The First Casualty (19 page)

40

King Fahd Bridge

Bamako, Mali

The Same Time

Moussa was probably the richest twelve-year-old in Sikoro-­Sourakabougou. This morning, he had left the single-room mud hut he shared with his mother, grandmother, and three siblings to beg, take odd jobs, steal, or do whatever he could for a few West African­ CFA francs. Like all the others in the slum, the house had no running water, sanitary facilities, electricity, or garbage removal­. In fact, there was no reliable source of water within a mile or so, only a well that gave out during the dry season and carried evil vapors during the wet, vapors that caused over half the children to never reach half Moussa's age.

Had there been a school, he certainly would have attended. But there was none, so Moussa spent his days on the streets of Bamako.

That was where he had met the Arab.

Arabs were relatively rare here, and even more rare were Arabs that spoke Bambara, Mali's largest dialect. Those that did venture this far south usually prowled the streets for young boys. Moussa had had an experience with such an Arab, a very painful one, even if it had actually put the equivalent of five euros in his pocket. But the shame was worse than the pain, a shame only slightly mollified by his mother's­ joy at such a princely sum of cash.

She did not ask where he got it.

But this Arab was not looking for young boys, at least not in the sense Moussa feared. Instead he was offering untold riches in exchange for a simple task: Stand on the King Fahd Bridge and watch the river for four men. One black, two white, and one dark-skinned. They would be together and would load objects into some sort of river­craft, most likely a
pinasse
. Moussa was to watch them and then call a number on the cell phone the Arab gave him.

Then he could keep the phone plus the hundred West African CFA francs the Arab shoved into his hand.

That was all. No pain, no humiliation.

Allah was indeed great.

41

Restaurant Amanar

23 Rue de la Paix

Timbuktu, Mali

Earlier the Same Day

The two men sat at a low table in a small garden enclosed by a high wall. One entrance was from the restaurant itself, the other through a wrought iron gate through which the Flamme de la Paix could be seen. It was early afternoon and the heat of the day was waning as shadows of two towering date palms lengthened. Both men were Arabs­, not uncommon in Timbuktu, but not part of the majority, either, although the city's ancient past as a center of learning and commerce was largely­ attributable to Arab culture. Both were dressed in the traditional­ Bedouin­ garb: Loose-fitting robe or
thobe
reaching the ankles with large, triangular sleeves that could, and frequently did, conceal weapons. Over these were a striped sort of vest. Each wore a
kaffiyeh
on his head held by an
agal
, a strip of hair or fur. Each man had small cup of coffee in front of him.

“The nozzle is fixed.” asked the younger of the two, Abu Bakr ibn Ahmad Bian.

“
Alhamdulillah
.”

“
Alhamdulillah
,”
echoed the older, larger man.

“All is in readiness, then?”

“Almost all.”

Abu Bakr's coffee cup stopped somewhere between the tabletop and his lips. “Almost?”

“Our friends in Paris tell us the infidel and three companions departed there last night for Bamako. A survey of rivercraft tells us it is most likely one of the
pinasses
has been chartered for a trip here by four men from the National Geographic Society.”

“Which you believe to be the infidel Peters.”

A single nod.

“But it takes four days to reach here from Bamako by river. By that time, we will have finished our mission,
In shā' Allāh
.”

The older man smiled, though there was little warmth in it. “That is why he is not planning on making the trip by water. That is why I have asked our Tuareg brothers for help, to operate a little south of their usual territory.”

Abu Bakr asked, “They will intercept the infidel?”

“In shā' Allāh.”

42

Niger River

Mali is shaped roughly like an hourglass, tipped forty-five degrees to the right. The bottom half is largely the Niger Valley, fertile and by far the more populous of the two halves. Where the borders narrow, the river becomes shallow, navigable only a few months of the year. By the time one reaches the upper half, the land is largely barren, bordering on the desert. There the mighty Niger is but a trickle except in the winter months.

Approximately 900 kilometers lie between Bamako and Timbuktu, at least half of which traverse arid, inhospitable terrain, which is why most travelers take the four-day river route.

But Jason and his crew did not have four days for a leisurely cruise. Two hours after departing Bamako, the
pinasse
moved to the right bank of the river, making a detour around a herd of frolicking hippos. Any adult of the ill-tempered animals was more than large enough to do serious damage should it take offense at the ship's presence. The shallow draft boat slipped into a mangrove swamp. The captain, the sole crew member, jumped overboard into knee-deep water to take a bowline Jason tossed to him.

“Didn't I see crocodiles sunning on the bank a few miles back?” asked Andrews.

Jason was too busy playing out line to take his eyes off the man in the water. “Yep.”

“Then that guy is either crazy or has the biggest balls I've seen lately.”

“Or knows the current is too swift here for crocs.”

The conversation ended with the squeak of the ship's keel on river-bottom sand. Jason and the other three went overboard, splashing in the shallow water. Although it was less than ten meters away on relatively dry land, the Toyota Series 70 Land Cruiser would have been invisible had the sun not reflected from its windshield. Jason ran a hand under the right front fender until he found the magnetized box with the key in it. Climbing into the cab, he sighed his relief as the engine turned over in response to the ignition. The gauge showed the tank was full. From the window behind his head, he could see three fifty-liter jerry cans strapped to the truck's bed. A fourth was marked in chalk “H2O.” Two spare tires completed the trucks initial load.

Viktor's head appeared beside the driver's window. “If nothing else, American, you have organization,” he commented admiringly. “Perhaps whoever delivered this splendid vehicle left a bottle of vodka, yes?”

Jason was climbing down from the cab. “Whoever delivered this splendid vehicle left a bottle of vodka, no. Now, give us a hand unloading the boat.”

The Russian looked back at the ship, only its bow visible in the thicket of green leaves. “It is a pity to have to load and unload again, no?”

Jason was back in the water, sloshing toward the
pinasse
. “All the more pity if we don't. Must have been a thousand or more people saw us leave Bamako. You think any one of them would have qualms about selling that information?”

“Sell?”

“To bandits, to anyone who might be suspicious as to who we really are, curious enough to wait upriver for a better look.”

Viktor was splashing right behind him. “In Russia we say, ‘If you are afraid of wolves, stay out of the forest.' ”

“Yeah, well in the United States we say, ‘Better safe than sorry.' I'd just as soon avoid the wolves altogether.”

Once the slender craft was unloaded, Jason peeled off bills from a roll of dollars and handed them to the smiling captain. He would sail the rest of the trip to Kabara, the port closest to Timbuktu, in case curious eyes were monitoring the vessel's progress. By that time, Jason would have either completed his mission or failed.

Either way, he would be long gone.

Or dead.

Before shifting the
pinasse
's cargo to the truck's bed, each man rummaged through several packages, removing personal arms. Three men waited patiently for the few minutes it took Emphani to complete his afternoon prayers, roll his prayer rug, and join in the task. Pistols and knives went under sweat-soaked shirts. Unidentifiable packages and cases were placed in the truck's bed before Jason climbed into the driver's seat with Emphani beside him. Andrews and Viktor chose to ride in the open truck bed, a decision dictated by the vehicle's lack of front-seat space and air-conditioning. Having two men in the open was not a bad defensive measure, either, should it become necessary.

The Toyota slogged its way through mud that reached the middle of the wheels before reaching what Jason assumed was the road. Parallel tire tracks faded into a surface resembling a washboard more than a highway. As the truck jounced along, conversation was possible only through clinched teeth. Sixty kilometers per hour seemed to be the maximum speed at which the Toyota could proceed without vibrating apart or leaving the undercarriage in the road.

In the truck's bed, Andrews and Viktor were forced to hold on to the sides or risk being bounced onto the ground below. Using one hand, Andrews dumped a bag, from which came a hose-like apparatus that ended in what, to the Russian, looked like a gas pump's nozzle complete with trigger.

Viktor raised his voice above the rattle as the truck tried to shake itself apart. “We will not need that. We will pour petrol directly from the cans.”

“We may not need it,” Andrews replied, “but if we do, I want make sure it works. It's not your average gas pump hose.”

By now, the sun was little more than a golden memory in the west. To the north, Sirius, the sky's brightest star and central to the mythology of the Dogon people of Mali, was clearly visible. Waves of shadows had become a tide of darkness, obliterating the road. There was barely enough light to limn the trees against a deepening purple backdrop: the fullness of a baobab, the slender kapok, the massive mahogany. The Toyota's headlights were two converging scars across the breast of the fading twilight. From all directions and no direction at all came the howls, barks, and grunts of the local fauna, enough to make each man silently thankful for the steel between him and the African night.

The truck came to such an abrupt stop Viktor and Andrews nearly flipped over the cab. Andrews got to his knees to peer over the cab's roof. Squarely across the road were a pair of battered small Mitsubishi trucks. Behind them a half dozen men stared into the truck's headlights. Though black, they were dressed not in the color­ful native garb, but like Bedouins. And though the dress had not changed for centuries, there was nothing traditional about the AK-47s each man held.

43

The White House

Washington, DC

At the Same Time

The window seemed to filter all life from the pale winter afternoon sunlight that was barely strong enough to cast shadows on the carpet­ of the Oval Office. Behind the Resolute desk, the president of the United­ States leaned back in his padded wooden-and-leather swivel chair, his fingers interlocked across his chest. Only a few inches of cigar butt were left, visible in the right corner of his mouth.

No matter what the decision on the trip, Chief of Staff Henry Hodges was thankful his boss wasn't babysitting today. The twins, Ches and Wes, were one of a number of reasons Hodges was thankful he had successfully eluded marriage.

Henry guessed the president's mind was made up, down, and locked. Henry could only sit on one of two wheat-colored sofas perpendicular to the desk, leftovers from the previous occupant. The chief of staff was convinced the former president had them placed so that no one could look at the desk without turning his head, a subtle means of discouraging arguments.

And arguments there had been aplenty as the past chief executive had not so subtly tried to overcome the constitutional restraints that had seriously hampered his plans for the country, plans the recent election had demonstrated were less than popular.

None of that, though, was why Henry was here today. His duty, as he saw it, was to do the near impossible: Change the president's mind. As the president's campaign manager, he had had to develop certain persuasive skills varying from diplomacy to the political equivalent of breaking legs.

The president, whose boyish good looks and a penetrating gaze that screamed sincerity had earned him comparisons to a young John F. Kennedy, shook his head. “Forget about it, Henry, I'm going.”

“I'm not suggesting you cancel, Mr. President. I'm urging you, though, to reschedule.” Hodges twisted on the sofa to put his body as close to face-to-face as the furniture arrangement permitted, a less than comfortable contortion and finally stood. “Give us a chance to verify this thing's location and destroy it.”

The president unlocked his fingers and leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “I'm not going to postpone my meeting with the first democratically elected president of Egypt. I can't risk offending him or the rest of the Moslem world. Extending the hand of friendship to Egypt and all of Islam is the only solution to the conflict between the Middle East and the West.”

More like extending the hand of friendship to an angry rattlesnake,
Henry thought. But he said, “You won't achieve a hell of a lot if you're dead.”

“Life is not without risk, Henry.
Audaces fortuna iuvat
.”

The president was fond of Latin aphorisms, a habit his class-warfare-­mongering opponents characterized as elitist. To their surprise, the electorate decided to restore a modicum of culture and learning to the White House.

“That may be so, Mr. President, but we have credible evidence Al Qaeda or their allies intend to shoot down Air Force One just like they did the Air France flight.” Hodges stood and took a stroll around the sofa. “If nothing else, think of Suzanne. She's far too young to be a widow, and the twins need their father.”

The president shook his head. “I can't be seen as cowering away from some sort of Star Wars weapon that we don't really even know exists. Can you imagine what the
Post
and
Times
et al would do with that? Hell, I can even see a
Saturday Night Live
skit.”

Hodges was well aware the president was not the darling of the majority of the media. His promise to balance the budget in his first term had resulted in austerity programs that had already reduced the deficit while enraging those no longer subsidized by the government.

“I don't understand how this thing is supposed to work . . . if it works at all.”

“We're not sure, Mr. President, other than it seems to be some sort of particle beam. Going back and looking at what remains of the notes of this man Tesla, it seems most likely it was powered by a huge electrostatic generator to accelerate tiny articles of mercury in a vacuum and spew them out through some sort of specialized nozzle at great distance.”

“I'm no physicist,” the president admitted, “but if you need a vacuum to accelerate particles, what happens when they're spewed out of the vacuum? Seems like they'd lose velocity. Sounds like nothing more than a crackpot idea.”

Hodges returned to the sofa, this time giving himself more room to turn and face the president. “Don't be too sure. We know that, in 1908, Robert Peary was making his second attempt to reach the North Pole. Tesla sent him a pre-departure telegram, telling Peary he, Tesla, would try and contact the expedition and to please report anything unusual occurring on the tundra.”

“North Pole? Robert Peary? C'mon, Henry, you're wasting my time!”

The chief of staff held up a protective hand. “Indulge me, Mr. President, please.”

The man behind the desk didn't look pleased, but he wasn't shooing anyone out of the office either.

“Anyway, on the evening of June 29, Tesla and his associate George Scherff climbed up a tower Tesla had built in Shoreham, New York, and aimed the so-called ‘Death Ray' across the Atlantic toward the Arctic at a spot Tesla had calculated would be west of where Peary's expedition should be.

“According to Scherff, Tesla turned the machine on. At first, there was nothing but a dull hum. They thought the device might have malfunctioned. Then an owl flew in front of them and seemed to disappear. Later, they found it dead and reduced to about the size of a sparrow.”

“An owl? So the thing shoots down birds. Air Force One is a little larger than an owl.”

“The damned owl isn't really important. What is, is that two days later the newspapers carried a story of a huge explosion devastating Tunguska, a remote area in the Siberian wilderness, about the same time Tesla and Scherff were on the tower. Five hundred thousand acres of timberland destroyed, an explosion greater than any nuclear device ever detonated since the bomb was invented, audible from more than six hundred miles away.

“The first explanation was an asteroid or comet but no exact point of impact was ever found nor was any trace of the asteroid or comet. Tesla had a different explanation: His death ray had overshot its intended target and leveled a good part of Siberia.”

The president gave Hodges the famous look. “You believe that?”

“Tesla did. He dismantled the thing, put it away till the First World War when he tried to peddle it to Woodrow Wilson, offered to rebuild it.”

“And?”

“All he got was a polite letter from Wilson's secretary.”

The president leaned back in his chair. “And that was the end of it?”

“Not quite. When the Second World War came along, J. Edgar Hoover and William Donovan corresponded about it. There seemed to be some reason. To think the Germans might have gotten hold of Tesla's ray.”

“Did they?”

“Inconclusive, but we know we won.”

The president stood, a signal the conversation was at an end. “Which would seem to indicate this so-called death ray either doesn't exist or, more likely, never did.”

Henry Hodges stood again. “I hope you'll reschedule, Mr. President.”

“I'll give it some thought, Henry.”

Which almost always meant the subject would not come up again.