The Golden Hour (10 page)

U.S. MILITARY HOSPITAL, LANDSTUHL, GERMANY

SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER

Larissa James pushed down with both hands on the crutches and took a deep breath. She knocked on the open door and tentatively peeked inside. “I’m not waking you, am I?”

Judd slowly opened his eyes and squinted. He was staring straight up at the dull fluorescent lights of his hospital room, which smelled of Lysol and chicken soup. Not the comforting nostalgic scent of his grandmother’s house, but the sour chicken–like odor of his grade school cafeteria. His stomach twisted.

“Oh, I did wake you, Judd. I’m so sorry. “

“I’m not really sleeping,” he said, his voice still froggy. “I can’t sleep.”

“Come in, Larissa,” said Jessica, sitting in a hard-backed chair next to Judd’s bed. “Judd’s doing much better. Wonderful to see you up and around.” She set her book down in her lap and removed her reading glasses.

Judd groaned as he arched his back and squirmed in the bed.

“Thank you, yes. I came to tell you both that today’s the day. My medical clearance just came through,” said Larissa. “Judd, I’m going back.”

“Already? You sure you’re up to it?” he asked, smoothing his gown as Jessica tucks the sheet under his legs.

“What else can I do? I can’t stay here. If I’m ready to go, I’ll go.”

“You don’t want to take medical leave and go home? To see your family?”

“No. I’d rather not. Plus, Embassy Bamako needs me.”

“They’ll be fine,” said Judd. “The beast will run without you.”

“Okay, so maybe I need to get back for me,” said Larissa. “I am going crazy sitting in this damn hospital. I haven’t read my classified e-mail for three weeks.”

Judd nodded, more a gesture in solidarity than in agreement.

“What are the doctors telling you, Judd? What’s your timeline?”

“As soon as possible,” answered Jessica. “Once he’s cleared for medevac, we’ll transfer to Georgetown Medical. We’ve got to get him home.”

“They keep saying soon,” added Judd.

“Good. I’m sure you’re anxious to see your kids, too.”

“And Grandma is ready for us to get back.”

“Madam Ambassador,” interrupted a gruff voice. A balding man in an ill-fitting suit appeared in the doorway, holding both
handles of an empty wheelchair. “I’ve been cleared to take you down to discharge.”

“Thank you, Cyrus. You didn’t have to come all the way to Germany to get me.”

“I wanted to make sure you get back safely, ma’am.”

“Cyrus, this is Judd Ryker,” said Larissa, gesturing to the hospital bed. “He was the other casualty.”

“Hello, sir. I’m sorry about the incident. How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“And, this is Jessica Ryker, Dr. Ryker’s wife. She’s come from Washington to help nurse Judd back onto his feet. Jessica, this is Cyrus. He works with me at the embassy in Mali.”

“Hello, ma’am,” said Cyrus coldly to Jessica, who returned the gesture with a minimal nod. “The car is waiting, Madam Ambassador. I’ve already gathered your things.”

“Well, I need to give Judd a hug good-bye first,” she said, hobbling over to the bed and bending down for an embrace. “We almost died together. That means we are tied to each other for life.” She wiped a tear on Judd’s shoulder. “I can’t just leave without a real good-bye.”

As Larissa settled into the wheelchair and gathered herself, Judd turned to Cyrus. “Is there any progress in the investigation? Any news on who set that bomb and why?”

“There is some new information, but no hard answers yet.”

“What new information, Cyrus?” asked Larissa, snapping back to her work persona.

“I can’t share that here.”

Larissa looked confused, then looked at Jessica. “Because she’s here?”

Cyrus didn’t reply.

“I need to know,” said Judd, sitting up in bed.

“For fuck’s sake, Cyrus. She’s his wife. Just tell us,” insisted Larissa.

Cyrus turned, closed the door, and then faced the three of them. “The bomb material is the same type that Malian security forces recovered when they raided a terrorist safe house outside Timbuktu a few months ago. The trigger also suggests professionals with access to military-grade equipment. This was no accident, and these were no amateurs.”

“But were they targeting us?” asked Judd.

“We still don’t know, but we can’t rule it out.”

“How would they know we were going to be on that road at that time?” asked Larissa.

“Good question, ma’am.”

“Maybe the terrorists have a mole inside Idrissa’s Red Berets?” proposed Jessica, drawing startled looks from Judd and Larissa.

“Yes, maybe,” replied an unfazed Cyrus.

“Anything else, Cyrus?” asked Larissa.

“There is one more thing, but it’s sensitive,” he said, turning again to Jessica. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Fine, I’ll step out,” she said, turning to leave the room.

“Sorry, sweets,” offered Judd.

Once the door had closed again, Cyrus, in a low voice, reported, “We now know that Idrissa had a Scorpion unit ready to raid a terrorist safe house in Bamako, not far from the palace
road. They are almost certainly the group that planted the bomb. But, without explanation, President Maiga ordered the operation canceled and Idrissa was forced to stand down.”

“When was that?”

“One day before the bombing.”

S/CRU DIRECTOR’S OFFICE, U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

MONDAY, 6:56 P.M. EST

In front of Judd sat three tall, empty coffee cups. Stacks of papers mounted the edges of the desk like the defensive walls of a castle. Well-thumbed copies of CIA leadership profiles on Maiga, Idrissa, and Diallo laid open with key passages highlighted in fluorescent yellow. Sitting on top of the mess was a one-page fresh-off-the-presses assessment of Ansar al-Sahra that was decidedly, irritatingly noncommittal. Several maps, with suspected extremist camp locations circled in bright red, were taped on the wall behind him.

Judd leaned forward, elbow on the desk, with his forehead resting in his open outstretched palm. It was a pose—Jessica called it
Judd’s Thinker
—that he used to keep working during all-nighters. Positioned like this, in the middle of the night
immersed in reading material and his head swirling with data, had been how he came up with the Golden Hour.

Tonight was starting to smell like an all-nighter, too.

Judd turned his attention to a diplomatic security report on kidnapping patterns. Kidnapping risk was high in Latin America, where it had become big business to seize, and to protect, wealthy businessmen. Colombia used to be the epicenter for ransom seekers, but Mexico became the world leader of kidnapping for cash. The Middle East was where political hostage takings occurred most often, with Iraq still the most dangerous.

But Africa had been relatively quiet. Other than swashbuckling Somalis off the coast of East Africa, the report sitting on Judd’s lap suggested kidnapping had not yet taken off as a full-scale venture industry in Africa. Al-Qaeda terrorists operating out of Algeria had kidnapped a few European tourists, and one Australian diplomat. But these hadn’t yet fit into a pattern. There was no evidence that Ansar al-Sahra had ever kidnapped anyone. The numbers couldn’t explain if the McCall kidnapping was for money or notoriety. There was no way to know. Why target an American senator’s daughter in the midst of a coup?
Were they even connected?

Judd’s thoughts were interrupted by Serena. “Dr. Ryker, you’ve got a call from London. You’re going to want to take this.”

“Simon Kenny-Waddington? Awfully late for the Brits to be in the office.”

“Not the Foreign Office. An Oumar Diallo is on the line.”

Judd dropped the report in his lap.
Diallo?

“Have him hold for one minute, then put him through.”

•   •   •

“This is Ryker.”

“Hello, Dr. Ryker, this is General Oumar Diallo. You know me, yes?”

Judd paused. Make him wonder.

“How can I help you, General?”

“Actually, Dr. Ryker, I am calling because I can help
you
.”

Judd said nothing.

Diallo, undeterred, continued, “I am very concerned about the events in Mali today. I have been watching with dismay from my home in London. I am disappointed that our democracy turned out to be so fragile. I am disappointed with Mamadou. What he did today was not proper. I want to help you resolve this problem.”

“What can you tell me about what happened this morning, General?”

“Dr. Ryker, I am retired from military service. I’m a civilian now. A private citizen. I am here in London working on my next career.”

“Very well. What do you think happened?”

“Maiga made a mistake. Mamadou Idrissa is very powerful and has many friends. You cannot just fire a man like that and expect him to go quietly.”

“Are you suggesting President Maiga is to blame for bringing today’s coup on himself?” asked Judd as calmly as he could.

“No, no, Dr. Ryker,” said Diallo. “Democracy is a beautiful
thing. It is a flower. It must be watered. It must be protected. Idrissa stomped on that flower with his unacceptable actions. I’m only saying this to you to help you understand. Maiga was too rash. There are proper ways to handle these problems. Perhaps Boubacar learned too much from New York City. Perhaps my sister was unable to make him see the right path.”

“Your sister? You mean Mrs. Maiga?”

“Yes, she is my sister. We grew up together. I love her dearly, but she was not able to control her husband’s foolishness. She is now in trouble, too. Safe, but in trouble.”

“What about General Idrissa?”

“Ah, he was my deputy. I trained him. He is like a brother. He is a hard worker and a patriot. But he got greedy. He was a good man but also petty and insecure, you know. He has become corrupted by outsiders. Very corrupted.”

“So why exactly are you calling me, General?”

“I want to help. I am told you are a clever man. I am told you are the big man for the Americans. Is this true?”

“What precisely are you offering?” asked Judd.

“Whatever you need from me,” said Diallo.

“And what do you want in return?”

“I only want to restore democracy to my beloved country. I want nothing for myself.”

“Okay,” said Judd.
And?

Pause. Pause.

“If the people of Mali call me back, I would, of course, be willing to serve my country again. In whatever capacity.”
There it is.
“We will soon need a neutral party to step in to fill the void. I
know your friends, our friends, in Paris and here in London are welcoming my assistance. All of you will need me, if not today, then very soon.”

“Are you suggesting you have official support from the French and British governments to negotiate an end to the coup?” asked Judd.
Let’s see how bold you are.

“Oh, Dr. Ryker. It’s much too early for anything like that. These things come with time.”
He’s got nothing.

“Well, thank you, General, for your call. We’ll take your offer of assistance under advisement.”

“I know we will speak again soon. Godspeed, Dr. Ryker.”

“
Inshallah
, General.”

GEORGETOWN WATERFRONT, WASHINGTON, D.C.

MONDAY, 9:37 P.M. EST

Judd was sitting alone at a bar, overlooking the Potomac River, nursing a tall beer.
Just one to clear my head, then back to the office.
The usual mix of lawyers and tourists had already cleared out, leaving the real drinkers at the riverfront bar. Mostly college students and middle-aged drunks.

An open-bow speedboat pulled up to the dock and spilled out half a dozen boisterous young women who had obviously already been partying. “Wooo, wooo!” yelled one with pale-blue
GEORGETOWN
labeled across the back of her tiny pink gym shorts.

The Sahara Desert couldn’t have felt farther away.

Maybe two beers.

“Judd?” interrupted a voice that he recognized.

He spun around on the barstool to find Mariana Leibowitz, holding a martini delicately in one hand. “What a wonderful coincidence, darling. I was hoping to come see you tomorrow, but here you are. Here
we
are.”

“Hello, Mariana.” She was wearing a trim red pantsuit, with a large butterfly brooch on the lapel. “How fortunate.”

Several feet behind Mariana stood a tall, striking black woman, dressed in a power business suit, her braids pulled tightly back into a ponytail. Although her clothes screamed confidence, her eyes were submissively averted to the floor. Mariana followed Judd’s vision line and saw him eyeing the woman.

“Okay, Judd,” she said, sliding onto the stool next to him and dropping the bubbly mask. “We know each other, so no need for bullshit. This is no coincidence, of course. I won’t patronize you. I have information. I know you can’t tell me anything, but you can listen.”

Mariana leaned in, close enough that Judd could detect hints of vanilla and jasmine in her perfume. “Point one, I hope that your friends at Langley have told you about Idrissa’s smuggling business. I told you about this before, but it’s even worse than I thought. The place is now flooded with heroin and cocaine, and Idrissa has been running the whole north of the country. Nothing happens up there without Idrissa’s blessing. You do the math. The president was finally building up the support to fire him. That’s the real precipitator of the coup, Judd. Don’t believe all that other nonsense.”

Judd gave her a slight nod that said,
I’m listening but not confirming anything.
Not that he knew the truth, either.

“Point number two, I have it on good authority that Antonov cargo planes landed at a remote airstrip north of Timbuktu within hours of the coup. This happened even though all of Mali’s airports were supposedly shut down and the airspace closed. I
don’t know what was on those planes, but it’s damn suspicious. I don’t believe in accidents. Someone needed those planes to land in secret and out of sight of the Americans. And there’s no way anyone could be operating in the north without Idrissa’s knowledge or permission. You need to assume that the general is deeply involved.”

Another poker-face nod.
Christ, she knows more than I do.

“Okay, and point three, Judd, is that you’ve got to watch your back. I know you are still new to politics here in Washington, but you need to learn fast.” She scanned the room for dramatic effect. “Our military is under tremendous pressure to be more aggressive in West Africa and not allow safe havens. After years of training special units and millions of dollars, Capitol Hill is pushing the Pentagon and the White House to show some results. Congress doesn’t like to spend all that money chasing ghosts. Senate Foreign Relations, especially Chairman McCall, has been calling for more scalps.”
She doesn’t know everything.

“And we all know Rogerson has been in the Foreign Service too long. He’s not going to roll anybody. I mean, who do you think got President Maiga that seat next to the Secretary at the Jakarta Democracy Summit? Rogerson? No, that was me. Rogerson doesn’t even know how it happened. The military guys will eat him alive on this. So will the French. It’s lucky for us he’s tied up in South Africa. We’re lucky we have you, Judd.”

The news broke Judd’s poker face.

“You didn’t know? You didn’t know Rogerson was in South Africa?”

Judd paused then, realizing he’d been outed, shook his head.

“Well, then I’d say you are lucky to have me, too.” Mariana leaned in closer and whispered, “Rogerson is locked up in the InterContinental Hotel in Johannesburg, trying to get the Congolese rebels to agree to a peace deal. One of the faction leaders is Bolotanga. He’s an old friend. Bolo’s a real teddy bear once you get to know him.”

“Isn’t Bolotanga the warlord famous for recruiting child soldiers and playing Xbox from his hideout in the jungle?”

“‘Warlord’ is an ugly word, Judd. Bolo and I prefer ‘freedom fighter.’ He would have been president if the last elections hadn’t been stolen.”

Judd shot her a skeptical eye.

“Don’t be so cynical, Judd. Having Bolo there in Jo-burg will be useful. You’ll see.”

“Thank you for the insight,” said Judd, anxious to shift the conversation. “I appreciate it. I do. If you have more information, you know how to reach me.”

“You’re fighting a lonely battle, Judd. Right now no one in this town gives two shits about President Maiga and democracy. Don’t be naïve. They aren’t going to just abandon the fight because of a political squabble a million miles away in some palace in a country that no one here’s ever heard of. You’re on your own here. But now you’ve got me.”

Judd looked blankly back at her, unsure how to respond to this apparent offer of an alliance.

“I know, I know, you can’t say anything to a lobbyist,” she said, feigning insult. “I’m not looking for any official comment.
Just know that I’m working behind the scenes with you on this. You don’t need to reciprocate. Just know it.”

Judd gave her a subtle nod and smile.

“And I know when it comes to crunch time that you’ll do the right thing.”

“You seem to think you know me pretty well, Mariana.”

“Oh, I
do
know you, darling. I know you are from Vermont and you were raised by your grandmother. I know you love the Boston Red Sox and became an academic after becoming obsessed with baseball statistics. Your work on civil war metrics won the Trombley Innovation Prize, which set you up for a professorship at Amherst. And then a year ago you took extended leave to move to Washington, D.C., to start the Crisis Reaction Unit. And I know you’ve been struggling at S/CRU and you need a big win. That’s why I’m here.”

“Impressive, Mariana. And a bit frightening. Are you investigating me?”

“Of course not. I’m just a professional. I know what I need to know. It’s adorable that you think knowledge is threatening. It’s nothing of the sort. It’s
Washington
, Judd.” She paused, unsatisfied with Judd’s nonreaction. “Okay, fine. If it makes you feel better. Mariana Katrina Leibowitz. I was born and raised in Miami, my parents were lawyers, now both retired and still living in south Florida. I’m forty-nine years old, twice divorced, probably have at least one more marriage in me. I have one daughter, lives in Los Angeles and doesn’t speak to me. Anything else you want to know?”

“No,” said Judd, holding up his hands in surrender, a soft smile signaling acceptance of her olive branch. “I really don’t.”

“Good. One last thing before I leave you to your beer, darling.” She broke into a wide grin and nodded to the attractive woman standing at the nearby table who had caught Judd’s attention. “Dr. Ryker, I want you to meet Tata Maiga, the president’s daughter.”