The Golden Hour (6 page)

“This is not a step I take lightly, nor a role I want for myself. No. I am responding to the demands of the people as a humble servant of the nation. I accept their demands. The people can no longer be expected to merely accept the immoral ways of the past. This day has been thrust upon me, and the Council, and the people, by the fate of our history. I have no choice but to embrace this role, even if I did not seek it. I accept the demands of the people to lead us back to democracy and salvation.” More fidgeting.
There is still time.

“Like Charles de Gaulle and Thomas Jefferson before me, I accept this mantle of history with a heavy heart and clear intentions. The burden of history can instead become wind at our backs.” Judd shook his head in disbelief.

“To our many friends in Africa and partners around the world, do not be alarmed. No. Do not be swayed by the naïve claims of the previous government and the minions of corruption. We ask for your understanding of the situation and why this action today was unavoidable. This will become even clearer over coming days. As commander in chief, I have appointed a new attorney general whose first task will be to unveil and correct the errors of the past.

“To my fellow Malians and our friends around the world, our beloved Mali was on a path to crisis and depravity. The global threats to civilization were on our doorstep, and the previous government was holding that door open. I tell you today, that we are firmly closing that door and restoring security. We are putting Mali back on the path of the righteous and the good. Long live the Republic.”

The screen went black.

“Serena! Get me public affairs and our statement right now. Call the Africa Issue team at CIA and tell them I’ll be at Langley in thirty minutes. I need to find out what the hell is really going on. Tell them I need the full briefing, no filters. And forget motor pool. I’m driving myself.”

My moment.

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

MONDAY, 11:52 A.M. EST

Judd cruised up the George Washington Parkway. Flashes of the Potomac River could be seen through the trees off to his right. The Potomac was calm and navigable all the way from the Chesapeake Bay . . . until Washington, D.C. Heading upstream, it was all smooth waters past Fort McNair, Ronald Reagan National Airport, the Kennedy Center, even the Watergate. But once past the Georgetown University boathouse, nestled under the Key Bridge, the serenity ended. The Potomac quickly, and unexpectedly, became treacherous white water.

Judd’s car, an aging silver Honda Accord that he’d bought off one of his Amherst College students, pulled off the parkway at an exit marked
GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE
and wound its way to the front security gates.

The first layer was an unmanned barrier. Judd recited his name and Social Security number into a large black bubble beside the gate. The barrier elevated and the vehicle rolled up to the
guardhouse. An officer in an unmarked uniform stepped out from behind a blackened glass booth. “ID,” he said, more as a statement than a request. Judd handed over his government identification card, and the officer disappeared back behind the dark glass.

After a few seconds, he reappeared and returned the ID along with a large yellow VIP parking card, which brought Judd a small tinge of relief. The last visit to CIA headquarters left him driving around for twenty minutes looking for parking.
Who knew CIA headquarters had a shortage of parking?

As the steel barriers sank into the ground and the Honda revved forward, Judd’s BlackBerry rang. A Washington number he didn’t recognize. Judd pushed the button. “This is Ryker.”

“Hello, Judd. This is Mariana. Mariana Leibowitz. You remember we met at the Council breakfast on post-transition reconstruction a few months ago. I’m sure you remember. We talked about the Kennedy Center gala for Congo.”

“Ah, yes, Mariana. Of course.” Judd couldn’t have forgotten Mariana Leibowitz. “The Congo gala. And also the McCall Drug Kingpin Amendment that was a problem for your client.”

A staple of the Washington disaster set, Mariana had a reputation for always popping up just when a crisis hit. The archetypal Washington player, she used smarts, connections, and beauty to dominate complicated situations. And, Judd had quickly learned, to pry information from the weak.

However, Mariana’s real skills seemed to be bringing people together and, for a hefty price, problem-solving for unusual clients. In her late forties, she was still able to turn the heads of
younger men. And she knew it. But it wasn’t only her physical looks that attracted men like Judd. She appeared, from the first time he met her, to be oh so very good at her job.

“I understand you are working the Bamako situation and Rogerson is tied up in Africa somewhere,” she said.
Yes, Mariana is very good.

“If you say so.”

“Well, that’s what my sources tell me. I want to make sure you have all the information you need. Also, I hear you are a hard-data man, so you should know there is a lot of terrible misinformation coming your way. I just hate rumor and insinuation.”

“Since when are you involved in West Africa, Mariana? What’s your interest?”

“Oh, Judd, darling, you haven’t done your homework. Boubacar Maiga has been a longtime client. I helped him when he was still an idealistic banker who wanted to return home as president and save his country. Those were some crazy days. He didn’t know the first thing about running a presidential campaign!”

“I see.”

“Today I have a new client, too. So new that I’m not obligated to reveal any names yet. But I’ll share this with you since I know you can be trusted, Judd. President Maiga’s daughter, Tata, called me this morning and I’m now advising her. She’s a senior at Georgetown University, you know.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” lied Judd.

“Tata is an extraordinary young woman with a bright career ahead of her. She has received word from Bamako that her father is being held at an army barracks on the outskirts of town. So far,
the army is treating him well, but they have threatened him and his family if he doesn’t resign. She insists her father will never resign. So I now expect stories, awful lies, to start coming out about the president.”

“I see.”

“Don’t believe the lies, Judd. I’m sure you know that General Idrissa is a snake. And involved in all kinds of naughty business beyond his day job.”

“Mariana, I really can’t talk to lobbyists right now.”

“I know, darling. Idrissa hasn’t secured power just yet, and the political circles in Bamako are looking for signs from the United States before they line up on one side or the other. They are all looking to you, Judd. We are all looking to you. It’s critical that you send the right signals. You can’t abandon President Maiga. You can’t abandon Mali’s democracy.”

“Mariana, the only reason I haven’t hung up yet is because I know what great work you did with prodemocracy activists in Zimbabwe. I respect you for that. Most lobbyists just cash their checks, but I know you produce for your clients. So if you have information, you can send it to me. But I can’t discuss anything more with you. Especially on the phone.”

“I know. But, Judd, a seasoned scholar like you also realizes how useful friends can be. How useful
I
can be. I shall be in touch.”

“I am certain you will, Mariana.” Judd pulled into a parking space at the front of CIA headquarters. “I’ve got to go.”

“Don’t believe what you are about to hear.”

Click.

•   •   •

The main entrance of the original CIA headquarters looked and felt more like a college campus in the 1950s than the modern epicenter of America’s global intelligence-gathering and operations network. A pack of young women in identical gray tracksuits ran by, ponytails bobbing in sync.

Judd stepped inside the lobby and walked across the marble insignia on the floor, an eagle head and shield with a sixteen-point compass. Around the outside ring read
CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
. On the wall to one side was a stone engraving with the agency’s motto:
AND YE SHALL KNOW THE TRUTH AND THE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE
.

Judd approached the security desk, flashed his ID again and waited for his escort. There were clusters of young people, all casually dressed, rushing around.

Across the lobby, Judd eyed a statue honoring General William “Wild Bill” Donovan, founder of the original Office of Strategic Services, or OSS, the precursor to the CIA, during World War II.

After a few minutes, a stoic young man in khaki slacks and a button-down shirt appeared. Judd had never seen him before. “Dr. Ryker? I can take you up.”

Judd was led silently through a series of corridors and up an elevator. After another long corridor, they arrived at a door marked
AFRICA ISSUE
. Inside, rows of cubicles were stacked high with paper, the walls covered with maps, political posters, and head
shots of African leaders. Their destination was a windowless conference room with several twentysomethings seated patiently around a table. The analysts.
They could be my students.

As Judd entered the room, a woman stood up. Judd guessed that she was maybe thirty years old. “Good to have you here, Dr. Ryker. I’m Zoe, the new regional team leader.” Judd shook her hand and turned around to thank the escort and confirm that visitor custody had been transferred, but he was already gone. Judd would never see him again.

“Let’s get started.” Zoe was all business. “I’ve rallied all hands on deck. Political analyst, economist, military watcher, and a leadership profiler. But we haven’t had time to prepare a formal briefing. What would you like to know first, Dr. Ryker?”

“Thanks. I appreciate you pulling the team together on short notice. Let’s get an update of what we know.”

“Okay, politics. Sunday here is our lead Mali analyst.” She gestured to a young black man with a closely cropped goatee sitting next to her. “Sunday, go.”

“Roger.” Sunday looked directly into Judd’s eyes. “This morning, about twelve hours ago, we had a classic coup d’état. It is a break in the data pattern, however. Aaay, yes, Africa has seen a steep decline in coups in recent decades. More specifically, my cross-country statistical analysis shows a zero-point-eight percentage-point drop per year in annual risk prediction metrics since 1985. Despite this trend, Mali’s risk metrics remain high relative to both its income and regional peer groups.”
I
like this kid.

Sunday continued, “Turning to this morning’s events, General Mamadou Idrissa arrested the president and has him in detention.
Idrissa had been consolidating his power base for years, building loyalty among his special guard that operate in the Timbuktu zone number six against Tuareg insurgents. He recruited these elite forces mostly from his home area, near Dogon Country in the eastern belt along the border with Burkina Faso. The Scorpions are well trained and highly motivated.”

“Trained by us,” interjected Judd.

“Aaay. Trained by U.S. Special Forces. We suspect that Idrissa pays the Scorpions extra to maintain loyalty. He is now using sizable cash offers to secure the support for the junta of other military brass and members of parliament.”

“He’s not doing that on his army salary, so he has to be dirty. What’s his racket? Is he in mining? Running drugs?” asked Judd.

“Not clear. He’s certainly got access to funds and he associates with some known negative elements. There are cocaine pipelines running up from the towns all along the coast into the northern stretches of the Timbuktu zone. They are all operated by Colombian cartels that have bought their way into the region and tried to buy almost every army general in West Africa. It’s possible Idrissa is in their pocket.”

“Not good,” said Judd shaking his head.

“Heroin is also a problem. The Taliban in Afghanistan run opium into the tribal zones of Pakistan, convert it into heroin, then find ways to transit the drugs into Europe through weak states. A recent influx of Pakistani traders into northern Mali might signal that heroin has arrived here, too.”

“And that would mean direct involvement in financing attacks
against American forces in Afghanistan and the Middle East,” added Zoe.

“The Taliban? Really?” asked Judd. “There’s an Afghan heroin connection to Mali?”

“It would represent a major escalation. But there are some markers. We just don’t know the scale.”

“So, is this Idrissa’s secret income source?” asked Judd. “Today’s coup maker is running drugs for Colombian cartels or maybe even the Taliban?”

“It’s all circumstantial at this stage. Right now, we have no direct intel. We just don’t have many resources dedicated to this part of the world.”

“Is Mali cooperating on counternarcotics? What about their annual scorecard for the McCall Kingpin Amendment?”

“Inconclusive. So far they’ve only gotten green lights.”

“Which means what exactly?”

“Not much. McCall’s vetting is based on embassy reporting, not empirical data.”

“I see.”

“It’s not just drugs, Dr. Ryker. Idrissa is from a small village about an hour’s drive from Bandiagara. His home area along the border with Burkina Faso is a favorite transit point for smugglers. We have a report from a European intelligence source that Viktor Chelenkov is using that route. We know Chelenkov has been running light weaponry to insurgents in Chad and Niger. There could be a connection to Idrissa, but we don’t have it yet.”

“Chelenkov, the Russian arms dealer arrested in Dubai last year?”

“The very one. He’s awaiting extradition to the international court in The Hague for war crimes.”

“Since when have there been Russians involved in Mali?” asked Judd, aware that he was probably showing too much unease.

A young female analyst took her cue. “Russian activity has accelerated recently. There is also a geology team from Moscow in-country right now. They told the Malians they are conducting early-stage seismic studies. Supposedly hunting for oil in the zone between Kidal and Timbuktu. The station reports that the equipment patterns are more consistent with mining than oil. We suspect the oil team may be a cover for uranium exploration.”

Judd raised his eyebrows in an expression of worry.

“Uranium?”

“Yes, sir. It’s a possibility.”

“Okay, so you say Idrissa has been building up power internally and probably building a war chest for himself and the junta, possibly funded by links to Russian mafia or mining companies.”

“Or drugs,” she added.

“Right. Or drugs,” responded Judd, revealing his growing annoyance. “So, whatever the income source, why does Idrissa move now against Maiga? Was Maiga about to clamp down on him or threaten his business?”

“That’s plausible,” said Sunday.

Judd turned to Zoe. “What motivates Idrissa?”

She nodded to another analyst, who took the cue and began, “General Idrissa is clearly ambitious, and rose quickly through the ranks of the military. He headed Zone Six around Timbuktu for many years but was passed over as Chief of Staff twice, which
we know was a source of anger. We believe that’s when he started building a separate power base. Maiga appears to have recognized this and promoted him to army Chief of Staff only a few months ago. Idrissa has packed the new counterterrorism strike teams, the ones we are training and equipping as part of Operation Sand Scorpion, with people from his home area. It’s a standard consolidation move. Perhaps Maiga feared Idrissa’s growing power base; perhaps he was trying to placate him. We suspect Idrissa moved against Maiga because he learned the president was getting ready to cut him down.”

“Do we know that Maiga was planning to fire Idrissa?”

“Yes.”

“I see. What about Idrissa’s health? He looked very gaunt on television. He’s definitely thinner than when I met him eight months ago.”

“Idrissa is rumored to have early-stage colon cancer, but we don’t see any pattern to confirm this. He has not traveled for medical treatment outside the country and is not known to be on any specific medication. We can check on this.”