against the front wall, casually flicking ash from his cigarette onto the sandy, baked-mud roadway.

  John grabbed the photo of Jenny and Natalie that he had placed on the bedside table and kissed them both. “Love you,” he muttered, then shoved it in a side pocket. He was already wearing a backpack with emergency supplies.

  He walked to the window and raised it, making a loud squeak. He was pretty sure that he could hear shuffling noises outside his hotel door.

  He had planned this move. A wide concrete ledge ran across the front of the hotel, right under his window, presumably some design feature from French colonial days. Whatever, it was just big enough to support him, so long as it didn’t crumble.

  He stepped out, slid the window down behind him and, in the hot desert night air, edged his way to the window of the next room. The guy below, leaning against the wall, was presumably there to guard the main entrance. He certainly wasn’t looking upwards.

  John tried to open the window. It was fastened shut. He took from a pocket a miniature screwdriver and prodded it hard into the pane, smashing the glass, then he reached inside and threw the latch. He raised the window and stepped in.

  This was the room of one of his now-disappeared bodyguards. He retrieved a flashlight from his pack and shone it around. The room was deserted. Clearly the bodyguard had no intention of returning. He checked the layout. It seemed identical to his own, right down to the cracked toilet bowl. He sat on the bed. He could only assume that the helicopter would arrive within about twenty minutes, and certainly the men outside would then all flee. The Malian army might not be overly efficient - everyone knew that - but they were not sentimental. They aimed for the head, not the legs. Sometimes even after you had surrendered.

  Now he could hear shouting from his own room. Then a squeaking sound that was presumably his window being raised, followed by more shouting.

  He waited. And then he froze. Because now he could hear something else. It was almost certainly a key being turned in the door of the room he occupied.

  He ran back to the window and clambered out. The two Mercs were still below, but none of the men were around. Again he edged his way along the ledge, past a couple of windows to a rusting fire escape. It only took him down one level, to the second floor. From there he was forced to leap, dropping hard and rolling on the sandy surface.

  He stood, a little shakily, and as he did so he heard a cry. He had no notion of where it originated. It didn’t matter. Because it seemed to be just seconds before a couple of the gunmen came racing out of the hotel entranceway.

  He fled around the nearest corner. Next to a yellow mud-brick wall was parked an ageing white Toyota pick-up. He crouched behind it and pulled his pistol - an M9 - from his pocket. As the first pursuer rounded the corner he aimed at the man’s legs and shot. He would have preferred to kill him, but that was the last thing he needed. A US officer shooting and killing a civilian in a Mali township. It would be a major diplomatic incident all around Africa.

  The man screamed and tumbled to the ground. His compatriots retreated. One of them poked an arm round the corner and started shooting.

  From behind the Toyota John looked around. He could keep running, but to where? He just needed to keep the attackers at bay until the rescue helicopter arrived.

  A volley of shots hit the vehicle, smashing the windscreen and piercing the bodywork. John fired back, a couple of bullets aimed at the corner of the building, near where the men had retreated. Chunks of brickwork spun into the air.

  More shots came.

  And then more.

  But no sound of a helicopter.

  John worried that the noise was surely going to rouse the locals. It was only a matter of time before some inquisitive townsperson, a child, perhaps, or an old man, wandered along and got caught in the gunfire. His mission was highly sensitive. He was here to make friends, not alienate the locals. He could not allow innocent victims.

  And it was just as that thought flashed through his mind that he received a heavy blow from behind on his left shoulder. Then as he turned a man punched him hard in the face, knocking him to the ground. Another man pounced on him and seized his weapon.

  Within seconds one of the Mercs pulled up. The men bundled John into the trunk and they lumbered away.

  Somewhere in the distance he could hear the whirring of an approaching helicopter.