The First Casualty (20 page)

44

Bamako-Timbuktu Highway

Mali

“Who . . . ?”

“Shh!” Andrews tugged Viktor's shirt, bringing the Russian's head below the top of the truck's cab.

“But who. . . ?” Viktor insisted, this time at a whisper.

“Tuareg rebels, National Movement for the Liberation of Azawad.”

“Aza what?”

Andrews was pushing Viktor toward the truck's tailgate. “We can talk politics later. Right now, let's deploy into the brush before they figure out Jason and Emphani aren't alone.”

Inside the truck's cab, Jason was staring into the barrel of an AK-47. From the passenger seat, Emphani was doing the same.

Jason rolled down his window, admitting a horde of mosquitos along with the warm night air. “You speak English?”

For an answer the door was snatched open, the hand not holding the automatic rifle grabbed the front of Jason's shirt, jerking him out of the truck. Jason struggled to maintain his balance, stumbled, and fell to the ground. His hand automatically reached for his right calf where, concealed by his pants leg, his killing knife was strapped.

It took only a fraction of a second to realize he would be dead before the blade cleared its scabbard. The muzzle of the AK-47 was never more than a foot from his head as he got to his feet.

“But we weren't speeding, Officer.”

If any of the men in blue
thiyaab
understood him, it wasn't obvious.

Emphani, his hands over his head, came around the truck in front of another rifle. “They're NMLA.”

“I thought the Tuareg rebellion ended in '09.”

“So did I.”

Jason searched his memory. The Tuaregs were a nomadic group who claimed to be seeking freedom of their homeland, Azawad, from portions of Mali, Niger, Algeria, and Nigeria. Since the areas included in the nonexistent Azawad were almost entirely in the sparsely populated Sahara Desert, the countries involved put up little resistance. The near dormant movement was revitalized when the fall of Qaddafi­ put Tuareg mercenaries out of work and the Libyan arsenal was pretty much open on a first-come-first-served basis. Those who had served the Libyan strong man now existed with the banner of a cause as an excuse for banditry. Many in Africa linked the rebels to Al Qaeda's­ African arm, an accusation the AQIM, or Al Qaeda in Islamic Maghreb, stoutly denied. Either possibility gave little comfort. Certainly the murdered unarmed civilians couldn't care less as couldn't the inhabitants of burned villages and raped women.

He could not be sure in the dark, but Jason identified six different men. Four of them had climbed into the truck's bed.

Wincing at the sound of equipment being dumped onto the ground, Jason whispered, “Any idea what they want?”

“Anything of value small enough for them to steal,” Emphani replied. “And if they decide we might bring a ransom, they might let us live.”

At the moment, Jason wished they really were with the venerable magazine they claimed to represent.
National Geo
would pay a ransom. Momma would make a decision based on economics. A captured operative who had failed his assignment would have scant worth.

Momma!

Germane to nothing in his present situation, the revelation came to Jason like a vision to an Old Testament prophet.

He had been had.

Really had.

The men in the Mercedes in Liechtenstein. The shot into his bedroom in Sark. The men in the Mercedes had made no overt effort to harm him, only to let him know they were there. Little chance a random shot into a windowpane would have hit him.

But Momma knew about both. She could have had spies in Liechtenstein, but Jason was quite sure he had not told her about the shooting incident. Yet she knew, knew he would immediately jump to the conclusion his presence on Sark was known to his enemies. An assignment was a way to get off the island, to go somewhere until he could decide on another base. Somewhere that served Narcom's purpose.

He didn't notice the sound of teeth grinding in chagrin.

Momma's duplicity wasn't the problem of the moment, however. The Tuaregs were shouting, motioning for him and Emphani to put hands behind their backs, no doubt to be tied up with the rope Jason could see one of them holding in the headlights. Once trussed up like a Sunday dinner chicken, there would be no chance of escape.

Where the hell were Chief and Viktor?

No matter, he realized. Two men, even armed, would stand little chance against six. There would be nothing the two could do. With resignation, Jason watched one of the Tuaregs approach with the coil of rope.

He was only a dozen or so feet away when there was a hiss like air escaping a punctured tire and the Tuareg burst into flame. It was right out of a Stephen King novel
.
One moment the man was there, the next instant he was a human torch, his flowing
thobe
a sheet of fire as he screamed and fell to the ground, writhing in his hellish death throws.

With the swiftness of a bat flying out of darkness, Emphani snatched the man's rifle, swung it around to bring the muzzle to bear. It would have been a futile effort; there were too many Tuaregs for the man to get them all before one got off a fatal shot.

Emphani didn't have to.

The two men closest to him simply ignited as though someone had put a torch to gasoline soaked cloth. Both jerked in a macabre dance of death as sizzling flames consumed them. The odor of burning meat filled still night air already pregnant with agonized screams.

In seconds, there were three charred forms, only remotely human, smoldering on the ground as starving flames licked away the last remnants of flesh.

It was enough for the remaining Tuaregs. Blinded by the sudden blazes, Jason could only hear terrified yells as bodies crashed through the impenetrable darkness of night in the African brush.

Like a genie out of the bottle, Andrews appeared, smoking flamethrower in hand. “Welcome to the barbecue, Artiste.” He cocked his head, studying what he could see of Jason's face. “You don't look all that happy to see me. More like you're pissed off.”

Jason couldn't get Momma out of his head. “Good guess. I am.”

“Jesus Christ on a motorcycle, Artiste! I just saved your ass and you're pissed?”

Jason realized the absurdity. “Not at you.”

“Well, what a relief that is. If there were one around, I'd guess a woman.”

“How astute.”

“There isn't one within miles.”

“That's what pisses me off: I'm risking my ass in Mali because she tricked . . . Ah shit, guess all's fair in love and war, and she sure as hell isn't in love with those assholes with the Tesla device.” Jason looked around. “Where's Viktor?”

“Is here,” came the Russian's voice. “Looking through the trucks those
perhot' podzalupnaya
were driving
.”

Russian for “peehole dandruff,” a picturesque epithet and one of the few Russian phrases Jason recognized. The others were largely swear words and the scatological or sexual sobriquets to be heard on any military base no matter the language.

“Anything useful?”

Viktor appeared in the truck's headlights. They were beginning to dim. “Is nothing but their extra clothes and food spoiled. Smells like someone
guano
, er, shit. No weapons, nothing.” He bowed his head in mock sorrow. “And no, er, alcohol.”

Jason was walking toward the vehicles with which the Tuaregs had blocked the road. “Let us be thankful for small favors. In the meantime, cut off our lights before the battery runs down and give me a hand here.” He lifted the hood of the first of the two Mitsubishis. “I'm pulling the distributor cap off both. The engines will never crank. If those bastards want to chase us, they'll have to do it on foot and in the dark.”

45

Hotel la Colombe

Rue Askia Mohammed

Timbuktu, Mali

5:24 p.m. Local Time

Day 8

The Toyota was coughing as though suffering terminal tuberculosis instead of terminal sand ingestion. The twin ruts that passed as the north-south highway had demonstrated why extra tires had been part of the equipment included with the little truck. Twice, jagged shale had forced the four to stop and change them by flashlight. Hours later, the sharp rock that seemed to line every foot of the road was replaced by sand—bottomless, shifting sand. Sand that made eyes sore with grit, clogged noses, and abraded throats as it bogged the truck down to the axles requiring nearly an hour to dig it out. Sand that sucked at the Toyota's wheels like water. Sand that quickly found its way into the carburetor, necessitating stopping to remove and clean the overwhelmed air filter.

Despite the ache the weight put on his wounded leg, Jason insisted on doing his share of the digging.

“I can see why most people take the boat,” Andrews had grumbled after his third effort at wielding a shovel. “I'd take hippos and crocs over this any day.”

Next to him, Emphani paused long enough to wipe sandy sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “The
pinasse
was, how do you say, never a
bateau mouche
anyway.”

“Say what?”

“C'mon, guys,” Jason had intervened. “We can stay here all night gabbing like a woman's bridge club, or we can get this job done and go home.”

Daylight made visible the change in terrain the four could only guess at in the dark. The lush foliage of the Niger River valley now looked more like Death Valley. Scrubby trees, bushes really, sustained an existence distant from one another. This might have been south of the Sahara, but it certainly looked like the great desert. Instead of the animals of the day before, lizards scurried for protection both from the merciless sun and the intruders in the Toyota. The only other living creatures were occasional herds of sheep or goats, their shepherds eyeing the men in the truck with undisguised suspicion.

Viktor watched a small group of these animals from the open bed as the truck stood still, waiting for them to amble across the road.

“Sheep or goat. Sound the same, look the same, smell the same. How do you know . . . the . . . er . . . different?”

Andrews was carefully measuring out a drink from one of the five-liter jugs of water. “In this climate, sheep have no wool. They look like goats.” He pointed to the animals as they moved away. “But at this angle, you can see the critters have their tails up. Goats. Sheep have tails down.”

Viktor nodded slowly, absorbing this bit of bucolic wisdom. “Tail up, goat. Tail down, sheep.”

So it had gone, monotonous hour after monotonous hour. As shadows awakened and began to stretch, traffic on the road increased: Camels, donkeys, and Japanese trucks, their paint scabrous from sand blasting. The air was not noticeably cooler; but the road, still no more than a trace, firmer. Cresting a slight rise, the yellow mud-brick walls of the city of Timbuktu had come into view, shimmering in the near-desert heat as though viewed through water.

It would have made an impressive painting. Though even if Jason had brought his supplies, there would be scant time or opportunity for artistic endeavors. Even so, Jason was thinking of how to render the chiaroscuro of afternoon shadows on mud brick.

Jason let go of the steering wheel long enough to stretch as the truck stuttered through low city gates. “This city has been here since the 1300s,” he announced.

Then he noted Emphani, his only company in the truck's cab, was snoring gently.

So much for historical background.

The streets were narrow, lined by one- and two-story mud-brick houses, each with a window over the centered front door from which owl-eyed children stared in wonder. As he began to climb a slight rise, Jason could see roofs consisted of dirt poured over palm matting. He supposed the arrangement was not entirely waterproof; but, here adjacent to the desert, it didn't need to be.

He had been driving along the edge of a fairly steep ridge. Its conical shape suggested it might have been an ancient volcano. Something he would have to ask Maria about.

Maria.

Only a couple of brief texts since Saint Barts and no mention of her work.

Some relationship! But a normal family-type life as he had shared with Laurin was hardly possible, not until Moustaph was counting his virgins, a pursuit in which Jason intended to render every possible assistance. What would it be like, he wondered dreamily, having a real home again, a place where there was no need for motion detectors, weight sensors, and a personal arsenal? No apprehension he might have to leave on a moment's notice. A place where a knock on the door was more likely to be a neighbor dropping by unexpectedly than an assassin.

Sure,
the irrepressible voice from inside said.
With a white picket fence and climbing roses around the door. Maybe even a couple of rug rats crawling around if Maria stood still long enough.

So, what's wrong with that?
Jason demanded.

Life-size vision of you holding a projectile-vomiting, screaming heir in one arm while you try to replace shitty diapers with the other. Enough domestic tranquility to have you in alcohol rehab in no time.

I had a life like that
with Laurin,
Jason rebutted, regretting he couldn't sound huffy in mental communications.

That was then, this is now,
the voice replied with infuriating logic.
That was pre-Momma. No, old buddy, you are warrior class now, samurai, as it were. Adventure and excitement are as much a part of you as the Italian Baroque composers and acrylic land and seascapes. It's in your DNA, man. You couldn't quit if you really wanted to and you don't.

Don't tell me what I want. Once Moustaph is dead, I . . .

Face it: There will be another Moustaph and another after that.

The potential truth of the observation had haunted the corners of Jason's mind from time to time: becoming an assassin's version of Hendrik van der Decken, captain of the ship
Flying Dutchman
, of legend and Wagnerian fame, doomed not to sail the Cape of Good Hope for eternity, but to pursue Islamic terrorists in perpetuity, never to have a life of domesticity.

No! Once Moustaph is done . . .

“Jason, who are you talking to?” Emphani had waked up.

Jason hadn't realized he had become so agitated he was speaking out loud. He thought he heard a distant snicker.

The Hotel la Colombe was an unremarkable two-story building surrounded by a low hedge that was fighting a losing battle with the sand and heat. The facade presented the traditional Islamic architecture of curved windows on the second floor. The air-conditioning was a pleasant surprise as the four men's steps echoed from the stone floor. The desk clerk in Western jacket and tie treated them to a dazzling smile.

“You are the gentlemen from the magazine?” he asked in Oxfordian English. “Perhaps you need assistance with your luggage?”

“We can handle most of it,” Jason replied, holding up a camera on a tripod.

“Very well.” The clerk studied the register in front of him. “I note you have four rooms on the southern, or outside, wall of the hotel. Whoever made your reservations did not understand the more desirable accommodations are on the other side, those that overlook the pool and patio. That side also receives much less sunlight and is therefore cooler and quieter than those on the street.”

“Thanks,” Jason said, “but we'll endure the heat and noise. We want the view of the town. That's what
National Geographic
sent us here for.”

What Jason did not say was that southern exposure gave them an unobstructed view downward across the two courtyards of the Sankore Mosque and the pyramidal minaret on the structure's southern edge.

“Very well, sir. I will ask the dining room to remain open.”

The prospect of a meal of something other MREs, the military's bags of self-heating cuisine, brought smiles to four sand-encrusted, unshaven faces.

Thirty minutes later, Jason, Andrews, and Emphani, bathed, in clean clothes, and smelling of herbal soap, were making their way down the stairs.

“The Russian,” Emphani asked, “where is he?”

“If the hotel has a bar, that would be the first place I'd look,” Andrews offered.

“
If
is the operative word,” Jason observed. “Mali being a Moslem country, booze might not be available.”

Viktor appeared at the foot of the stairs, swaying slightly and holding aloft an earthenware cup. “
Zdorovie!”

“I'll not ruin my health drinking to yours,” Andrews said good-naturedly.

“Perhaps there is wine wherever you got what may be in that cup?” Emphani asked hopefully. “Man was not made to drink only water.”

“You guzzled your share,” Jason reminded him.

“Man drinks water for thirst, wine for pleasure.”

Viktor gave him a pat on the back and pointed to a small room where three or four tables were grouped in front of bottles on mostly empty shelves. “Is bar! If wine is as bad as vodka, is shit. Shit vodka better than no vodka.”

“Old Russian proverb, no doubt,” Jason noted dryly.

“First toast always to health,” Viktor said with a grin. “Second to family. In army, third to fallen comrades. Fourth is to hope never to be in third toast.”

Jason joined in the levity. “As you Russians say, ‘Only a problem drinker drinks without a toast.' ”

“Is true!” Viktor beamed before draping an arm around Emphani's shoulder. “Come, drink many toasts!”

After several vodkas for Viktor, one glass of wine for Emphani, who swore it had no relationship to the French vineyard on the bottle's label, and two room-temperature Budweisers for Andrews and Jason, which miraculously tasted like the Anheuser-Busch product, Jason put his empty bottle on the table.

“Gentlemen, dinner is waiting.”

“Roast goat or sheep, take your choice,” Andrews mumbled.

The sole entrée was
alabadjia,
according to the desk clerk, now maître d'. Goat, cooked separate from its juices, pounded tender, seasoned with ghee, the local butter, and then marinated with the juices served over rice. Both tasty and filling.

Jason declined the small cup of viscous after-dinner coffee that followed a meal in this part of the world, standing. “Not for me. Long day tomorrow, guys, deciding whether the town is worth a full shoot. I'm headed to bed.”

A murmur of agreement went around the table until it reached Viktor who held up a hand, thumb, and forefinger inches apart. “A small, what you say . . . hat on the night?”

Jason stood. “Nightcap.”

Viktor was the only person he knew who could literally drink himself sober. But then, he knew few, if any, other Russians. Viktor would be fine in the in the morning while any normal person would suffer the mother of all hangovers.

Upstairs, Jason paused outside his door to check the telltale, the hair he had pasted with saliva between door and jam. It was gone. Someone had opened the door.

Jason checked the hallway. Empty other than the shadows of low-wattage bulbs. Ear to the door, he heard nothing as he drew the killing knife. One breath, two.

He slammed the door open with a crash loud enough to at least momentarily distract the intruder.

Had there been one.

The room was quite empty, as was the small bath. In the simply furnished room, there was nowhere else to hide.

Jason turned slowly, befuddled, until he noted the sheets of the bunk-type bed had been neatly folded over. He had not expected maid service.

He sighed as he pulled his shirt over his head. Reaching into a pants pocket, he retrieved his iPhone and entered Maria's number. What time was it in Indonesia?

“ 'Lo?” a sleepy voice answered. “Jason? Do you know it's five a.m. here? Where are you?”

“Timbuktu.”

The voice came fully awake. “Timbuk . . . Oh, ha, ha, very funny. You wake me up in the middle of the night and don't want to tell me where you are.” Pause. The tone became tender. “But it's good to hear from you.”

“Mine isn't the only iPhone that makes outgoing calls, y'know.”

“Don't be cross.” Maria was saying. “I text you when I can. Remember, Indonesia doesn't exactly have complete satellite coverage.”

Jason was grimacing at his reflection in the small mirror over the sink. The small vanity probably saved his life.

The mirror showed something behind Jason move. At least, he thought so. He listened to Maria's voice but his attention was on . . . what?

Nothing.

His imagination?

Unlikely. Delta Force trainees didn't imagine things.

“Jason, are you listening to me? Jason?”

There it was, something moved under the bed covers. Not much but just enough to be perceptible. Jason held his breath, listening, watching.

“Jason, you called me, remember? Now say something or I'm hanging up!”

“Good night, Maria. Love you, but I gotta go.”

There it was again: the slightest of movement. Did he really hear the rustle of starched sheets?